by A. M. Wilson
“Yeah. He was dr-just being clumsy.” After our confrontation earlier, I try to hide the fact he was drunk. I don’t know why, I just do. Probably because he’s the good guy out of the two of us, and I’d hate for that image to be tainted for her.
“It’s okay. I know he was drunk. I mean, sober people don’t walk into stuff and make that much noise.”
“Right.”
The silence stretches between us, prompting me to walk to the door. I get my hand on the handle when she calls out through the dimly lit room.
“Where’re you going?”
Turning to look at her, I drop my hands to my hips. Her eyes follow the movement. Jesus, she keeps fixating on my body, and I’m going to have to spend some time taking a cold shower before I’m able to fall asleep.
“To bed.”
“Can you stay here?”
I regard her but don’t respond. Is she playing games? Earlier, she accused me of being just like the men who’ve abused her. Now she wants to sleep next to me?
“I won’t touch you or anything. I just don’t want to feel alone, and if Elias is drunk, he probably won’t hear me if I…” Her body slumps. “Forget it.”
My strides eat up the floor in three steps. “Make room, blossom.”
She realizes I’m serious when I plant a knee in the bed and crawl up. She throws the covers back, then scoots over toward the other side of the bed.
I settle a few pillows behind my head and lie on my back. She lies down on my right, close enough to touch, but nearly to the edge of the bed. I jackknife and snag the covers, pulling them over us.
“What were you gonna say?”
“What?”
“Elias won’t hear you if…If what?”
The bed shifts as she tenses. “Oh. It’s nothing.”
“I won’t ask again,” I warn.
The girl turns onto her side, facing away from me. “If I have a nightmare.”
I hold my position even though my body coils with the need to reach out and ask another question. “How bad?”
“What?” she mumbles softly.
“How bad are the nightmares?”
She exhales deeply. “Kicking, screaming, crying. That’s how bad.”
Without warning, I roll to my right, hook her around her belly, and drag her back. My right arm slips beneath her waist, and my left pulls her flush against my chest. She tenses but doesn’t verbally tell me off.
“Relax and sleep.”
“I don’t think this is okay.”
“I’m not like them. This isn’t for me. I’m holding you for you. Did any of those men ever hold you like this?” With each word out of my mouth, I can feel her relax further into me.
“No,” she whispers.
“This shit scares you, and I get that. But you want to get past it, you have to feel the difference. This is me, but if it were Elias, it’d be the same thing. You’ve got to feel the difference.”
She breathes a few more times, seemingly becoming more relaxed. “They’d use me,” she starts, and this time it’s me who tenses. “For their pleasure. I don’t think I’ve ever just been held like this. By a man, that is. The girls, we’d all huddle together on the mattress where we all slept. We found our comfort in each other. This sort of feels like that.”
All I can picture is Molly huddled on some dingy mattress with a group of abused women. Fuck.
“Hold onto that, girl,” I choke in a gruff voice. “Now go to sleep. If anything wakes you, remember I’m right here.”
“Okay, Sin.”
Okay, Sin.
I’ve never heard those words uttered with so much trust and belief. At least not since I lost the person who meant the most to me. And look how badly I failed her. This will end up the same. I can’t get attached, and I can’t let her get attached to me. We won’t survive this. Nobody survives when they put their trust in me.
Her breathing evens out, and within minutes, she’s fast asleep burrowed in my arms.
She doesn’t think she’s ever been held like this? Well, fuck me, because I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed holding someone as much as I do right now. And that’s bad news for both of us.
Chapter Five
Sin
The hot rays of sun streaming in the window against my back wake me. Not only is it bright as fuck in this room, but it feels like an inferno. My eyes feel like they are filled with sand, the grittiness burns in the early morning light. “What time is it?” I mumble to myself and nearly fall out of bed when someone responds.
“Six in the morning.”
When her voice comes at me, I realize the thing I thought was a pillow is actually her tiny body burrowed against my chest. We’re spooned together so tightly I don’t think either of us moved the entire night.
“Did you sleep?” I ask through a throat clogged with sleep.
“Better than I have in years.”
Shock follows her simple sentence. Lying in the arms of a scary bastard like me brought more comfort than she’s felt in years. How is that possible? I intimidate people with one look. I don’t even have to speak, and the ink covering my skin scares people away. Yet this little rabbit laid in my arms, fell asleep for hours, and slept better than she has in years.
I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me pleased as fuck.
It shouldn’t, but it does.
“Right,” I mumble. “Up, dressed, breakfast.”
Following my own order, I remove my arms from around her after one last whiff of her hair and jackknife out of bed. I drag on my clothes from the previous day that I left in a heap on the floor.
“You don’t…I mean, thank you. But you don’t have to take care of me.”
I shrug my tee over my head, then turn around to face her. “You’re too skinny. Love women of all sizes, fuck women of all sizes, but you need to put some weight on, and you won’t do that unless you eat.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, her eyes wide and face stunned.
“’Kay.”
I leave her alone in Elias’s bedroom, use the bathroom, then make my way into the kitchen.
As I enter the open-plan room, I’m not surprised to see Elias is already up, dressed, and at the stove.
“You makin’ enough for all of us?”
“Am I a piece of shit?”
I grin. “Not usually.”
“Thanks, asshole. I have eggs and bacon almost done. There’s a pot of coffee too.”
I help myself to coffee, then set out two plates on the island. Elias already has a plate ready for himself.
I wake up with my hot cup of black coffee, and a few minutes later, the girl wanders into the room.
“Good morning,” she says in a shy voice and hops up on a stool.
“Good morning, honey. You sleep well?” Elias asks, taking on his role as the gentle, caring man.
I feel like I’m intruding on a moment. Like I should duck out of the room and give them some privacy, and the thought alone pisses me off.
“I slept great, Elias. Thanks. That smells delicious,” she says, changing the subject.
“Hope you’re hungry. There’s a lot.”
“Starving.” The girl smiles his way, and for some reason, it hits me straight in the chest. The years of pain melt away with that small tilt of her lips.
Elias turns off the stove, and we all dish up, silently digging into our breakfast. I find myself glancing over at her plate every few bites. She must be feeling more relaxed because she’s taking down that plate as quickly as Elias and me.
“Can I get your opinion on something?” She interrupts the silence after taking a sip of coffee. I know because I watched her do it. The entire meal, I couldn’t help my eyes from straying over to her face.
“Of course,” Elias replies before I have a chance.
“I think I need a name. A new one. I can’t go back to who I was before, and I’ll never be called Chloe again. You two have saved me. I think it’s only right that you help me pick a new one.�
�
“This is a big deal. Are you sure you want to just pull a name out of thin air?” Elias asks.
I’ve lost the ability to make words. This moment is so pivotal in her recovery, but I’m a bit shocked she’s entrusting us to help her. I shouldn’t be, though. She’s trusted us since she woke up in the bed in Elias’s spare bedroom surrounded by strange men. She’s trusted Elias, at least. I think the jury is still out on me and my asshole-ish ways.
The girl wrings her hands together nervously. “I already have something in mind.”
“Tell us,” I reply, finally finding my voice. The words come out harsher than I intended.
She looks startled but pushes through the discomfort by giving me a one-word answer. “Shelby.”
“I like it,” I declare the second the ‘y’ leaves her lips. My tone holds an unwavering confidence that can’t be argued with.
Her head snaps in my direction. “You do?”
Elias’s eyes burn into the side of my face as I turn to Shelby. I don’t know what his problem is, but it’s pissing me off. “Yup.”
Her brown eyes flit back and forth between mine before moving to Elias. “Elias? What do you think?” she asks in a quiet voice.
From the corner of my eye, I can see his face soften. His eyes smile with his lips, and his furrowed brow smooths out. “I think it’s a beautiful name. Good choice.”
Fuck the way her face lights at his praise. Fuck it all to hell.
Picking up my plate, I leave the counter and stalk to the garbage can. My foot kicks the lever, and once the top opens, I chuck the whole fucking thing inside—plate and all. The lid slams shut with a bang that makes the two of them jump. Avoiding eye contact, I bid out to no one, “Don’t call. I’m sure you and Princess Shelby will have plenty to do while I’m out.”
With that parting shot, I take off to the place that’s quickly becoming my new home—Sinclair’s bar.
The morning was spent putting in much-needed orders from our various liquor suppliers and checking in the overall status of the bar. One thing I learned is my pop was shit at keeping books. I made a note to find an accountant as soon as I finished sobering up. At the rate I’m going, that’ll probably be next week sometime.
Around noon, while I’m nursing a bottle of IPA, the office phone rings. I don’t have the patience for this business bullshit, but I better get used to it. Either that or I need to sell the fucking place.
“Sinclair.”
“Alex. Preston Brooks, here. Spoke with Elias this morning. I wanted to pass on my condolences and offer my services to you. I’m not a probate attorney, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look over some things for you or pass you on to a colleague of mine.”
I lean back in the office chair and prop one ankle over the other knee. Using the ball of my foot, I spin the chair slightly while I take a swig of beer. “Appreciate the offer, but I have it under control. The will was clear; everything left to me, nobody else around to contest it. I’m good.”
“Good. If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
“Will do.”
The line stays on as the silence stretches between us.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. First your sister and now your father. It’s such a shame. And his house? Any idea who would do such a thing?”
My fingers clench around the bottle in my hand, sloshing some cold beer over the side. “I have my suspicions.”
Preston suddenly clears his throat. “Right. I bet you do. I best be going. As I said, reach out at any time.”
Without waiting for my reply, he hangs up.
The call was brief, but enough words were said to resurface the pain. The anger. The doubt.
My loss is a shame? What’s a shame is my pop takin’ a bullet at the ripe age of fifty-nine. He might have been a complete asshole my entire life, but the one thing he did right was trying to look for Molly. And he did try. For years, he threw his money and his time at anyone who could help. I don’t know if it was the guilt—after the shit childhood he gave us, for Molly to disappear and not even have a fulfilling adulthood—but that man gave his dying breath trying to make things right.
That’s a damn shame.
And what’s a shame is my fucking sister disappearing into thin air after I drove her off with my behavior. It was my life’s mission to take care of her, and I got lax for one fucking argument. I let her run off angry, hurt and alone. No, not let. I ran her off. If it weren’t for me, she would have stayed home, gone to her room, and cried. But I had to push. I had to make sure she felt every ounce of weight on my shoulders because I thought it was fair. Fuck fair. Life ain’t fucking fair. If it were, murderous, raping bastards wouldn’t exist and a woman could walk down the street in a goddamn skirt and heels without worrying about her safety.
The rage curls my hands into fists and steals the words from my mind. Alcohol isn’t strong enough to stem the flow of pain tonight. Who knew one thirty-second phone call could flip the switch from fine to completely fucked up?
Who am I kidding? I’m never fine.
I slump down in the rolling chair and swipe my cell from the desk. My feet tap restlessly against the floor as I scroll down to my contact and press CALL. As I wait for the line to connect, I try to come up with the words I need and slow my rapid heartbeat. All this anger is going to throw me into full-blown cardiac arrest.
“Kane.”
“Sin.”
“Eleven thirty at the loading dock,” he grumbles, so low I can hardly make out the words. The location is familiar, so I don’t need to ask for clarification.
“Count me in.”
“Back door. Give your name to Andre.”
“Yo, Kane?” I call, sensing he’s about to hang up.
“What?”
The fingers of my left hand drum against my knee. “Biggest fucker you’ve got.”
“Again? You got some psychiatric shit going on?”
My voice lowers ominously. “We’ve all got our demons.”
After the call, I grab my supplies from the bottom desk drawer. I moved them there after I realized that bitch isn’t Molly, and my life isn’t going to change. The only improvement is I have this office to take care of my shit in private.
I tie the tourniquet on my bicep, just tight enough to force the veins to the surface. After I prepare the needle, I plunge it into the exposed vein and welcome the rush of euphoria. Fucking finally, I can relax.
***
I’m pretty sure Andre is short for Andre the Giant because that guy at the back door was a fucking tank. I didn’t recognize him, but that’s not unusual. The location changes from night to night and so do the people at the door. It’s the nature of the business.
The warehouse is packed. Bodies stand in rows like sardines and smell like them, too. The putrid smell of body odor, hard liquor, and cheap body spray consumes the breathing air in the room. They vie for the best possible position to see the two guys in the middle of the room beating the absolute crap out of each other. People call out to the guy they bet on in hopes he won’t lose, and they’ll get their cut of the cash, while the referee watches the match and tries not to get hit by a rogue punch. All he’s really good for is making sure nobody ends up dead.
The only rule here is fists only. No weapons. Anybody goes all Tyson and uses their teeth, they won’t have any left once Andre’s finished with them. Other than that, the last man standing wins.
But I’m not here to win. I’m here to fight until I’m a bloody heap on the concrete. I’m here to take my penance like a fucking man.
At six-feet-five, I stand nearly a head taller than most the people in the room. All the exposed flesh wandering about does nothing for me. If anything, it amps up the paranoia. My mind instantly goes back to its comfort zone, and I crane my neck painfully, checking the face of every dark-haired woman to make sure they aren’t Molly.
She haunts me.
I lead a sick existence, always looking over my shoulder for t
he dead sister I’ll never see again.
The bell sounds, and my muscles tense as if they know my slot is up. When I step toward the ring, the guy I see entering it doesn’t leave any disappointment. He’s a fucking brute, a scarier bastard than me if that’s even possible.
The man’s got a swastika tattooed on the side of his bald head, for fuck’s sake. He’s giving me a run for the most ink, that’s for sure, but that’s not what makes him frightening.
It’s the dead look in his eyes that makes my blood run cold.
This is exactly what I’ve been looking for. What I need.
I remove the black tee I’m wearing, leaving me bare from the waist up. A pair of gray mesh athletic shorts sit low on my hips. My inked chest glistens in the bright overhead lights. Even with the removal of clothing, I’m still sweating from the heat.
The fear.
The anticipation of redemption.
The bodies in the crowd move, sending a gust of air in my direction. It blows against my damp flesh, sending a flash of coolness through my body. I shiver, roll my neck, and pop a mouthguard in.
Then the ref steps up between us.
“Ready?”
I lock eyes with the other fighter, nodding my head before he nods his.
My name is Sin, and I’m here to repent.
With the first hit, the buzz of the crowd dulls like someone turned down the radio. A second later, the sound cycles back to a loud roar, and I begin to move. My feet are quick, but this isn’t about the fight. This is about taking all my body can until I’m nothing but a bloody heap.
When we were kids, before my life turned to hell, our parents made us go to church. Catholic church. We were just past the age where Molly and I had learned about reconciliation, and Ma had begun taking us to confession weekly. It felt strange going into a room with a strange man and telling him all the things I’d done wrong. Afterward, he’d give me a few prayers to say, and suddenly, I was absolved.
I didn’t get it.
I didn’t feel any different, and speaking about the bad things I’d done didn’t suddenly make them okay or take away the guilt. Maybe I had been looking at it all the wrong way, but I hated confession. I wanted to be given something to do or to be told I had to repay my sins in a physical way.
