It’s not deep. Not enough to need stitches. I’ve perfected the art. Small scratch-like scars that decorate my upper thighs. Invisible to everyone but me. A flashing neon sign for my own self-worth. I’m tainted inside. My soul blackened and broken.
Cutting. I see it all the time working in A and E. Mostly teenage girls, the odd teenage boy. Never a woman in her thirties. I’m sure other adult men and women partake in the trauma of self-harm. It’s just not as common.
Emotional trauma is severe enough to cause excruciating pain. I’ve learned that over my years. It’s a harrowing lesson to have shoved down your throat. There are days I’m certain it’ll kill me. It halts my breath. It tightens my chest. My entire body tenses. I sweat. I shake. Rationally, I know it’s my anxiety. Panic attacks convincing me I’m about to die. Irrationally, I see no light at the end of the tunnel. The small slice into my skin helps me manage all that. The physical pain numbs my emotional pain when it’s too heavy a burden to carry.
Today, I blame Rocco. The unwelcome necessity of coming face-to-face with him a few nights ago. Alone, I can admit that I have something fundamentally deep in common with a psychopath. He welcomed the pain of my needle piercing his skin and in that messed up moment, I understood him. It offered him a reprieve to the distorted thoughts twisting him up inside.
Rocco Shay is guarded. Painstakingly cautious. His face nothing but a hollow void. You’d be stupid to even attempt to read him. But in that singular juncture, he wasn’t strong enough to hold on to his mask. It slipped, because for a split second, he was free. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone.
How fucking stupid is that? I felt a kinship with Rocco fucking Shay. The man who, blinded by his need for revenge, aimed his murderous sights on Codi. If that’s not a clear outcry at the bleakness of my existence, I don’t what would be. The man who had wanted to kill my baby sister is the first person in forever that I feel would understand me.
Good God.
I shake my head, ridding myself of the hideous thought.
Sustenance. I’m shaky after a too-hot shower and blood loss. I shift off my bed with purpose, hoping like fuck Parker and Codi have finished my morning ruiner.
“Mornin’,” Parker greets roughly as I move into the kitchen, the sound of Codi’s shower echoing through our apartment.
“Hey. D’you make more coffee?” I glance around at the mess he’s made, my forehead creasing in irritation.
Hands lifted in surrender, he smirks. “I’ll clean it up. Promise. Refill?”
I nod skeptically, moving my mug toward him.
I watch him fill my mug, his inked skin on display. “I find it hard to look at you after I hear the shit you say to my sister when you’re fucking.”
He raises an eyebrow in my direction, adding cream and sugar without needing prompting. Who would’ve thought? Parker Shay, domesticated by my sunshine and rainbows sister.
“Was gonna talk to you actually”—he slides my mug over—“that comment probably ain’t gonna help my cause, but was wonderin’ if you’d have issue with me movin’ in?”
I can’t hide my shock. “Codi didn’t mention you guys were discussing shacking up.”
Parker lifts a single shoulder, sipping his coffee. “We’re engaged,” he tells me unnecessarily. “We spend every night together. I just wanna make our living arrangements official.”
I nod gently, my mouth chasing my coffee.
“I haven’t spoken to Codi about it yet. Didn’t want her to be excited by the prospect if you weren’t on board. Would cause unnecessary drama.”
This guy went from being stuffed full of hate and violence, raging a misguided war for revenge with his brother... to this. A man standing in my kitchen, knowing how I take my coffee and checking in on my feelings before telling my sister he’d be moving in.
“It always shocks me when you’re all considerate. Seems out of place when judging you by the way you look.”
He laughs. “Make a habit of judgin’ people by the way they look?”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Anyone that says they don’t have assumptions about someone based on their appearance, is lying.”
“So?” he prompts. “All honesty, Ryn, I’m fucking exhausted. Ruin is hectic at the moment, your sister is insatiable—”
“Please don’t.” I hold up my hand, cutting him off.
He grins, the gesture saying too many things I don’t need to hear. “Add the fact that I have to keep ducking into the loft to grab more of my shit each day is wearing thin,” he continues. “Codi’ll come to the loft, but hates it. The memories are too much for her, so we always leave soon after.”
His thoughts drift into a place of darkness. He’s placed the need to be away from his loft on Codi, but in truth, I know it’d haunt him too.
“As long as you keep the volume of your fucking down,” I concede to this request. “It’s disgusting.”
He offers nothing but a nod, the gesture full of appreciation.
“I’ll clean this in a bit.” He turns, walking backward out of the kitchen. “I’m gonna go tell Codi.”
I grimace. “I’m already regretting my decision,” I call after him.
Chapter Four
Rocco
Unknown: Open your front door.
I frown at the screen of my cell, body heaving with the air my lungs are attempting to catch.
I feel alive; body dripping, muscles aching, blood pumping through my veins readying my body to fight.
Rocco: Whatever you’re selling... I’m good
I wipe at the sweat on my face with a towel, watching three reply dots dance on my screen.
Unknown: I’d be happy to let your stitches stay in your face, grow an infection and give you septicemia, but Codi would give me grief, and drama isn’t my jam.
Camryn Rein is a pain in my ass.
Case in point, she just fucked with my workout.
More than that, it’s just her. Judgmental and angry eyes always watching me in scorn. It’s, at a minimum, annoying. At its worst and most common, it reinforces the hate I hold for myself. I can confirm, without an iota of doubt, I need little encouragement there.
It shames me to admit, and I’d never do it aloud, but Camryn Rein holds a power over me very few others do. Not that she’d know it, and I plan to keep it that way until I’m buried six feet under. But she does. It dangles in front of my face in a nightmare come to life.
I remember her pretty blue eyes watching me in pity as I begged her to save my aunt. The tenderness in the way she handled me—knowing it was all my fault—when she told me she couldn’t.
The way she blinked in sadness, watching my grief unabashedly. Accepting the broken version of who I was even after I’d threatened the life of her sister.
She saw me at the weakest point of my life and that simple fact spreads unease through me like poison ivy. My weakness is very real. Most would argue against that statement, but it’s true. It’s small. But it’s there, and it scares the living fuck out of me. My very reason to keep it buried. It’s the sliver of my soul I show to no one. Why would I? Weakness only offers your enemies a hand-drawn map of how to undermine you. It’s your defeat handed over on a silver platter. Everything that is most important to you offered like a gift you’ve tied neatly with the bow of your surrender.
I recall the way she gently cleaned the blood off Mira’s face in mourning. The care she took in doing so. I hated being grateful for her at that moment. I hated that she kept her cool as I fell down a tunnel of unimaginable grief.
Camryn Rein is the ultimate reminder of one of the worst moments of my life. And she’s now my greatest foe, whether she knows it or not.
Opening the door, I lean against it in silence, forcing my thoughts to wash away, refusing to let her see my inner turmoil.
Attitude oozes from her small frame; forced scowl, popped hip, not complete without a singular brow lifted in distaste.
Her eyes track my naked torso, skating
along the divots of muscle still twitching from use. They widen as they duck down to the band of my gray sweats, her will strong enough to stop them from dropping to my crotch. My cock is thickening by the second, a direct result of the blood pumping through my veins from my workout and nothing to do with the snarky bitch standing at my door.
“You gonna let me in? Or are you gonna make me smell your sweaty ass for longer than necessary?”
Lies. That flash of want in her eyes enough to tell me that she may hate me, but she wouldn’t be averse to licking the sweat from my torso either.
I step from the door without speaking. She ain’t welcome, and it’s best she knows that from the get-go.
Stepping in after me, her feet pause as her stare falls to the very spot Mira took her last breath. Looking at the floor, you couldn’t tell life was stolen in that very place. It’s like brand new, scrubbed clean of any visible reminders. But her eyes fall to the spot in horror, as though Mira’s body remains, lifeless and bloodied.
“Let’s get this done. Bathroom or kitchen?” I pull her from her haunted thoughts.
“Couch is fine.” She moves toward it, offering Mira’s ghost a wide berth.
She notices I do the same, her eyes blinking in sadness before she turns away.
“I could’a had a doctor do this.” I drop to the couch, waiting impatiently for her to hurry up and leave my home.
“Would you have?” she challenges.
“No,” I answer honestly. “Easy enough to just pull ‘em out myself.”
She exhales heavily, her minty breath hitting me in the face. “You’re so... ugh... I don’t even have words.”
“Handsome. Charming. Addictive.”
She stops, dropping her hands to her side, a grimace on her face. “Please stop.”
I attempt to hide my smirk but fail.
Shaking her head, she steps closer to me. “Stay still,” she murmurs.
She smells good. A sweet citrus mixed with coffee, the sugary bitterness of her scent not at all different to her personality.
I frown, annoyed that I noticed.
Her hands are soft, gentle in the way they move along my skin. A slight tug, a quiet snip, a gentle pull and she drops the discarded suture into an open tissue beside me. She does this until all the stitches are removed, not speaking a single word.
Dabbing the wound with a strong-smelling antiseptic, I watch her eyes narrow over the injury. “It’s healed well,” she says to herself, pleased with her handiwork. “I’ll pop some adhesive strips across it to keep it from reopening. You’ll just need to replace them, I’ll leave you some.”
She waits for my nod of confirmation, which I offer in one quick movement.
“They come off by themselves, don’t rip at them,” she instructs. “Keep the wound clean.” She steps back. “And dry. So, like, this”—she gestures to my body—“is a no. Just chill out on the excessive physical exertion for a few days. No swimming either.”
I nod again, letting her know I’ve heard her.
“Dominic having any luck finding the cunt you affectionately call mom?”
Her hands pause halfway inside her bag. “I didn’t realize he was looking for her,” she lies, zipping her bag up.
I scowl, the adhesive strip stuck to my face pulling with the movement.
Deceit is the most damaging of all sins. The act of misrepresenting is as lethal as murder, for the simple fact that everyone has the stomach for it. Give me a single person in this world that hasn’t lied, cheated, or distorted the truth and you’d be guilty of that exact crime. A simple lie can be the sole cause of catastrophe. It’s the very tip of a pyramid that breaks everything beneath it. Pain, suffering, heartache; they’re all casualties of an untruth unraveling. It takes no prisoners, maiming everyone in its path.
I narrow my eyes and she straightens her shoulders, meeting my scornful gaze.
We both know she’s lying and she’s caught between holding onto her lie and letting it go.
“Not that I know of,” she eventually answers on a reluctant sigh. “But that means less than nothing, he wouldn’t tell me if he were. You’d have a better chance of getting information like that from him.”
I stand.
“Are you looking for her, too?”
I consider ignoring her, showing her out without another word. I might hate lying, but I’m not against refusing to engage.
“Yes.” I shock myself by speaking.
It’s her turn to nod, a quick up and down movement as she moves toward my door without instruction. “What will you do when you find her?”
Camryn is no stranger to grief, to pain, to the fucked up reality this world has to offer. It’s worn like a shield. A giant barbed wire fence warning people to back the fuck off.
“Best you don’t know.”
A dismissive shrug. “Make her pay,” she shocks me by saying quietly, her hand to the door. “Sarah never gave us a second thought,” she explains unnecessarily. “She couldn’t give two fucks about me or Codi. She’s as good as dead to me anyway.”
Pausing at my front door, she eyes me cautiously. “I hate you,” she confesses emotionlessly. “But I hope you find her before my dad does. He has too much goodness inside of him. I hope that I’m right in assuming you have none.”
I pick up my phone as she closes the door softly behind her, unperturbed by her opinion of me. She’s right. No point denying it to her or myself.
“Roc,” Raid greets.
“Tell me you found her?”
“Sarah?” he clarifies and I grunt in affirmation, pissed off at needing to spell it out.
“Dude. She’s a fucking ghost. Who knew the drunk wife of a career criminal would be so in the know?”
“Bitch is smarter than everyone gives her credit for,” I grit out. “She was fucking Marcus for decades, hid his kid... she was part of a plan to kill my mother and no one had a fucking clue.”
Raid sits quietly on the end of the line.
“What about the others?”
“Roc, I’m sorry… she doesn’t exist.”
I inhale deeply through my nostrils. “What the fuck do I pay you for?”
He attempts to speak but I cut him off.
“Two fucking jobs. You’ve come up empty-handed on both.”
“Sorry, man. Not through lack of trying. I promise you that.”
I roll my eyes. “Promises mean shit. I’ve had plenty of people promise me shit in my life, Raid, and you know what they’ve done with them? They’ve stomped on every fucking one. Promises are nothing but a collection of empty words, words that mean nothing to me. You’re fired.”
I hang up, throwing my cell onto the first surface I see.
Fist clenched, I yell into the empty loft, muscles pulsing with the need to be pushed to their limits.
I haven’t felt this useless life since my mom was killed. I’m flailing. Drowning in my own failings once again, and I’ll be damned if I let them continue.
My life is about structure. Determination. Master discipline and control and you can walk through the fucking depths of hell to grab your end goal with both fucking hands. Lose it and you’re like every other fucker walking this planet. Aimless.
I have the means. I have the power. Yet, the two people I need to find, the two people who shouldn’t have the first fucking idea of how to disappear, are like the fucking wind. They’ve outsmarted me. They’ve played me like a fool and I plan on ripping their jugular from their naked throats for the inconvenience.
Grabbing my cell, I flick through my contacts.
Rocco: Put me on the schedule
Carmichael: Throw three rounds and you’re in.
The weasel is working to win back his losses after betting against me last week.
Rocco: Whatever. Actually give me a fight this time. Not some wannabe.
He responds, but I ignore it, heading to my room to change. Rein didn’t say not to partake, she said chill out. This is how I chill out. Through pain
and dominance. Through violence and release.
* * *
“Bruising is only just goin’ down, Shay, you sure you’re up to this? Hate for you to lose me any money tonight because you can’t pull it back.”
I flip Carmichael off as I shove past him, his bony body flying back against the wall.
The guy is the worst kind of scum. All greasy slicked back hair, acne-scarred face. He’d weigh a hundred-pound soaking wet, teeth missing, skin scabbed up from his incessant scratching.
The guy is a junkie through and through. It seeps from him like a neon sign. Bleeding in desperation and soaked in deceit.
If there’s one thing my dad taught me before he died—violence and hate aside—is that you can never trust a junkie. They lie. They cheat. They’d step on their own mother to secure their next hit.
Carmichael Woods is no exception. Tattered jeans, a shirt that’s likely older than he is and a leather jacket I have no doubt he stole, he’s made far too much money through me over the years. He knows I’m a sure bet. But you’d be forgiven for assuming he’s homeless. Truth is, he likely is. Every cent that falls into his pocket finds its way up his nose or into his veins.
“Four rounds,” he calls after me.
My feet pause, neck twisting to look at him. “You said three.”
His scrawny shoulders lift, an ugly grin showing off his gappy smile. “Things change.”
I walk away without so much as a glance.
Ass planted on the cold metal of one of the change rooms benches, I sigh in relief. There’s something therapeutic about the festering stench of blood and sweat. Like a kiss of anticipation. It seeps into your lungs like a vow.
Freedom.
So fucking close.
Chaos and pain. The stinging relief of a fist against your skin. Splitting it open to let the suffocating sense of failure seep out in rivers of blood.
Reining Devotion: A Chaotic Rein novel Page 3
