by Jo Raven
“About fucking time,” Rafe growls, his cat-like eyes narrowed. I pat his back as he joins me. Rafe’s not pissed. He’s on edge, like all of us. “The others?”
“I called them. They’ll be here any minute. In fact, I’m pretty damn sure Dylan set up camp across the street.”
“Awesome. Come on.”
But before we take two steps toward Zane’s cubicle, there’s a crash and a grunt, and I start to run.
“Z-man.” I burst into his cubicle, Rafe hot on my heels, skidding in the mess of paper and spilled ink and Zane sprawled on top of everything, his stool knocked aside. “What the fuck? You okay?”
He pushes himself up with a groan, gripping the counter to get to his feet. “Slipped.”
I exchange a look with Rafe. “The hell?”
“I fucking slipped, okay?”
“From the stool? Did you fall asleep where you were sitting?”
“Leave it, man.” He leans against the counter, and I catch a glimpse of his face before he turns away. Too fucking pale for my liking. “What do you want?”
“Talk to you, remember?”
“Fuck.” He shifts on his feet, papers crunching under his combat boots, and hunches over. “Can’t, fucker.”
“Come on, buddy.” I take a step inside the cubicle. “You know how it is. You’re the one who taught us the importance of talking about our problems. We need to get to the bottom of this, and find a solution. You can’t avoid it forever.”
“Goddammit, Tyler.” He has a long scratch on one arm, probably from his fall, and a dark drop of blood is snaking over his wrist. “Everything’s okay. Everyone’s fine.”
“But you are not fine.” And I’ll admit it, it breaks my fucking heart that he’s still only thinking of us when he’s so haunted by his past he’s closing up and falling apart, withdrawing from us as if to protect us from that pain.
“So you wanna sit around and talk about my fucking nightmares?” he whispers. “That what you want? How’s that gonna help?”
“I think we all know they’re not just nightmares.”
“We talked last night.”
“We need the goddamn details. We need to know what spooked you.” I jab a finger at him. “You. You don’t spook easy, Zane Madden, and whatever it was that brought back those nightmares, we need to find it. Or him.”
A shudder runs down his back. “Shit. That’s the fucking point, man, I just can’t—”
“The guys are here,” Rafe says, and Zane’s head snaps around just as Ash walks into the cubicle, squeezing past me.
“Z-man.” He slings an arm around Zane’s shoulders. “Ready?”
“To have my fucking guts dissected and discussed?” Zane snarls but lets Ash manhandle him and haul him out of the cubicle to the small sitting area of the shop. “Sure thing. Couldn’t fucking dream of a better evening.”
He’s even worse at hiding his fear than Rafe is tonight, too exhausted to put up a convincing front. Apart from cursing and snarling at us, he doesn’t have the energy to stop us from interrogating him, and despite feeling a twinge of guilt about it, I guess we’re lucky in this.
Going to the desk, I grab the whiskey and some glasses, and we sit on the funky armchairs that mark the entrance to the shop. We pull a couple more chairs, and I pour each of us a few fingers, then pass the glasses around.
Zane swallows the whiskey down like it’s water, and coughs. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.
The silence stretches, Zane staring into his empty glass, the others looking at me, waiting for a cue.
Leaning forward, I take a sip from my glass, the Scotch burning a trail down my throat. “We need to know more, Zen-man. More about what happened to you when you were young, and where you saw this man recently.”
He curses.
I lift my hand. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not sure of your memories. Doesn’t matter if you’re not sure who you saw, where or when. But we’ll need you to do your best to remember. Because without this info, we can’t do shit. Can’t figure out how to help you, and we will—” My hand is clenched so tight around the glass it’s about to shatter. “We will help you, dammit.” I glare at him. “Fuck you for not coming to talk to us on your own.”
And making me hurt you by forcing the truth out of you.
“I’m gonna need another drink.” Zane lifts his glass and his gaze is darker than ever, dark and cold like outer space. “Before you twist the knife.”
I wince as he echoes my thoughts. I want to say it’s not true. That we’re just talking. That I’m not a bastard for pushing him like that. Twisting the knife, like my dad—no, not my dad, like Jake Devlin did to me, carving me up, leaving me to writhe in pain.
Guess my mind’s all fucked up, too.
There’s no knife, Tyler, I tell myself.
There’s no basement, no faces leering over you as you choke on the burning pain, the anger, the sorrow. If you twist the knife, it’s to lance the wound festering in your friend. You need to get the poison out, and for some reason, you’re in charge today.
So do it. Whatever it takes.
I raise the bottle, pour Zane some more Scotch, and despite my resolution I hate myself—for agreeing. For asking him to do this. For filling up his glass. He hasn’t drunk a drop since his sister passed away, and now I’m practically forcing the Scotch down his throat hoping he’ll talk.
Christ. Suck it up, Tyler, and do this. It’s the least you can do for Zane. You owe him. Big time.
So I watch in horrified silence as Zane downs the booze and coughs, his eyes glittering bright, then I pour him another.
Because fucking hell, making it easier for him is all I can do right now.
“Fuck’s sake.” Ash suddenly bolts from his seat, grabs the bottle from my hand and marches over to the desk. He slams it down on the polished surface hard enough to crack the surface and stalks back to his spot beside Zane. “Enough.”
“The fuck you mean. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” Zane sucks on the barbell in his tongue, glaring.
“Yeah, well, I was there when we found you, remember? In a fucking coma from alcohol poisoning, in your trashed apartment. So cut the bullshit and talk, or I’ll punch your lights out, and this conversation will be over before it starts.”
Zane draws a rattling breath. “Back off, Ash.”
Ash rubs at the back of his neck, his pale wolf eyes flashing, and when did he take the lead of this discussion? “You can hate me all you want, but I’m not letting you drown in fucking booze again.”
Jake Devlin beat us every time he was drunk. Hell, he carved me up, and put so many scars on Ash’s back and soul it’s a miracle he’s still here. Almost losing Zane to alcohol poisoning sealed that deal for Ash, so I can’t blame him for being so pissed off about this.
Zane glares at my brother, and instinctively I tense up, readying for a fight. My mind twists, feeding on the past, throwing back memories of Ash punching me, of the others holding him back as he snarls in my face about my failure as a big brother.
Funny how two years of peace, love and babymaking can feel like a lifetime of happiness.
But Zane doesn’t hit my brother. He doesn’t move, although his hands curl into tight fists. “It ain’t easy, damn you,” he whispers, his voice rough, his teeth gritting.
“I get it,” Ash says, just as tightly. “I know.”
“You know shit. I don’t wanna fucking remember.”
“But you do. And you will.” Ash leans toward Zane until they’re nose to nose, until Zane’s eyes go so round it’d be damn funny at any other time. “Because otherwise you’ll just sink more and more and we—I—won’t be able to pull you out.” He leans back. “Can’t fucking lose you, man. None of us will survive it. We need you with us.”
I’m not sure about this little speech, but Zane is still staring at him, his dark eyes unblinking. He shakes himself slowly.
“Dammit, Ash,” he whispers. “Goddammit. You don’t
get to put this on me.”
But Ash has, and something shifts in the air.
Trust my brother to turn the tables on Zane, letting down his shields to let Zane see his fear, using that fear to lure him out of his shell, to bring down his guard, shatter it to pieces.
Zane would never allow Ash to be hurt. He’d do anything to protect his friends, including talking about his past.
“Jesus Christ.” Zane works his jaw, then looks up at the ceiling and sighs. “I’ll tell you all I can remember, so all of you, drink up. This ain’t gonna be fun for any of us.”
***
“The thing is, I can’t remember much of my childhood,” Zane says. “I know I was moved around a whole damn lot, stayed in foster homes with other kids. I have this impression of changing house interiors, and faces, even before I met Emma.” He rubs a hand over his face. “My sister.”
He and Emma were really tight. He called her his sister even though they had no blood ties. She just happened to be placed with him in a foster home, and became the family he’d never had. They were separated later, and found each other when Zane was a teenager.
Only to lose her to cancer a few years after that.
“My memories are just that: fucking impressions. Unclear faces. Events all mixed up. A bully who once hit me. A girl who once kissed me. A kitten I found once.” He swallows hard, sits up a little. “Being sick as a dog. Starving. Running in the dark.”
Ash opens his mouth to say something, and I shake my head at him. He snaps his mouth shut, glaring.
Yeah, Ash is scared, too. Scared shitless of what Zane is about to recount.
“There was one house, though.” Zane’s voice rasps as if he’s smoked too many cigarettes. Maybe he has. “A house with creaking boards. I remember a few kids. Boys mostly. There was a big tree outside. Like a maple tree. Had colors in the fall. We all slept in a room. Bunk beds. No carpet. And I remember…” His voice breaks, and Ash is biting the inside of his cheek, his cheeks red. “I have this fucking memory. It’s night time, and I’m kneeling on a bed, and someone is behind me. A man. I can smell him. He fucking stinks, of sweat and something sour, and… God.”
He’s panting. His hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles are bone white.
Rafe produces a low growl that lifts the hairs on the back of my neck, but I’m too chilled with where this story is going to spare him a glance.
“There was another guy. There. On the bed,” Zane whispers. His eyes look too dark in his pale face. “He stuffed a bunched-up piece of cloth in my fucking mouth to keep me… keep me quiet. ’Cuz I was screaming. It hurt.”
Fuck me. “What did they do, Zane?” I ask quietly, and my pulse is pounding in my ears. I’m seeing red. What the hell did they do to him?
Zane shakes his head. “Play with me. That’s what he kept saying. Play with me, little boy…”
Christ, it’s as bad as I feared, and bile rises in my throat. “Fuck.”
The faces of the others look green. Rafe looks like he’s about to puke.
Only Ash looks deathly pale with murder in his eyes. He knew this. He knew enough not to be shocked, just furious with whoever hurt Zane.
“They burned my back. With cigarettes. Slashed at it with a small blade to see me bleed. The blood soaked the sheets. And then…” He draws a shaky breath. “Then he just… I thought he shoved a fucking Bowie knife inside me. Hurt so fucking bad, and then…”
He chokes on the words, doubling over, and fuck, now I wish I’d told the girls to come, too. Dakota. Or Erin. She would have known what to do.
I mean, we’re guys. Sure, we talk about sports and politics and show each other pictures of our kids all the time, and when it’s time to take action we throw ourselves into it, but giving comfort is not our thing.
Not for something so terrible. Something that tore Zane apart when he was a kid and still hasn’t healed.
Suddenly he’s on his feet, his face ashen, a hand clamped over his mouth, and stumbling toward the bathroom.
Hell.
Before I move, Ash is up and rushing after him. The bathroom door slams open, then shut, and then it’s quiet.
Numb, I sit there and force my fists to unfurl.
Son of a bitch. I wish Ash had told me all this, but okay, it wasn’t his story to tell. Such a terrible secret to keep, such a weight on the soul, for both of them, but above all…
Zane, dammit. Not fair. Not fair at all.
“What are we gonna do?” Rafe mutters, glancing in the direction of the bathroom, brows drawn together. “If just talking about it makes him sick…”
“Can you think up a better way of doing this?” I snap, as furious at those who did this to Zane as for my own inability to help him. “Then by all means, tell me.”
Fuck, I’m so out of my depth here it’s not even funny.
“Nothing to do but get it all out of him.” Dylan tugs at the silver hoop in his lip, his blue eyes dark with anger. “Has to be done.”
“Not your fault, Ty,” Rafe says.
I shoot to my feet and start pacing, because fuck it, it feels like it’s my fault. “Fuck this shit,” I mutter.
I’m the oldest. I’m responsible for them. Yeah, I couldn’t have protected Zane when he was a kid. I didn’t know him. But the guilt twisting up my insides doesn’t care about that. It insists I failed him like I failed Ash, like I failed my son for the first four years of his life by not being there for them.
Seems forever before Zane staggers out of the bathroom, a pale ghost, Ash hauling him toward us by one colorfully inked arm. My brother sends a tiny nod my way, and it does little to relax me.
Wordlessly, I head to the back of the shop, grab a plastic cup and fill it with water from the cooler. Returning, I hand it to Zane, who’s slumped over in the armchair. He sips at it and shoots me a grateful look.
He shouldn’t be grateful. Not when this interrogation is what made him sick in the first place.
That wasn’t the cause, my mind reasons with me. It’s his past. His memories. He probably pukes his guts out every night, if his nightmares are anything like his memories, and I bet they are.
Still.
I sink down on my chair and rake my hands through my hair, pushing it out of my face. “Look, man.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “If you can’t do this, I understand. I understand now, okay? I had no fucking clue. Maybe you’d rather write this shit down instead, or tell Ash, or your wife, I dunno… I feel like we pushed you against the fucking wall, when I just wanted to help. I never thought…” I wave a hand, feeling like a thug and an idiot. “Never realized, dammit.”
“Fuck that.” Zane gulps down the rest of the water and lifts his gaze. It’s sharp and shadowed. “I said I’ll tell you everything I remember.”
Christ. “Zane.”
“It’s not much, but…” He shrugs and rolls the glass between his hands, spots of red coloring his otherwise bloodless cheeks. “But I’m not finished yet.”
His choice of words rattles me more than I’ll ever admit.
“Any details,” Ash mutters, nodding at him. “Anything, man. Where the house was, what those motherfuckers were called. The year. The names of the other kids.”
“The house was… in Wausau. I think. It was near the river. As for when…” He lifts a hand to scratch at the shaved side of his head. “It was before they moved me to Madison, so I guess I must’ve been seven or so. Maybe eight? Damn, I can’t…”
Ash reaches over and plucks the glass from his hands. “Damn them.”
Exactly my feelings.
Eight years old. Fucking hell. I wanna punch someone so fucking bad. If Zane remembers right, and if I ever find these guys, well… I’ll cut off their balls and feed them to them, then I’ll skin them and throw them to the dogs.
Whatever is left of them.
If anyone did anything like that, anything at all to hurt Jax or Isa, to hurt any kid, I fucking swear… It’s all I can do not to howl my rage and
grief. To remain seated, muscles coiled and stomach in a knot, waiting for Zane to bleed some more, to hurt some more, hoping it’ll be useful in the end.
That it wasn’t for nothing.
“Can you find that house?” I ask him, and mentally cross my fingers.
Zane shrugs. “I guess. It’s been many years.”
“What about the guy’s name?”
“Something like… Tyre, or Tyrell. I think. Dunno who the other one was. If he was there, if my fucked-up brain isn’t making this shit up.” Zane looks up, right at me, and uncertainty flickers over his face.
I stare right back, force myself to speak. “Don’t worry about what’s real and what’s not. Just tell us.”
He nods, an almost imperceptible dip of his head. “As for the other kids… A tall kid named Samuel. And an Elvis, I remember that one. A ginger boy.” His hands are shaking. He rubs them on his denim-clad thighs, as if cold. “I dunno what happened to them.”
Fuck, it’s not much to go by. Not enough to verify anything he’s said, probably, and it fucking pisses me off more. I wipe a hand over my mouth and prepare to call this goddamn meeting off and just go the hell home, grab my girl and my babies and hug them like never before, when I meet Ash’s gaze. He shakes his head slightly.
“The guy you saw,” Ash says. “Was it this Tyrell? And where was he?”
Everyone’s attention snaps back to Zane, if it had wavered even for a damn second, and he wipes his hands on top of his thighs again.
“Tyrell. Or whatever his name is. I was… I’d gone to buy stuff for the baby that Dakota needed right after she came home from the hospital. Had to drive to the Walmart Supercenter that’s open twenty-four hours, because it was almost midnight. Parked my truck, and I crossed the parking lot when I saw the motherfucker. I just… Just froze. Can’t fucking remember what I did after that.”
He wraps an arm around his middle, and I wonder if he’ll be sick again.
Hell, I feel fucking sick. Still haven’t recovered from what he told us. The thought of a young Zane, a little kid, being forced and abused that way turns my stomach. No wonder Ash is so damn protective of him. Seeing a tall, muscled guy with tattoos and a Mohawk you’d never think of him as having ever been weak and powerless.
