Break Me

by Meagan Brandy

  Lonely.

  Lost.

  Friendless.

  A forever open calendar for only me to fill.

  There’s a jolt in my chest, a flare of panic.

  Fill with what?

  Hate?

  Ugly?

  Darkness?

  “Royce.” Worry, alarm, that’s what’s woven in Raven’s tone when she calls my name.

  I don’t answer.

  My feet carry me backward, and when I reach the top plane of the hill, she does too, Jonah at her side.

  Jonah motions toward the large rock, the one I helped her up, held her on, and carried her off of.

  My pulse pounds against my temples and only grows wilder, harder when she doesn’t simply nod and stick her hand out for him to lead the way. Jonah walks for the rock, but Brielle, she stops, and looks from it... to me.

  She stares, waiting.

  And that’s how I leave her.

  Her hesitation, it speaks volumes, and my ears are already ringing, I can’t take much more.

  Not of this.

  Not of her.

  Something’s wrong with me, and I need to find out what it is. I need to stop these weird jolts, the unwelcome thoughts, and random aches that keep coming.

  Yeah, I need to figure this shit out, and right this fuckin’ instant, ‘cause I can’t take it.

  Instead, I find a bottle, and the second the engine’s off and I’m parked in front of my house, I drown in that bitch.

  Chapter 20

  Royce

  We gave Enoch long enough to breathe, and from what we could tell, he walked around without a fucking worry. He has no clue we suspect him, which is dumb as shit on his part.

  Right this minute, the asshole is at scout’s camp, so we’re about to grab Micah a throwaway ride and have him run him off the road on his way back. When he does, we’ll be there waiting.

  Cap takes the driver’s seat, Maddoc forces Raven into the passenger’s, and the rest of us load up in back, waving to Zoey when she and my dad roll out of the driveway ahead of us.

  Off we fuckin’ go.

  Andre pulls into the dirt parking lot the same time we do, and we all climb out at the same time.

  “I can pull the gate back, let you roll in?” he calls over his hood.

  “We’re good, my man. Let’s get it open so we can slip through when Micah gets here.”

  He nods, and jogs for the gate right as a third set of tires hit the gravel.

  Andre looks over and frowns. “Hey, boss.” He looks to me specifically. “Imma need you to tell me who walks through and who doesn’t.”

  I glance over my shoulder as Micah parks, my eyes instantly pulled to the passenger seat.

  The fuck?

  I’m at his door the second his shoe hits the ground, and I shove him back.

  His arms fly up, but he waits for me to speak.

  “We gonna have a problem, Micah?”

  “What? No.” He shakes his head, but quickly realizes what I’m talking about, or more, who. “She just jumped in, man. I told her I had to cancel, and she wouldn’t get out.”

  Cancel.

  Cancel what?

  I pull him in only to slam him back.

  “She weighs fifty fuckin’ pounds,” I growl. “If she don’t listen, you lift and throw her ass out.”

  Brielle climbs from the car and stomps her way around it.

  “To be fair,” he draws out, his eyes flicking from where my family stands watching me. “I was going to... and then I thought better of it.”

  My family dares to fucking laugh, but cuts off when I hit them with a glare.

  I focus on Micah. “Going to what?”

  “You know, pull her out.” He gestures toward her. “But back home, when Franky grabbed her by the arm, you fed him his own ass. Thought maybe she wasn’t to be touched.”

  My fingers flex with a sudden need to agree, because fuck me...

  The thought of hands on her makes me see red.

  That’s a fucking problem.

  And unexpected.

  And not part of the plan.

  I didn’t bring her here for me.

  Didn’t bring her here for anyone else to have either.

  I shake my head, shoving him away.

  He stumbles, waiting for me to face Brielle before he walks over to stand beside Andre.

  Brielle rubs her lips together. “You don’t always have to put your hands on people.”

  “You don’t always have to make me.”

  She flicks her lashes toward the sky, shaking her head.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I work for you.”

  “I didn’t call for you.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Maybe I’m an overachiever.”

  “Nah, you’re feeling bad for yourself ‘cause you got ditched yesterday.”

  “That’s good. Keep thinking that.” She tips her head like a brat. “That means my poker face is getting better.”

  “I saw your poker face at the warehouses. It sucks.”

  “It was good enough to get Enoch Cameron to spill his little heart out to me and admit he had a cheating girlfriend.” She pops a brow. “Or should I say ex-girlfriend.”

  My frown is instant, and I dart forward. “Wait, what?”

  I look to my brothers, both standing casually near the hood of the SUV, focused on us.

  “Oh, my bad,” she sasses. “You thought I ended up at the table, in the chair right beside the guy you and your family strategically invited that night, by accident?”

  “How the fuck—”

  “Did I know to pry?” she interrupts with a laugh, not bothering to get permission to share. “Your brother, you can ask which one. He told me to be friendly to a green bottle, but to keep my hands to myself. I know that means go hunting.”

  “I know which one, and that was stupid. Dangerous.” My heart pounds heavy in my chest. “You should never hunt without protection.”

  Protection.

  I’ve never been touched at all.

  Fuck.

  “Oh, I had protection,” she teases, a knowing look in her eye. “See, there was this wolf who tracked me all that night, and from what I’ve gathered, his teeth are real sharp.”

  My abs tighten beneath my shirt.

  Yeah, I watched her. I constantly watch her.

  I can’t fucking stop.

  It’s irritating and why I had to leave yesterday after I fucked-up the day by bringing others into it. Because frustrated or not, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Brielle fights a smile. “Maybe I’m good at poker after all, huh, Playboy?”

  My eyes slide between hers and that smile she tried to bury breaks free.

  I lick my lips. “Maybe.”

  “Only one way to find out,” she leads. “Use me, Royce Brayshaw.”

  Heat spreads through my groin at a rate I could never fight off, but I don’t allow it to take over the task at hand.

  I study her a long moment, glancing from her to Micah, to my family.

  They leave it in my hands.

  “Okay, little Bishop.” I reach up, pulling her hair free of the little tie and trailing the silver strands as they fall, teasing the skin of her neck and shoulders.

  She straightens her spine, waiting.

  “Go on in, pick your poison.”

  She steps ahead, falling in line with Micah and Andre and I hold back, turning toward my family.

  I glare at Victoria. “This what you meant when you said you’d save the explanation for later?”

  She grins. “Yep.”

  I look to Maddoc.

  He shrugs. “She was there, made sense to use her.”

  I scoff. “You come up with that just now based on her little speech?”

  A grin pulls at his lips, but he says nothing.

  We start walking in, and Raven falls in line beside me, props her forearm on my shoulder and says, “Speaking of using her...”

  Her eyes fall to
Brielle’s little red shorts, high up on her waist and nice and fuckin’ stretchy around the backside.

  I laugh, spin, and whisper one word.

  “Virgin.”

  The grins on all their faces fall flat, a harmonized ‘oh shit’ following.

  I turn around and make my way to the others, one thing playing in my mind.

  Oh shit is right.

  Virgins and me?

  We don’t get along.

  I’m not a good guy, I know this, and to fuck me now is to get what they’re after in the day’s since, but it doesn’t last. There is no ‘if things go sour or to shit’, it’s when, and guess what the first thing is they’ll want back but will never again have?

  That flashing V-card.

  Bad guy or not, a girl’s first time isn’t the one they should regret.

  I can do nothing about the other times, I’m not a saint, but I can at least refuse to ruin the one memory they’re unable to erase

  But this is perfect.

  She’s here to piss off her brother, to get into some trouble and strip herself of the good everyone’s forced her into.

  That’s it.

  A nagging little voice in the back, I’m talking way, way back, of my mind calls me a damn liar.

  I tell it to fuck off.

  Brielle

  I had no clue what I was asking when I said use me, and I still don’t. But walking through the junkyard-looking gate and entering a small, confined walkway of dirt and tarps with barking dogs in the distance, I’m not convinced he didn’t bring Micah here for some kind of underground gang ritual that I just threw myself into.

  I take slow and steady breaths when the aisle ends and hold it as we wrap around to an open clearing of rottweilers and rocks.

  When I stutter step, Royce laughs, sliding his hands in his pockets with ease.

  Not one of the dogs come closer, but they each continue to bark until Andre calls out for them to ‘silence’. He tosses them out one by one, and then the big ol’ beasts wag their tails and trot along like sweet boys.

  The four of us keep forward, a gang of Brayshaws only steps behind, and we’re quickly in full view of the hidden space.

  The yard is wide open and goes on for miles, cypress trees from one edge to the next, completely boxing the giant square in. From the outside, it looks like some sort of old salvage yard, but it’s clean and neat, not a hint of junk to be found.

  There’s a huge tin building to the left that has long windows lining the top, ‘Brayshaw’ painted large and proud along the door.

  I look to Royce. “The jet?”

  He doesn’t look my way, instead down the landing strip. “When we brought you here, we came in and went out on that end. You couldn’t see any of this from there.”

  “Was that purposeful?”

  His eyes slide my way. “What do you think?”

  Of course it was.

  I follow his hand as he points to the right. “First row is off-limits, second is where you’ll look.”

  I turn to find two parallel lines, the first a line of at least three dozen vehicles, makes and models of all kinds—trucks, Jeeps, SUVs, even a hearse—with a common theme of black on black.

  Black paint, rims, and almost completely blacked-out windows.

  If someone were to be sitting in any one of them right this moment, you would never know it.

  The second row is a mix of more and of no particular style.

  There’s everything from a poor kid’s fixer-upper to a rich man’s midlife crisis, silver, blues, and browns, the first being the familiar white car he was driving when he showed up at my aunt’s.

  We take a few steps closer and Royce nods to the small house in the front right. “We’re checking out the hangar and then going in. Find a ride and be quick about it. Remember the number on the front and meet us inside. Andre will pull it up when we’re done, and then we’ll tell you where you’re taking it.”

  He doesn’t wait for a response, walking his family over to where the jet is and then it’s just me and dozens of plateless cars, cars that have likely seen more than a nightmare could show me.

  I start down the aisle, but I only make it past the first few vehicles when my attention is pulled to one stored right behind them.

  Sitting against the back gate, tucked into a corner with a tarp lazily thrown over it, is the dented-up front end of a 1972 Cutlass. I’d recognize the rusty red anywhere.

  My feet carry me right to it, and I stumble along the rocks, falling before the crushed in bumper.

  The license plate hangs by a thread of a single busted bolt, and scrapes the ground beneath it.

  I reach out to touch the custom lettering, and it falls face down, hiding the words I’ve read a solid thousand times.

  I pick it up, my knees tremble as I grip the microfiber material hiding the rest of the car and tug it back. It gets hooked on something somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. I can see enough.

  The passenger side is smashed in, the front tire completely bent beneath it. The windshield is busted, but holds on near the bottom, the upper half pushed in and shattered, hanging low inside the car.

  I run around to the driver’s side door, a heavy growl leaving me as I pull on the handle. I lift my foot, planting it on the back door for added force, yanking and jiggling the thing until it finally wrenches open.

  Quickly dipping inside, I run my hands over the cool leather he must have had redone without my knowing, but that’s not what has my lungs closing in or my head growing dizzy.

  Blood.

  Everywhere.

  On the seats and the door and the smashed-in windshield.

  On the driver and passenger side, the airbags hanging and torn.

  I begin to hyperventilate, fumbling to get my phone from my pocket, and dial my brother, but after two rings it goes straight to voicemail.

  “Shit.”

  I try again, my hand tapping furiously against my knee. “Come on, Bass. Where the hell are you? Pick up the phone.”

  This time it doesn’t even ring, and a low growl leaves me.

  “What are you doin’?”

  I scream, swiftly reaching for the door and yank it closed, locking it only seconds before Royce’s hand slaps against the outer handle, and I jump over the seat into the back.

  “Unlock it.” Royce’s voice is calm, controlled. “Now.”

  I cut a quick glance over his shoulder, at his family who stare at the car rather than the crazy girl hiding in it.

  “There’s no way in hell.” I look back to Royce.

  Royce’s entire face hardens as his hands grip on to the roof and he leans down to steal my focus. “I will bust this fucking window the rest of the way, and every other one on this thing. Get out.”

  “Get away from me.”

  He hits the old metal with the base of his fist, and I jolt.

  “Fuckin’ funny, girl.” His eyes narrow slightly, quickly flicking to my legs. “You’re bleeding. Don’t fucking move.”

  With angry, heavy steps, he makes his way around, but I quickly lock this side door and his palms come down on the window.

  “Where is my brother?!” I shout, hardly recognizing my own voice. “This is his car. There’s blood. He wasn’t at the warehouses when we were, he hasn’t been at the house since I got here, he’s not answering my calls. Where is he?!”

  Royce’s body straightens, his hands falling to his sides as he eyes me.

  My pulse begins to pound heavily against my temples and I try to calm myself, to slow the blood rushing fiercely through my body, but I can’t focus on anything other than the unknown.

  “Where is he?!” I scream, the pressure in my head doubling.

  Shit, I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open again Royce’s face is a little fuzzy, my vision threatening to abandon me, but I can still see. And Royce’s frown, it’s taken an entirely new form.

  “Royce.” Raven steps forward, but she has a hard time looking away from the car, and
her hands fall to her baby bump.

  Royce licks his lips, not bothering to turn toward the others. “Go. We’ll catch the fucker tonight.”

  Oh my god, I found out their secret and now he’s going to kill me!

  Micah steps closer. “Brie—”

  “Don’t make me chop your fuckin’ junk off, Micah.” Royce cuts him a glance, one that has Micah dropping his eyes and jogging away, Andre on his heels.

  His family goes next.

  It’s just us now.

  “Wanna talk, open the door,” he says.

  “Why, so you can add my blood to this, no need for a cleanup crew if it’s all mixed in the last mess, right?”

  “Take that as a no.” He turns and walks away.

  I lean forward, grabbing on to the seat to keep my eyes on him.

  Royce pops the trunk to the black vehicle closest to him, and within seconds, he’s coming back, a bat hanging from his hand.

  He swings it in a circle, tipping his head at me, and my heart races as I clench the leather as tight as I can.

  “Your call, little Bishop. How we doin’ this?”

  I feel along the edge of the seat, my fingers finding something cool and hard, and I stretch the slightest bit to wrap my palm around it. “The glass will fly at me.”

  “I know.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “You sure?” He brings the bat down for a hard knock against the hood and I jump—I can only see shades of him now, black and whites, and swift movements. “I’m thinkin’ no, since you feel the need to lock yourself in there. Weak move, by the way. A smart girl would have run, but a brave one would have grabbed the crowbar you’re reaching for at your feet”—shit — “and took it to the windows of the house while we were still inside.”

  “I’m not weak.”

  “Then ask me.”

  Ask him?

  Okay, fine.

  “Did you hurt my brother?”

  “Nah.” He grins as if this is some sick joke. “My brothers wouldn’t let me.”

  “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

  “Open the door.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  I trail his shadow around the side of the car and he crouches down to bring us eye level.

  I blink several times, taking a deep breath and when I open my eyes his are right there.