Page 19 of Jenna's Protector
“Well, I guess that’s it. Let me know when you… When you need me.” I brush past him, the warmth of his body a fleeting comfort.
The scent of his cologne clings to me, a bittersweet reminder of our closeness. As I step back into the café, the cacophony of clanking dishes and murmured conversations washes over me. It’s jarring, this abrupt transition from the intimacy of our conversation to the mundane bustle of everyday life.
The espresso machine hisses. Its familiar sound grounds me in the present. Yet, I feel as if I left a part of myself behind in that small room—the part that dared to hope, to dream of a future with Carter Jackson.
For a moment, I imagine what it might be like to spend more time with Carter—not as a victim or a witness, but as someone he cares for. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.
But he’s right.
As much as I want to pretend that part of my life never happened, I can’t ignore the fact that I might be able to prevent others from suffering the same fate. The weight of this responsibility settles on my shoulders, heavy yet somehow empowering.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me from my reverie. I pull it out, my heart stuttering as I read the name on the screen: Forest Summers. The man who helped me escape my personal hell, the leader of the Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists.
With trembling fingers, I open the text. It’s short, but it sucks the air from my lungs:
Forest:I’m sending a Detective to talk to you. I think you can help him.
Me:Two minutes too late, Forest.
Forest:Sorry.
A humorless laugh escapes me.Forest Summers brought my past into my present with all the subtlety of a freight train.
And just like that, the past I’ve tried so hard to outrun catches up with me, pushing me into the arms of the man I’ve secretly yearned for since moving into this town. A man who, moments ago, I foolishly thought might be taking a step toward something more.
The bitter irony isn’t lost on me. As I tie on my apron, preparing to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of brewing coffee and serving customers, I can’t help but wonder: Is this a new beginning, or just another chapter in a story I thought I’d finished writing?
I turn away as Carter leaves. The soft jingle of the bell above the door marks his departure.
The hiss of the espresso machine jerks my thoughts back to the coffee shop. I breathe deeply, letting the freshly ground coffee’s rich aroma fill my lungs. The rhythmic clink of cups and saucers, the low murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs against the hardwood floor—these sounds envelop me, grounding me in the present.
I move behind the counter, my hands automatically reaching for the portafilter. The routine is comforting—measure, tamp, lock, brew. The machine whirs to life, and I lose myself in the sultry dance of creating the perfect shot of espresso.
A customer approaches, and I plaster on a fake smile. It feels fragile, like a mask that could slip at any moment, but it holds.
“What can I get you?” My voice is steady, betraying none of the turmoil beneath the surface.
As I work, I can’t help but reflect on the foolishness of my dreams. Carter now knows my past. He sees the damage underneath. The spark I felt between us was clearly one-sided. He’s not interested in me beyond his case, and that totally sucks.
The lunch rush begins in earnest, and I throw myself into the work.
Each latte becomes a canvas, each perfectly pulled shot of espresso a crafted masterpiece, and every friendly interaction with aregular customer a comforting anchor. These small victories remind me I’ve created something real here, something good.
It may not be the life I dreamed of, but it’s mine. And for now, that has to be enough.
The rest of the day passes in a blur, my mind trapped in an endless loop of our conversation. I serve customers on autopilot, my smile a brittle mask hiding the turmoil within.
As I lock up for the night, exhaustion settles into my bones. The short walk home is a haze of streetlights and shadows, my thoughts as murky as the twilight around me. My apartment, once a sanctuary, now feels like a cage of my own making. My phone suddenly buzzes with an incoming text.
Carter:I’ve secured a sketch artist. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at 9 AM and take you to my office.
I stare at the message,my heart pounding. Tomorrow, I’ll have to face my past again. I respond with a simple “Okay,” and set my phone down, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
Sleep eludes me, my dreams a twisted maze of memories and fears. In my nightmares, I’m back in that room, the harsh lights blinding me as rough hands strip away my dignity. I didn’t tell Carter about the tattoo—invisible marks on my skin—branding me as property. I wake with a start, my wrist burning as if the ink is still fresh.
When my alarm blares, it feels like I’ve barely closed my eyes. I drag myself out of bed, every movement an effort. My fingers automatically reach my wrist, rubbing at the invisible tattoo. No matter how hard I scratch, I can never erase what was done to me.
In the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at me. Her eyes are haunted pools in a pale face. Her hair hangs limp and lifeless as if it, too, has given up the pretense oflooking good. I lean closer, searching for any trace of the woman I thought I was becoming.