Unsuitable Men by Nia Forrester

anything. Just emptier than before.
    And now, thanks to Kelvin, she felt empty and dirty.
    The only reason she knew the sobbing must be her was because there was no one else here. She was alone. That realization was both painful and a relief. Kelvin was gone, but she was alone. She pulled herself up from the floor, talking to herself, telling herself she was being melodramatic, and that this was no big deal. Some men turned aggressive when they were rejected, every woman knew that. She had chosen poorly, that was all . . . Kelvin was a fluke. One bad apple . . .
    But it didn’t work; she was still shaking uncontrollably even though her rational mind told her there was no danger. And she couldn’t face the idea of going back upstairs to her room and even looking at, let alone, sleeping on that bed. Instead, she went to the foyer and grabbed her purse, pulling out her cell phone. She didn’t consider , she just found the number and hit the call button, anxious for the sound of his voice.
     
     
    Tracy seemed to have been waiting by her front door because she opened it as soon as he rang the buzzer. Brendan stepped into the foyer of the beautiful classic brownstone, the interior of which appeared to have been restored to the period in which it was built. But he didn’t have time to take in the period details of his surroundings; he was too focused on Tracy and the look on her face. He got the distinct impression that she wanted to hug him when he entered, but was barely managing to hold back. Instead she hugged herself, her arms tightly gripping her own shoulders. She had obviously been crying.
    “What happened?” he asked, looking around.
    Her voice on the phone had been so urgent, damn near incoherent, so he’d been expecting something dire, some imminent danger when he arrived. But she appeared to be alone.
    “I . . . I just needed someone here,” she said.
    Brendan narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Why? What happened, Tracy?”
    She looked up at him and he saw a flash of something in her eyes. Shame. And loneliness. No, that wasn’t right. Not loneliness, alone- ness . He advanced toward her, putting his hands on her shoulders, gently opening her arms and pulling her slowly into his chest. At that, Tracy seemed to collapse in on herself, loud sobs wracking her body as she cried. Stunned, Brendan held her tighter, not moving until she stopped.
    When she’d calmed down a little and he tried to lead her upstairs, she pulled back, shaking her head.
    “Is someone up there?” he asked, looking up the staircase.
    “No, no,” she shook her head. “He left. He’s gone.”
    Brendan felt his entire body grow tense with anger. “Tracy, did he . . ?”
    “ Rape me?” she said. She laughed harshly. “No, he didn’t rape me.”
    The way she kept emphasizing the word puzzled him. She walked toward the back of the house and Brendan followed her into a kitchen with chrome and exposed red brick. It was neat, and impeccably designed, as well put-together as he would expect from Tracy who was herself usually well put-together. She grabbed a sheet of paper towel and noisily blew her nose.
    “Then what . . ?”
    She looked at him, and there was the embarrassment again. “He just scared me, that’s all,” she shrugged. “I was scared and I had no one else to call who would . . .” she paused.
    Brendan leaned in, waiting for her to finish.
    “Who would make me feel safe,” she said finally.
    “Who is he?” Brendan asked, his voice flat.
    He didn’t even need to know the details. Anyone who made Tracy—tough as nails, Tracy—react like this had to have done something that merited a beat-down.
    “Some guy,” she said vaguely. “It doesn’t matter.”
    “The guy you were sitting with?”
    “Brendan,” she said firmly, sounding a little more like her take-charge self. “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Then why won’t you tell me?”
    “What would it matter? What would you do about it?” she asked, her voice