by Nicci Harris
As his eyes caress my face, studying and memorising, he sighs roughly. "Look at that face." Tension visibly leaves him. "How do you feel after tonight, little one?"
I blink at him, my lashes heavier with the weight of mascara - something I don't often wear. "I feel. . . content. Like, I got some kind of closure tonight as well." I nod to myself as that truth seeps in. "I've always worried about Konnor. I think, maybe, I was a little obsessed with wanting happiness for him. I was only five when my parents adopted him. And I was the baby. I had all the attention. Then I didn't. He challenged us, ya know?"
I pull my hands into my lap, staring at my nude-coloured nail polish, feeling guilty for what I'm finally admitting. I was gifted a brother - this amazing little boy who deserves the world after what he went through. I should be grateful. "This broken kid became my brother," I say to my fingers.
Max lifts my chin up and I meet his narrowed eyes, which hint at concern. I stare at the swirling sheer layers of blue in his irises and they ground me, whispering acceptance in a way I've never felt before. Like, this is my safe place. With him. I can tell him anything. Even admissions I'm not proud of.
"I would do anything to make Konnor smile. Even then, at five. I remember feeling that way. Flick was older. She had her own life and friends and didn't get dragged into it as much, but I still needed Mum's and Dad's attention a lot, but it was often directed at Konnor. So to not be left alone, I took on that role too, in a way. None of this makes sense. I'm being silly-"
"It makes complete sense," he states, sliding my backside a little further up his thighs until I can feel the heat from his body radiating beneath mine. With the music humming and the car rolling, the darkness outside and the dim in, I feel so much right now. For Max.
My love for him burns too strong. Too bright. But no words of sentimentality will ever do that feeling justice. It's like when I try to take a photo of fireworks and it just doesn't come out right. It's because some things aren't meant be captured or titled.
They are just for us.
Like this, it's our thing.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" I ask, presuming that he doesn't.
He searches my face. "When we first spoke at your birthday? Or when I first saw you in that fucking pink leotard I wanted to rip straight off your body?"
"Neither." I smile at the memory. "We met years ago. Like, ten years ago."
He frowns. "Do tell."
I shuffle up a little on his lap. "Konnor has a problem with his anger. He found out that a kid across the street stole my yo-yo, so he went to get it back. I didn't care too much. I was a bit upset, but I didn't want him to get into a fight over it. I chased after him. He took a swing at the kid who took it. But he had a bat. He started wailing on Konnor. Is any of this ringing a bell?"
"Nope."
Smiling at him now because I had a feeling this was a casual encounter for him, I continue, "I was screaming. Konnor was bleeding. I remember, seriously thinking, he was going to die. Then this boy appeared." I lift my hand to his cheek, feeling the way Max's jaw tightens beneath it as he swallows. "You. You looked a bit bigger than Konnor; I thought you were like fifteen or something. You jogged casually across the lawn towards the fight, grabbed the kid attacking Konnor, and nailed him with a precision that looked effortless. You laid him out across the lawn, grabbed my yo-yo, and approached me. I remember it as clear as looking at you right now. You reached for my hand. Barely touching me, you placed the yo-yo in my palm. I said nothing. You said nothing. But you looked straight into my eyes. I remember your eyes, Max. Then you walked off like nothing had even happened."
Something like realisation crosses his face. "That was you?"
"You were like a superhero to me," I admit without shame because he's my safe place and I don't need to be cool or coy or protective over my heart. I can wear it on my sleeve. Hell, I'd thrust it right into his chest if I could so his and mine could beat at the same cadence forever. Max Butcher is the love of my life. And I'm his. "You saved my brother. My precious, sensitive, broken brother. You're my hero, Max Butcher."
He winces a little at that, so I smother his discomfort with my lips, cupping his smooth jawline as I take his mouth lovingly. I lift my other hand and feed my fingers back through his brown hair, knotting the strands in tight because I can't get close enough to him. Can't connect us enough.
Just as our lips move together, a loud siren breaks through our world. I'm jerked backwards as Carter slows the vehicle. Max catches me, his fingers spanning my spine protectively.
"Boss," Carter warns, his tone filled with urgency.
Red and blue lights glow through the rear window. Chasing us. Were we speeding? Is it because I didn't have a seat belt on? Everything inside the car shifts in an instant - the energy, the air, our connection.
Max slides me from his lap.
I hear Carter cock his gun.
My heart stops.
The black Chrysler pulls up along the coastal road. Carter winds my window up and yet, even through the reinforced glass, I can still hear the sound of the ocean smashing on the shore. Can still hear it through the wailing of sirens. It is like a force that has nothing above it. Nothing to still it. Silence it.
I shudder. I lean back in my seat, willing myself to stay calm. Don't over analyse. It is probably just a routine breath check. Max pulls out his phone, punches in a message. He's all business.
As three police cars roll to a stop behind us, their sirens deadening to silence, the blinking, whirling blue and red lights still filling the spaces around me, my world tilts. This isn't routine. My belt. This is my fault.
My belt.
Reaching for the belt and tugging on it, I whimper, "I need to get this on-"
Max leans across me and belts me in, a quick movement that probably makes little sense to him but one I needed. And he knew it. His head snaps up, watching over my shoulder. Black shadows cross us. His stern, territorial gaze drops to my belly for a split second.
And the look in eyes. . .
My heart splinters.
He stares up at my face and now I can’t breathe because he's not Max. He's blank. The grey-blue irises I know and love are pitch-black. "Don't move from this seat. No matter what." He tugs on the belt. "Leave this on."
"Max Butcher," I hear a man state, formal and authoritarian. "Please step from the vehicle with your hands up."
"Hands on the dashboard, Carter," another states.
My eyes widen.
What? What is happening?
Then I blink. It's too long. A long blink. Must be.
Because that's all it takes.
One second.
One blink.
And I don't catch my lover's expression before he steps from the vehicle.
The door slams behind him. It’s a haunting sound. A separating sound. A sound that cuts the connection between us physically and emotionally. And I'm sure he has taken parts of me out there with him because my heart feels wrong. Fractured.
"Carter!" I yell, irrationality taking hold of me like an entity all its own. Like a snake wrapping itself around my body, suffocating me. "HELP HIM!"
I hear a click and realise Carter has locked me in the car. "Stay, Miss Slater. It'll be okay. Stay calm."
Max raises his hands above his head as he steps into the middle of the road. It is then that I see that they have their weapons drawn, pointing straight. At. Max.
No. At my Max.
NO!
I can't breathe. "Carter!" I wail, squeezing the door handle, tugging at it, hearing the click click click as I draw it back desperately, over and over. I need out. "Let me out!”
The Chrysler's headlights illuminate Max as he walks forward.
I start to suck at the air, as if it is somehow thick and sparse and I have to fight for it.
I will fight.
Pressing my palms to the door, I lean against the glass. Several uniformed bodies now surround my dangerous tall lover. The waves crash hard
against the rocks. I inhale that salty air - that's the ocean. Wild. Free. Uncontainable. Like Max.
Helpless to do anything, I press one of my hands to my lower belly. "Daddy will be okay. He will. Nothing can keep him from us."
I watch as the officers approach him with caution.
As Max threads his fingers together behind his head.
As it takes three of them to kick his knees out and force him to the ground.
As they kneel between his shoulder blades, pinning him.
As they handcuff his wrists behind his back.
"Max Butcher, you are under arrest for the murder of Marco Cappelli. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . ."
Cassidy
* * *
“Everyone is made up of little contradictory pieces and you should never judge another person's decisions because you don't know the pieces they have to choose from.”
* * *
"I should go and check on him," Xander says, standing up quickly as something shatters. The sound of Bronson in the gym is riotous even from the couch I'm perched on in the living room. His roar is animalistic, raw, and pained, and I'm being drawn to it. It matches my insides. I want to go in there and hold him close. Have him hold me. Share our pain and anger and helplessness. But I'm just not sure that's a good idea. I've never seen him angry before and this is more like a manic blind rage. A flicked switch in his head. I wince when I hear a howl of fury, followed by a smash and a hiss of pain.
Stacey touches Xander's forearm, subtly persuading him to sit back down beside her and wait. In any other situation, she would arm herself and join his cause or. . . I don't know. But tonight, she isn't. I've never seen her so. . . passive.
"Leave him," Clay orders, leaning back into the single recliner. Aurora sits quietly on the armrest beside him. She is usually such a big personality; her lack of comments feel uncomfortable. I blink at her. At her appearance. She has just been dragged from her bed at 1 a.m. and still looks like CEO Barbie. With her long dark hair pinned back neatly and her black column dress somehow wrinkle free, she looks like she is on her way to an executive job in the city. She must be a witch.
"Leave your brother. He needs to blow off steam. You know what happens when he doesn't," Butch states, positioning himself on the chair opposite mine, offering me all his attention. "You should get some sleep, Cassidy." Leaning forward onto his knees, he says, "It's nearly two. You don't need to be here when Jimmy arrives."
"I'm staying right here," I mutter, my eyes downcast, hiding the blatant accusation in them. A feeling I can't drown. It is all their fault. It's Butch's fault for sharing his sons as if they were commodities. It's Jimmy's fault for existing.
I want Max.
Pulling my knees up onto the couch, I hold them in close and rest my cheek on top. Forcing a kind of mindlessness, I will myself to focus exclusively on my breaths in and out. I attempt not to let my mind wander to a future without Max. Where I raise this baby with his family and mine but without him.
Frick. Good attempt, Cassidy.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, settling into the red fabric of my dress. For every moment he is locked away, imprisoned in a cell that lacks warmth and softness and me, I'm fearful that his gentleness will die and the dark will take hold. Dig its claws in deep and pierce his heart and mine. I'll feel that cold room when I place my hand on his empty side of the bed. When shivers rush the length of his spine, they will also find mine.
I swear I can feel them now.
When Bronson stops hurling things around the gym, the house is left in a chilling state of quiet. The clock ticks intrusively and mockingly loud. While we may all want to fill the space and time with conversation, talking is exhausting. And the silence is noisy enough.
I shoot up with a start as the tall, tightly wound form of Bronson Butcher appears, his face flushed from exertion, his chest weighted with heavy breaths. As he clenches his fists, my eyes drop to the ripped skin at his knuckles. My core twists.
Max.
I'm reminded of Max and how much he needed me a month ago - his knuckles and face bludgeoned from boxing. How I'd turned him away. How the nights between this one and the next time I see him, he'll be dealing with his darkness alone. Just like that night. I cover my mouth quickly, forcing a sob down my throat.
I'm on my feet before I realise I'm moving. Dragging Bronson over to the kitchen sink, I pull his hands under the faucet and begin cleaning them. I focus on the butcherbird tattoo on his hand, scrubbing it over and over again. Max.
Grabbing the first aid box that I made and left beneath the sink when I moved in, I then wrap both his fists in gauze. Sighing, I slowly gaze up at him, silently sharing with him my pain and need to help Max when I'm helpless and unable to. He shows nothing, projecting only a steel-like expression that would've scared the frick out of me if I didn't know him. He pulls me against his chest, and I welcome his embrace, throwing my arms around his waist and letting another single tear slide out.
"It should have been me," he whispers hoarsely for only me to hear. I don't analyse that statement as I already know that Max has something to do with Marco's disappearance. What settles like a boulder in the pit of my belly is how very little I care. It's heavy, that truth - I don't care. I don't know what pieces Max had to choose from when he made that decision. Whatever the decision.
I don't care.
All I want now is Max in my bed and in my arms so that I can hold him tonight. And every other night of his life, even when he has to choose the pieces that pull him into dark places and make him do bad things - especially then.
My breathing shudders out. "It shouldn't be either of you."
The front door suddenly swings open and the formidable presence of Jimmy Storm appears, flanked by two other men, one clearly a guard and the other a tall, slim nervous looking man with a briefcase. I let go of Bronson and take a step towards them, my eyes barking questions while my lips purse to stop from verbalising them.
Jimmy surveys the room quickly, taking us all in.
"What have you found out?" Butch addresses the beanpole of a man.
He rubs at his sleepy eyes. "I am going to see him tomorrow-"
"They have nothing," Jimmy says dismissively.
"Then why did they take him?" I bite out, rendering the entire room silent. Butch and Clay both rise to their feet and oh God, I probably shouldn't have said that. Or like, maybe should've used a different tone or sent a text or maybe a polite email. . . I sink back and hit Bronson's chest just as big, colourfully inked arms go around my shoulders protectively. When Jimmy turns his gaze on me, my heart starts to thrash around between my ribs. These dangerous men are all unreadable, easily hiding their agendas. Their loyalties.
"Cassidy." Jimmy's polite and yet disembodied tone seizes my spine. "They took him because they have mistaken him for someone else."
Liar.
Liar. Liar. Liar. My eyes must chant that word because a twitch hits Jimmy's lip. I don't know what that twitch means. That I should stay quiet like Stacey and Aurora, perhaps? Or maybe he likes my strength? He used to like me. I remember months ago not being able to fathom how a girl like me could cross a man like Jimmy Storm, but now I know exactly how to. And I'd happily cross him if I thought it would free the pieces of me locked away in that jail cell. I know what Jimmy Storm is.
He is no politician.
No philanthropist.
Mafioso.
I can still hear that old lady's grief-stricken voice crying out for 'her Marco' and I don't blame Max. No. I blame Jimmy Storm. And this must be the pregnancy hormones - must be - because these are unsafe thoughts to have. I curl my lips together to stop from saying anything further, but I'm scared he can read the threat etched onto my tight foolish features. I glance at my feet. And I think if Bronson wasn't holding me, I might actually tremble so hard my knees gave out.
"Take her to her
room," Clay orders Xander.
No.
"She'll leave when she's ready," Bronson states smoothly. Clay's jaw muscles pulse as he squeezes his teeth together. A tangible energy crackles between the two eldest Butcher brothers.
"That's enough from both of you," Butch snaps. "Listen more and talk less!"
"Clay, there is no need for that, my boy," Jimmy says, his voice calm and yet dominant. "She represents Max." He fixes me with a stare, his narrowed brown eyes boring into mine with a message. Be careful. Be smart. "Don't you?"
Swallowing, I nod. "Yes."
"The, the issue is" –the nervous guy cuts straight in, perhaps trying to blanket the embers flying across the room from one glare to another– "that he had a handgun on his person. That is going to be a problem. I will go see him tomorrow morning to discuss his options. Needless to say, we will get him out on bail while he awaits his trial, but I imagine the bail will be substantial. He has the means and could leave the country."
All I hear is that Max will be out on bail soon.
I hold on to that like it is my last breath.
Cassidy
* * *
The ensuing days are like one big hallucination. I'm not sure when the first day ends and the next one starts because I'm emotionally fatigued and have the curtains drawn shut to avoid the prying eyes of The District News. With our very public displays of affection at the gala and then Max's arrest mere hours later, the media are having a field day.
Who doesn't like a romantic tragedy?
Not me. And nothing is set in stone yet, so I refuse to fall into a heap until I know what we - Max and I - are dealing with. If I let myself fall, I'm not sure I'll be able to claw my way back up again. So I just can’t fricking fall, no matter how drastic the earth feels like it is tilting beneath my feet. Every day. Every second. That I am without him. . .
So I only allow myself a few hours at night to cry. It's when I feel closest to Max, knowing he's probably laying on his back, feeling the absence of me as I feel the absence of him. The rest of the time, I put up a façade for Butch and the boys.
