She frowned for a moment, before realizing Annabelle had probably come up to use the washroom or something.
“Sorry, I locked the door,” she called as she unlocked the deadbolt. “It’s become a habit ever since—” Her breath caught in a startled gasp when she laid eyes on her ex. “Brendan?”
Chapter Fourteen
After one long moment of motionless shock, Jen snapped into action. She didn’t give Brendan a chance to say a word. With a jolt of panic and a burst of energy, she slammed the door, only for Brendan to stick his foot out and wedge it in the doorframe.
“Let me in, Jen,” he begged.
Shit, what the hell was he even doing here?
A pair of brown eyes pierced into her, glittering with a mixture of anger and wild desperation. Brendan’s face was as handsome as ever, except his nose had clearly been broken during that fight with Cash—bruised, swollen and slightly off-center.
“Go away,” Jen snapped. “You’re violating the restraining order.”
She kicked at his foot, then rammed her shoulder into the door to try to slam it, but he got both palms on the door and pushed hard, sending her careening backward. Jen stumbled and lost her balance, and as her butt collided with the carpet, fear pounded into her like a pair of fists.
Looming over her, her ex extended his hand. “Come on, let me help you up.”
Fuck. She should’ve known the restraining order wouldn’t do shit.
Scrambling to her feet, Jen held up her palms in a don’t-come-any-closer pose. “You can’t be here, Brendan,” she said quietly. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”
His eyes flashed. “Stop being so melodramatic. I only came to talk.”
“You’re supposed to be in Oakland.”
“I was.” Desperation flooded his face. “But I had to come back. I couldn’t just move to another f**king city without talking to you first. Without convincing you to come with me.”
He took a step toward her.
She took a step back.
“I’m not moving to Oakland with you,” she retorted. “I want you to leave. Now.”
Her gaze darted down to the floor, where she’d dropped her purse when she’d fallen. If she bent to pick it up, she’d have to take her eyes off her ex, who didn’t look very calm at the moment. Indignation had darkened his eyes, and he was shifting on his feet, his body language agitated and a little frightening.
Fuck. Talk about falling into a false state of security. She’d foolishly assumed Brendan would leave her alone once he left town, but clearly she’d underestimated his level of craziness. Why had she come up here alone, damn it? She should have continued to take precautions and brought Annabelle.
“I can’t go,” Brendan said, sounding miserable. “I can’t leave until we work this out.”
“There’s nothing to work out. It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be! Come to Oakland with me, sweetie. Please, you know we can be happy together.”
She glanced at her purse again, then at the kitchen doorway. If she made a run for the kitchen, she could probably grab the cordless and dial 911 faster than if she tried fishing her cell phone out of her purse.
“Jen. Look at me!”
She reluctantly moved her gaze back to him. “I want you to leave, Brendan.”
“Shit! I just keep doing everything wrong,” he burst out. “But it’s all because I love you. I know we can be good together. We had something amazing, and it hurts that you were so quick to throw it away.”
He came at her again, and this time, Jen didn’t back up. Fueled by a wave of anger and frustration, she brought her knee up and struck him in the groin, eliciting an outraged cry from his mouth.
“Stop it!” he yelled. “I just want to be with you!”
Her elbow shot up at the same time Brendan’s fist came at her face, bringing a sting of pain and a rush of moisture to her left eye.
Blinking through the pain, Jen drove the heel of her hand into his nose and heard the bone crunch.
“You bitch!”
Blood erupted from Brendan’s nostrils, and as he cursed in pain, Jen ducked out of his grip and raced toward the kitchen. The cordless phone was on the counter, as was the butcher block full of knives, but she didn’t make it in time.
She heard footsteps, felt Brendan’s hot breath on the nape of her neck, and then he fisted the back of her blouse and yanked her backward.
Sticky wetness stained her cheeks—blood, dripping down Brendan’s clean-shaven chin. Jen struggled, trying to wiggle out of his grip, using the fingers of one hand to try and gouge at his eyes. “Get off me,” she grunted.
He got an arm around her from behind and dug his elbow into her windpipe. “How long were you sleeping with that muscle head?” he demanded. “Were you cheating on me the entire time we were together?”
She flung out her arm in search of something to grab onto. As Brendan pushed her against the stove, cursing and spitting out angry accusations, Jen fought to escape his grasp. When her hand collided with the metal handle of the cast-iron pan on the counter, triumph and relief exploded like fireworks in her gut. She gripped the handle, then swung the pan at Brendan’s head. It collided into his skull with a thud, stunning him enough that his grip slackened.
With Brendan momentarily disoriented, Jen raised the pan high in the air and sent it crashing into the back of his skull.