by JL Mac
“Do you feel it?”
“What?”
“Us. I can still feel it.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“Oh, yeah you do.”
“Sylas, I can’t play these games with you. We aren’t kids anymore.” I rub the bridge of my nose feeling drained and emotionally ragged.
“Raegan, trust me when I say games are the very last thing on my mind where you’re concerned. Goodnight,” he says in a way that makes my skin prickle then the line goes quiet. A minute later another text arrives.
Sylas: Be ready at 6:30 in the morning. I’ll pick you up.
Me: No.
He doesn’t respond but I know it’s because he doesn’t accept or acknowledge me when I decline him. He never has and I fully expect him to drag me out of my bed in the morning if I am not waiting for him, ready to go. I toss my phone aside and do everything I can to focus my attention on work but it’s no use. Sylas Broussard has burrowed his way beneath my skin and I know exactly how that plays out.
Chapter 11
Raegan
The plank I’m straddling stretches from one side of the narrow bayou to the other. It’s wobbly under my weight and dried from too much time in the elements. My heart is pounding out of control. Sweat trickles down my brow and stings as it rolls into my eyes. I’m being chased. I look down to the brackish water in the bayou and see the gators lazily circling beneath my feet. My eyes feel too large in my head as I open them wider with terror. My hands quiver. My throat is dry. A gator leaps from the water and snaps at my dangling feet, the sharp clap of his teeth meeting sends a shot of adrenaline through my veins. I let out a high-pitched yelp and draw my legs up then glance behind me at the other side of the bayou feeling someone coming for me. Why am I being chased?
“Rae!” Sylas bellows at me. I snap my attention to him standing at the edge of the water in front of me. “You gotta come to me, baby!” Sylas is wearing his Marine Corps uniform and I scrunch my brows. Why is Sylas standing there like that? I look down at myself and realize I’m wearing my old cashier uniform from the grocery store I worked at in high school.
“Come get me! Sylas, I’m scared,” I plead feeling very confused by all of this.
“Nothin’ to be scared of, Rae. Now get off that rickety thing,” he demands motioning to the board I’m sitting on.
“He’s gonna get me!” I whine not even sure who the hell I’m talking about but sure that someone is coming. I feel the creeping sensation of a predator hot on my heels.
“No one’s gonna get you baby. I’m right here,” he insists with his hand outstretched, his jaw set with determination and his eyes pleading. My muscles tremble, feeling weaker and weaker the longer I cling to my unsteady little perch. Tears streak hot, wet tracks down my face.
“He’s going to get me. He’s coming,” I sob.
“I’m already here,” I hear from behind me and whip around just as Sylas—a seventeen-year-old Sylas in his old baseball uniform—steps onto my plank with a smirk.
“No, no, no!” I shake my head and scramble toward the other Sylas but it’s too late. The rotted board beneath me cracks and gives under the weight of us and we both tumble into the gator infested waters.
“No!” I scream.
“Hey. Hey. Rae!” The sound of Sylas’ voice in my bedroom jars me from the freaky nightmare I was having. I gasp for air and clutch one hand to my chest and instinctively reach for Sylas with the other. Sylas is sitting down on the edge of my bed and flips the bedside lamp on. He scoops me up and pulls me close like I’m a small child.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, concern obvious in his tone. Even through my squinted eyes I can see the look of sympathy and confusion on his face. I nod but my hands are still tightly fisted in the bedding.
Please don’t ask what I was dreaming about, I mentally plead.
“Get up, Rae. The day is waiting.”
“No,” I gripe and lie back, as though I plan to go back to sleep.
“Yes,” he argues as he picks through my room, inspecting my things and basically being nosey.
“No. I told you I’m not going anywhere with you unless it’s the airport. Get out of my room.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Please. I have something I want to show you and I’m hoping you’ll want to help me out once you know more about it. It’s important to me,” he says almost sheepishly which destroys my resolve to sit this expedition out and if I’m being honest with myself, after my nightmare, the idea of being close to this very big, capable man feels like a dose of security and safety I could enjoy.
I haven’t felt taken care of or safe in a long time, I think to myself, instantly saddened by that fact.
“C’mon, Rae, Teddy woul—” he begins.
“Don’t bring my brother into this,” I say, interrupting him in a voice that’s louder than I had intended.
“Well?”
“Goddamn you,” I curse, flipping the covers off my lap eternally grateful for my choice in pajamas last night. Cotton pants with a coordinating camisole. Unfortunately for me the camisole isn’t the variety with the built-in bra. Sylas eyes darken as they roam my body like his hands used to, and much to my horror, my nipples pebble. Obviously my breasts have a mind of their own and right now they’re delighted with the attention Sylas has shown them. I can’t say the same for my pride. Sylas smirks his lopsided grin with an arched brow.
“Chilly, Rae?”
“Still artic,” I snap, as I brush past him.
“Ain’t that the damn truth,” I hear him grumble from behind me as I make my way to the bathroom down the hall. This brief excursion should prove interesting, and by interesting, I really mean terrible.
Then why are you going with him, Practicality asks in a small but no less critical voice. I ignore her.
Sylas opens the passenger side door to his pickup truck and motions his chin, telling me to climb in the monstrosity, which is asinine given the height discrepancy between the pickup and me. With my feet planted in place I scowl at him and cross my arms over my chest. “You know what they say about men with big lifted trucks on big mud tires right?”
“That they live in an area of the country that frequently floods during hurricane season?” He frowns and shakes his head. “Have you forgotten this place so much? If you were trying to insinuate something different, well, I think we both know that you know better,” he says darkly, hooking one big hand on the top of the open door. The movement causes his tee shirt on one side to lift on his hip, showing corded muscles that he never had before—the ones that form a V and trail south like indicators on an atlas. “I believe I recall,” he pauses dropping his arm back to his side and stepping into my space. “… That even as an inexperienced boy I made you tremble for me,” he whispers then bites his full bottom lip with his gaze regarding my mouth. He lifts his rough hand and drags the pad of his thumb across my mouth and for a moment I let him. For a moment my brain vaporizes and my baser needs take the wheel. Belatedly I catch up and jerk my face away. His hand remains in the air for a moment before falling away with a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes.
Choosing to ignore him, I turn on my heel and begin marching back to the house. “Come on princess,” he says condescendingly from behind me as his hand grips my elbow and I’m spun in place then lifted up and over his shoulder. One strong arm bands over the back of my thighs and while I verbally cuss him my body marvels at how many muscles Sylas has now. The all grown up Sylas is one hell of a specimen. Tall and muscular, flawed and perfect in all the right ways. He’s the sort of man women ache to touch and men make a point to envy.
Wowza.
Sylas rights me just enough to hook me under my arms and lift me into his truck. “You good now?” he asks with his head cocked, his glossy brown hair falling over his brow a little. My hand itches to brush it away from his eyes.
“Do women really climb up in this thing or do all those that have the misfortune to go along with you some place get to be tote
d like a sack of potatoes?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He grins, placing one big warm hand just above my knee. It’s low enough to be innocent and just high enough to have my libido stretching her muscles in the downward facing dog, horny lotus position. Sylas laughs lightly then chucks me my on the chin like I’m a small child that has amused him. The asshole.
Just two old friends. No big deal, Optimism tries to help.
We ride through town and I scrunch my brows in confusion when he turns onto the state highway taking us south. “Sylas, when you said fishing I assumed we’d be fishing nearby?”
“So do you know what I do for a living now?” he asks completely ignoring me in true Sylas Broussard fashion.
“No. I don’t know the details. Didn’t you hear me? Aren’t we fishing in the bayou or a pond or a creek or something?”
“Nope,” he says shimmying a little in his seat as if to get more comfortable. I glare at him through narrowed eyes as he pulls a paper fast food bag from the floorboard of the truck and fishes out a foil wrapped sandwich. He tosses one greasy parcel in my lap then unwraps one for himself. “Yours has cheese on it,” he smirks, his lopsided grin reminding me so much of the boy he once was.
“Planning on driving a while?” I ask tightly.
“Cool your jets, Snow. Goin’ only about forty-five minutes away s’all,” he says around a huge bite of his breakfast sandwich, shrugging his muscular shoulders. I let out a humorless laugh while shaking my head. He’s the same old pushy jerk and I’m an idiot for getting in this truck in the first place.
“No use bein’ a bitch the whole time Rae. Have some fun. Can’t you do that anymore?”
“What can I say Sylas? You’ve always had a knack for bringing out the very best in me,” I clip sarcastically then turn away from him. I choose to ignore him completely and instead do my best to keep my eyes toward my window while I busy myself checking emails on my phone. If the way he’s noisily wolfing down his breakfast is any indication, he’s unruffled by my jabs and my mood.
Same old Sylas.
Against my will, memories assail me, dragging me back in time and I hold on for the ride.
Raegan
16 years old…
Our second date is tonight. I have to work all day at the store but I get out at four which gives me enough time to go home and get cleaned up. I lie to myself every time I try to insist that I am not excited to see what Sy has planned for us. He’s thoughtful and cunning. And a total devil who is not to be trusted.
At work I was so distracted by thoughts of Sylas that I barely registered Josh’s efforts at flirting with me. It’s sweet of him and very flattering but Sy has weaseled his way into my head, taking up all the space there with his giant ego, good looks, and stubbornness.
By the time I hurry home, shower and dress I have ten minutes to apply a little makeup. He knocks on the front door then waltzes in because… well, it’s Sylas and he practically lives here half the time.
“My hair’s still damp,” I blurt unsure of what to say to him. He grins at me and shakes his head.
“That’s all right, Snow. We’ll be outside and the doors are off the Jeep. It’ll dry fast.” I nod and catch sight of my mom peeking around the doorframe in the kitchen. Suddenly running off with Sy sounds excellent.
“Okay, let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later, Sy is pulling into the dirt lot beside the Palmetto Boardwalk. I smile fully because it’s the boardwalk! “Okay Sylas Broussard, I have underestimated you yet again.” I admit with feigned reluctance.
The minute my feet are on the ground, my sandals slapping against the dirt, he folds my hand in his like it’s the most natural thing in the world and a tiny part of me kind of thinks it might be.
He drags me all over; spending all the money he makes doing yard work on games, winning a teddy bear, buying me a corn dog and riding the Ferris wheel with me. Every attraction I point to he is quick to take us that direction and I feel like the center of the world. The hours pass too quickly with us wrapped up in this new normal between the two of us. We’ve always been friends—enemies, even so this… this whatever we are is a revelation.
“This has been fun, thank you for taking me.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. Come on,” he says tugging me toward a photo booth. I giggle but allow him to pull me behind him. He feeds the machine the cash and pulls me down into his lap. The digital screen counts down and begins flashing the camera. We both smile, make silly faces, rabbit ears and then he brushes his hand against my cheek forcing me to look at him.
“You can thank me now,” he says quietly, his expression softened, his eyes focused on mine. He gently cups my face in his hands and presses his mouth to mine. The world falls away in that moment and I fall a little more for Sylas Broussard the boy I almost convinced to leave me alone. What a tragedy that would have been.
“What were you thinking about,” he asks from beside me, jarring me out of my escape down memory lane. The bastard.
“Nothing.” I pick invisible crumbs off my lap and shake off the memory of us, which is unfortunate. I actually look back on that memory of that date with so much love. It was the tipping point for me. The point where the weight of things shift and nothing short of a planetary cataclysmic episode can force things off course. I began my descent into true love that night.
Oh to go back…
“Your ears still get pink on the tips when you’re angry or turned on,” he notes matter of fact. “I always loved that,” he adds quietly. I don’t know what to say to that so I don’t say anything. I just stare out my window at the Louisiana scenery zipping by us.
“So you don’t know what I do?” he asks several minutes later. We’ve been driving a while and my back has already grown stiff. I furrow my brows and shake my head vaguely recalling momma saying he runs a fishing company or something.
“Boating or something?” I ask a little ashamed that I don’t already know what he has done with his life.
“I run a chartered fishing company but most of it is a non-profit for veterans, first responders, law enforcement, and their families. We fly them out, put them up in hotels and we take them fishin’ for free. They come from all over. We even have a volunteer photographer that takes photos of their trip for them.”
“Wow,” I breathe feeling a spear of sorrow slice through me.
“Guys with PTSD, Wounded Warriors, Gold Star families, stuff like that,” he says.
“That’s admirable, Sy. Truly,” I say looking up at him just long enough to make my heart stumble over itself. His eyes are practically twinkling with pride and I find myself feeling a little jealous. Okay, a lot jealous. I can’t imagine having a job that makes me light up like that. My work with politicians does little good for my soul but it does make me feel alive, it gets my blood pumping.
Yeah, so does cocaine but you don’t cram that up your nose, do you? Self-Loathing clips. I swear, the bitch resides at the bottom of the dirty laundry basket in my internal closet. She loves this trip about as much as I do.
I enjoy my job most of the time because its cutthroat high-stakes atmosphere leaves no room for my past to bug me at night. Or anytime, really. It’s a good career, but it doesn’t make me fucking glow. Sylas is glowing. I get antacids to battle chronic indigestion and knots in my neck due to stress. Sy gets fulfillment, peace and boat trips. Sounds about right.
“I deal with a lot of folks struggling with demons you know?” he says glancing over at me as he makes a right turn down a narrow blacktop road with a faded sign reading Louie’s Marina-BAIT-TACKLE-GAS-ICE. The sign has an arrow pointing down another road. He follows that road and we are spit out in a pea gravel parking lot with boats and trucks and trailers parked in a uniform row outside a building that is floating on barrels. The obnoxious buzzing of generators makes me think of cicadas on steroids.
Sylas puts his truck in park close to the dock that stretches out, reaching into the water. He turns the truc
k off and leans further back in his seat just staring out across the water. He sits there like this for a long time, both of us silently looking at the bay. “It’s therapeutic out there on the water but it can go from smooth sailing to dangerous in a hurry. We have to be very careful to not trigger our guests with PTSD. Lucky for me, I can spot ‘em a mile away now, folks with demons they can’t shake,” he says, suddenly turning to look at me squarely in the eyes in that way that he’s always been able to do. It’s the look Sy has when he’s digging beneath my skin, picking my brain, studying all my details, planning and plotting. It’s his superpower and though I can fool just about anyone else in the world, I know I still can’t fool Sylas Broussard. I probably never will. He wants to take a magnifying glass to me? Fine. Go for it. Hell, he can even speculate if that’s what he wants to do but I will neither confirm nor deny a single thing about my personal history and his ownership in the events leading up to my escape from Palmetto Grove.
Yes, you sniffed them out. Demons live here but you will never know their names, Sy, Self-Preservation speaks up and thank god for it.
“You can tell me, you know.”
“Tell you what?”
“Anything. Everything.”
We stare at each other for a heavy moment then he sighs heavily and swings his door open. “C’mon Rae. Let’s go. I want you to meet the ladies in my life.”
Ladies? Fabulous.
He leads me down a slender dock that has me slightly concerned about its structural fitness for duty. The wood planks groan and pop as it shifts marginally under our weight. With this morning’s nightmare still fresh on my mind my hands jump up with the sudden urge to hold on to Sy. I’m nearly touching him before my brain catches up and I withdraw my hands. Sy glances at me but keeps walking.
We step into the floating bait shop and Sylas shakes hands with a short skinny man with strands of silver hair poking out from beneath his worn red cap. “Mornin’ Sy. Weather may hold but we’ll see. I’ll radio if I know something before you do,” the old man says in a hoarse voice.
