by Snow, Nicole
I want to talk to him first, to know if I’m misreading the way he touches me, the way he looks at me, the way he’s holding me right now. But I don’t want to wake him, either.
I need to get this energy out somewhere, assuming I can even walk.
No way to test but try, so I very, very slowly wiggle my way out from underneath him and replace my body with a pillow, nudging it underneath his arm.
He snorts a little, then settles, sighing.
I linger for a moment, fondly watching his sleeping face, then slip my legs over the side of the bed and stand gingerly.
There’s a twinge from my ankle, but it holds my weight and I barely even limp.
It’s just a mild sprain, probably hurt more when it happened. With one last look at Riker, I pad to the door and step out into the hall.
Immediately, the sound of my father’s voice beckons me from down the hall.
I get a crawling chill that I can’t quite explain.
What's going on? Daddy? Here?
No – his voice is crackly, too distant to be natural.
He’s on speakerphone. His voice is coming from the master bedroom suite down the hall. I see the door cracked, light spilling out, and I hear Milah countering, her voice agitated and shrill.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I’m still upset and confused over this whole mess with my Dad and Milah conspiring to get me home like this entire angry crime syndicate thing isn’t happening.
I need to know what’s going on. I creep closer to the door and lean against the wall, taking the opportunity to take my weight off my ankle. Just inside I can glimpse Milah pacing back and forth, her hair swinging like an angry cat’s tail.
“Look,” she says. “I’ve tried everything. She doesn’t want to listen, Daddy. And no, I don’t get what the big deal is. Why do I have to do this? Livvie’s an adult. She can do what she wants. Last I checked, we were more worried about who’s trying to kill her, not who’s babysitting.”
Our father’s voice barks back from her phone speaker. I can just barely see it glowing on the nightstand. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve done for you, Milah?”
His voice is cajoling, coaxing, the kind of tone that makes it hard to focus on what he’s actually saying even as the guilt trip hits you in the gut like a sledgehammer. He’s good at that. “All I’m asking is this one tiny thing from you, and it’s too much?”
Milah’s pacing stops. She drops into baby girl voice, syrupy and sulking. “But Daddy...”
“You can ‘but Daddy’ me, babe, but remember that doesn’t work on me any more than it worked when you were begging for another hit. I covered for you, Milah. I paid for rehab. All in the hopes that someday you’d get better. You are better now, aren’t you, baby girl?”
I've never wanted to hit my father so hard in my life.
I'm going to be sick.
You don't do this to recovering addicts. You don’t pressure them to magically get better or treat them like their recovery status determines if they’re worthy of basic human consideration.
If this is what Daddy’s been doing all this time, then it's no wonder Milah backslides so hard, so often.
No wonder she breaks down out of the blue when it really does seem like she's making progress.
No. Fucking. Wonder.
Yet this clicks together with a dawning realization, too. I knew something wasn’t right with our father, and it’s not hard to see now that he has some kind of end game in mind.
He wants me home for some reason other than what’s being said, and I have a feeling he knows more about the incident with the Pilgrims than he lets on.
Why else would he be so calm when the two daughters he supposedly loves more than anything in the world are on a mob hit list?
God, maybe I’m just being paranoid. I don’t know.
My head’s spinning in too many directions. I don’t know what to think when I feel like I’m looking at a puzzle with half the pieces missing. I'm losing my mind.
Milah’s still talking, though, and I pull myself out of my swirling thoughts to listen.
“Yeah...I guess I’m better,” she says, her voice small. Weak, submissive, totally not my world-famous sister. A thing that hurts me to hear when I don’t think she’s even aware of it, unlike her pouty baby girl act. “I can try, maybe? I mean, I don’t think she’ll listen, but...”
“Of course she’ll listen to you,” Daddy oozes out. “You’re her sister. Do your best, baby girl. I’ll be waiting.”
The call ends, the phone emitting a little bloop.
I hear a groan, then a rustle of cloth, and peer around the door carefully to glimpse Milah slumping into a chair next to the bed. An open, half-empty bottle of champagne sits on the nightstand, and she swipes it up by the neck and takes a long, mournful pull, tipping her head all the way back.
I can’t stand to see her like this, but I’m not sure if I should intervene.
Until she opens the drawer of the nightstand and pulls out a little clear baggie with fine white powder in the bottom.
No.
She’s barely shaken it, barely torn it open to start laying out a neat line of bone white on the dresser when I have the door open, barging in without thinking.
“Mimi, don’t.”
Milah jumps with a little squeak, the baggie flying.
She snatches at it, but I dive across the floor.
Okay, so I’m not exactly an action hero here. I trip on my bad ankle and get lucky.
Our hands collide, grasping for the baggie, but I’m the one who manages to grab hold of it, even if I get my face and hands dusted with white powder for the trouble. I immediately snap my hands behind my back with the baggie clutched inside. Milah tries to reach around me, keening softly, grabbing.
I take a step back, out of reach, and square my shoulders before saying firmly, “No.”
Milah stares up at me like I’m some new species she’s never seen.
Then she just crumples, drooping forward with a whimper, pressing her face against her thighs, small and forlorn with her kimono-style robe draped around her. “Goddamn it, Liv, just once. Just this once to make it stop!”
“You know it won’t make anything stop,” I say. “Why do you want it so bad now? Is it because of Daddy? Does he make you feel so bad you need it?”
Milah says nothing, turning her face to the side, staring dully across the room. That scares me.
It scares me more than I want to admit.
Because maybe, just maybe, as bad as I thought I had it with Dad, Milah’s had it worse all these years. And maybe I never noticed because I was invisible to her, too, and as long as I didn’t look too close, it didn’t have to hurt when she didn’t look back.
I bite my lip. “Milah...please. Tell me the truth. What’s going on with Daddy?”
I can already tell by how her mouth twists that she’s not going to tell me.
Not everything, anyway. She wraps her arms around herself, shaking her head.
“He’s just being proud, that’s all. You know how it goes. He thinks he can take care of you better than Enguard and he’s really getting hung up on it. You know what he’s like when you take a hit at his ego.”
I’m not buying that for a second, but I don’t know what else to say, do, or ask.
I just sigh and limp across her room to push the bathroom door open and step inside. The plastic baggie splashes in the toilet, then swirls away with a whoosh.
When I step back out, Milah’s hunched down, her shoulders practically touching her ears.
“I’m sorry,” she says, staring at her knees. “I just...when the craving hits...” Her eyes brim, fat wet droplets pooling on her lower lashes. “Why am I so broken, Livvie? Why can’t I just walk away from this?”
“You aren’t broken, Mimi. And you can’t walk away because if it was that easy, we wouldn’t have addicts at all.” I’m still so mad at her, but I can’t be cruel to her right now.
Leaning down, I r
est my brow to hers. “Your body’s just confused, that’s all. It thinks it needs something it doesn’t need like it’s life or death, so it’s sending you the wrong signals. We’re going to ignore those signals and look for the right ones, and what the right ones say now is that your body needs sleep.”
Milah nods mutely and lets me help her to her feet.
It's times like this she’s almost childlike, letting me help her into bed and tuck her up close. I take the bottle of champagne into the bathroom and pour the rest of it down the sink so she can’t gateway herself into going for another fix again, then sit with her, stroking her hair, until she falls asleep in a shaking, clammy knot of miserable whimpers.
I don’t doubt that she’s in real, genuine pain. Real need.
But I can’t let her have any more of that mess that was ruining her life.
And the second she’s asleep, I pull off what has to be the first completely silent room shakedown in history.
Tiptoeing everywhere, I check in and under drawers, in the closet, even under the mattress, creeping a hand in to keep from waking her and making her go all Princess and the Pea on me. I peek under boxes, turn out her purse, even look inside the toilet tank.
Nothing.
I’m hoping that was her last stash, but just to be safe, I check the areas of the house she frequents, too. I’ll have to do a more thorough check tomorrow since my ankle is starting to hurt like hell and it’s well after midnight.
I took care of my sister. Now I need to take care of myself, too, and after the last twenty-four hours, I need the kind of sleep you can only have when you’ve nearly died twice and can’t remember if you even ate dinner.
I should go back to my room, but I don’t want Riker to wake up and worry when he finds me gone.
Yes. That’s my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.
That’s my reason why, after a few minutes in my own room to change into a clean nightie, I creep back into his room on silent mouse feet, crawling back into the me-shaped space left in the bed's wrinkles.
That’s my reason for easing that pillow out of the space between his arms, and gently inserting myself back where I belong.
That’s my reason for curling up and burrowing into his chest, letting his warmth and smoky scent completely surround me until I feel sheltered and safe and so deliciously hot.
That’s my reason.
Not because Riker’s world taming arms are the best place to hide from the terrifying thoughts that threaten to permanently destroy my life.
10
A Little More (Riker)
The last time I woke up with my body this twisted up and hot, I was in the throes of puberty, tossing and turning every night through dreams of my classmates’ uniform skirts swishing against the backs of their thighs.
I was thirteen then. I’m in my forties now.
And my dreams go a fuck of a lot farther than an inch of naked thigh, especially when I’m waking up with desire itself pressed so close, I can practically feel the texture of her skin through her thin nightgown.
Liv.
Delicate. Soft. Beautiful.
I don’t understand how someone this frail and small can give off so much heat, but everywhere her body touches mine, it’s like a raw hot iron brand taken from the forge and pushed against my skin until it sizzles.
I can’t peel my eyes off her.
Not when half my dreams were dick hungry obsessions, remembering her body under mine, the way we tangled, and how her softness yielded.
Yielded just perfect when my cock swelled against her, and I couldn’t ignore the way she looked at me, the way her strawberry lips parted...
That was half my dreams.
The other half was terrified replays of every bullet fired, every splash of blood, that moment when I found her in the pit and thought her splayed body was lifeless and broken instead of just tired and a little bit dirty.
She’d fallen asleep so trustingly in my arms after I carried her back to the house.
The entire time, I couldn’t help thinking how close I came to losing her, when I’ve never actually had her. I don’t know where my mind is right now.
I’m the asshole who said no emotions, no entanglements...aren't I? No confusion. No temptation. No insanity.
Yet, I’m the one aching to kiss her awake.
To touch her softly and coax her into opening for me until she sighs herself lucid enough to open her eyes and pull me deeper and deeper into her.
To go on a rampage between her legs, biting the last moan off her lips while every hard inch of me strokes her to heaven.
I can’t help but drink her in. Her nightgown feels paper thin. It's that same pale, almost pearl blue she wears so well in everything, only so sheer the color of her skin turns it sweetly cloudy. Her limbs show through it like mist. Her curves outlined so clearly, I can see where the delicate lines of her panties bite into the lush flesh of her hip, where the pink rises of her nipples darken her tits.
Fuck.
I tell myself I’m taking in every spare detail to remind myself she’s safe, down to every last scratch and bruise that does nothing to mar her near angelic beauty.
But if I’m honest with myself, I’m being selfish. Letting myself look to appreciate her for once when those wide, sweet eyes don’t prompt every instinct I’ve ever had to kick in and shut her out before I can hurt her.
No.
Before she can hurt me.
Angry teeth sink into my lower lip. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Hurt.
My first marriage was just the pain of that look in Crystal’s eyes, the careful distance around me, and then suddenly more distance damn near unfathomable.
It wasn’t my wife looking at me like I was some kind of monster anymore, but instead my wife looking at me across a chasm as deep and black as the River Styx. And there was no way I could cross it because fate already decided she belonged on one side of death and I belonged on the other. Fate didn't give us time to sort shit out, file for divorce, or do anything.
Fate moves on its own fucking schedule.
I’m not angry at Fate, or her for the pain, the confusion, but I’m angry at something.
Life, maybe. And I’ve been brick-walling so hard in that anger, stewing, trying to keep out anything that could ever cause that kind of torture again.
Like a pretty young woman who looks up at me and tells me I don’t frighten her.
That I make her feel safe.
Her hand rests so trustingly on my chest, curled into a loose fist. I give myself the luxury of covering her slender hand with my own – only to frown as I feel something grainy and fine on her skin, almost like sugar or sand under my touch.
I pull back a little, looking down. There’s a fine dust of white on my chest, passed from her hand to me, and more streaked against her fingers. Both her hands.
What the hell? My brows slam together when it hits me.
I don’t need to sniff or taste to have a very good idea what that is, considering whose house we’re in.
No. Not Liv. She fucking wouldn’t...would she?
There was nothing in the file Landon gave me on her. No hint when she was living under our roof that she was hiding a habit. No sign of her jonesing for anything but a friend.
But shit, if she's got a secret habit...if I’d known, I'd have –
What, exactly?
A month ago, my answer would've been I’d have put her as far away from my daughter as possible.
But now, all I can think is that I would’ve found a way to help her, if I’d known.
Like I need to help her now, to make sure she’s all right.
She took a hard fall and might've hit her head. Mixing drugs with even the mildest concussion can be fatal, and I feel sick inside at the thought of seeing Liv through so much only to lose her to something like this.
I sit up, blood rushing to my ears. She’s breathing steadily, resting easy, but better safe than sorry.
Catchi
ng her face gently in my palms, I stroke my thumbs over her cheeks, coaxing.
“Liv,” I murmur, then a bit more firmly, “Liv. Wake up. Please.”
She makes a drowsy noise, protesting, and just screws her eyes shut. Carefully, I jostle her, repeating her name a bit louder. “Liv.”
“Nnh.” Liv yawns dramatically, then cracks one eye open, one hazy, dark eye peering at me without much recognition. “Hmm?”
What I can see of that eye doesn’t tell me much. It could be dilated with stimulants, or just dilated because of the darkened room.
“Sweetheart,” I say, keeping my voice low and soothing. “I need you to wake up for me. Need you to tell me how much you took, and how long ago.”
That sparks a touch more clarity, her other eye opening as she looks at me in sleepy puzzlement. “How much I...took? Huh?”
“Liv, your hands are covered in what I’m pretty damn sure is cocaine. You fell earlier. Might have hit your head. I need to know if I should get you to a hospital.”
Liv blinks. Then just blinks again, suddenly wide awake, and flinches back from me, looking down at her white-streaked hands and arms and my chest.
“Cocaine? Oh my God.”
I arch a brow. She’s way too lucid. “You’re not high at all, are you?”
“No!” With a groan, she curls her hands helplessly. “Oh God, no. No, I – Milah almost – I had to stop her. And I did. It kind of spilled out everywhere. Then I was so tired after searching the house for her stash, I guess I just didn’t notice it was still all over me.”
Milah. Of course.
I shouldn’t feel so relieved, but Milah’s already in recovery while Liv would’ve been a whole new problem.
Wait.
Milah’s in recovery.
Or Milah’s supposed to be in recovery, at least.
I frown. “Milah’s still using?”
Liv winces. “Sometimes. She backslides, whenever things trigger her. Her counselor said it’s bound to happen. We just deal with it and try to help her as much as we can.”
Now I get it. The secretive behavior. The almost manic need for Liv to come with Milah.
