Chapter 8. Asking
“Go and put some proper clothes on.” Jason dropped the telephone back on its base unit then leaned on the small table with
both hands. “Anthony is on the way over. He’s not happy and neither am I.”
“Why?” I stood, keeping the throw draped about my shoulders. I dismissed the sore bottom and nipples in an instant.
He swivelled, straightened, and combed his fingers through his hair. His eyes shone unusually bright, almost fiercely. “He hit her, Gemma. And yes, I know it seems ironic considering what I’ve been doing to you. But I don’t punch you in the face.”
I slumped into a chair, horrified. “Punched her? Why?”
Jason fists clenched then sprang open. “One black eye. It would seem he didn’t take to her seeing me behind his back even though she tried to make out she was protecting his interests. I could never imagine him being violent towards her. He’s never hit her before, or anyone else, for that matter. I put her up to this….” He shook his head, his facial muscles tensing into a grimace.
“You weren’t to know he’d do this,” I soothed. I rarely saw my husband perturbed by his actions. “Shit, is he coming here?”
The idea of my rampaging brother-in-law appearing on the doorstep scared me. I didn’t take to men who couldn’t control their tempers.
Jason came over and, drawing me to my feet, gave me a hug. My heart thumped hard, echoing in my ears. At gone nine-thirty in the evening, I was coming out of a scene with raw emotions and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.
He tipped my chin up. “Babe. Go and change. I’m going to ring security. I want somebody nearby. A precaution. Okay?”
Back in jeans and a T-shirt, I paced up and down in the kitchen, obeying Jason’s instruction to stay put and not leave the room, whatever I heard. I heard a bang on the door. Anthony didn’t bother to ring the doorbell to announce his arrival.
Alone in the kitchen, I had only my ears to describe the confrontation in the hallway.
“You fucking bastard!” Anthony let rip as the door slammed shut. “You couldn’t wait to ruin me, could you?”
I hovered on the other side of the door, somewhat tempted to disobey Jason and peek, but also alarmed by the harsh tone of Anthony’s voice.
“Shut up, Anthony. You’re talking out of your arsehole,” said Jason with equal viciousness. I fretted their raised voices would wake Joshua.
The next sound to reach me was their feet scuffing on the tiled floor and grunts of aggression. My God, they were fighting in the hallway!
“Calm the fuck down, Anthony,” Jason spoke, panting.
“You told Gillian you were going to buy me out again,” growled Anthony. “I’m not fucking letting you do that again to me. You don’t get to treat me like shit again, you bastard.”
More scuffles and an anguished cry from Anthony. I crept backwards, away from the door, cold shivers tingling down my spine.
Jason’s voice percolated through the wood. Lower in tone, but firm. “Don’t move, Anthony. I’ll let you go when you’ve stopped behaving like a dickhead. I’m not buying your bloody company. I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted to interfere in your business or your career. I told Gillian to provoke you, make you come here with a lie, and you bloody belted her. You’re the bastard. She rang here in tears, and you left her like that.”
“Fucking rich, coming from you. You beat Gemma all the time.”
No! Not true. I never thought of myself as beaten, not in the context Jason had described Gillian. Why did words have to sound so emotive? I’d experienced a beating, an unwanted, violent assault, and I knew the difference. I clamped a hand over my mouth, stifling a wave of nausea. The coldness continued to spread about my skin, infecting my limbs and making them weak. I stumbled another step back.
“You left your wife alone with your kids, nursing a black eye. Nothing, nothing I do to Gemma would leave her feeling uncared for, unwanted, or unable to face her child. You’ve done that, not me.”
“If you didn’t want the company, then why did she say that to me?” snarled Anthony.
“So you’d get off your bloody backside and come to me.” Jason’s voice rose in exasperation. The anger penetrated into the kitchen.
“I don’t want your help!”
Please, take it. I silently begged for resolution. Just concede, don’t fight. It only made things worse. I remained in earshot, but no longer tempted to spy, fearful I might witness violence between the brothers.
“I’d rather not give it, Anthony, but I will. You don’t deserve it. But you are my brother and I will help you and you will accept my help because you have a wife, kids, and employees who depend on you, and you’re not a bad businessman. You have to deal with your pride.”
“My pride. What do you get out of this, eh? My submission? Is that what you call it? Me on my knees in gratitude for what you’ve done for me. Getting me out of the shit, again!”