by Lucy Smoke
smile. "I know, Son," he says, and then he's gone. Heading off to only God
knows where and I'm left with the knowledge that I've just ruined any chance
of him telling us the truth and of Avalon getting the answers she deserves.
My only problem is that this … softer version of my father is far more
disturbing than the ruthless Nicholas Carter I’ve always known. I can’t tell if
it’s a façade or if it’s genuine. More importantly, the sudden shift makes
whatever his endgame must be that much more elusive.
5
AVALON
EXHAUSTION PULLS AT MY EVERY MUSCLE. THE ACHES AND PAINS HAVE BEEN
so consistent that they've become nothing but background noise now. After
several long minutes, the door opens and Dean comes back in with a frown
on his face and a gym bag in his hand. With that expression, it doesn’t take a
genius to know something's wrong.
"What happened?" I demand, straightening even though it makes my
muscles scream in protest.
Dean lifts his chin and looks at me, but instead of answering, he merely
shakes his head and moves towards the bed. "Come on, baby," he says before
setting a bag on the end of the bed. "Let's get you dressed and get home."
"What about your dad?" He shakes his head again, making my chest
clench. "Dean?" I reach out and touch his shirt. There are so many questions
swirling in my head that there seems to be some sort of disconnect, and I
can't voice any of them.
"I'm sorry, Ava," he says. "He's not going to tell us."
" What?" I had to have heard him wrong. "He was just in here," I state.
"He was going to—"
"He doesn't want Abel or Braxton to know," Dean cuts me off sharply, his
brows lowering. "And he knows if either of us know, then they'll know."
That makes no fucking sense. "Of course they'll know," I say. "Because
we'll tell them."
"And he’s well aware of that," Dean grits out, a scowl playing at the
corner of his lips. "He thinks it's too risky, and he wouldn't explain why."
Confusion and anger swirl within me. I sink back onto the edge of the
bed. Every single time it seems like we can catch a fucking break, it’s ripped
out from beneath us. Nicholas Carter is pulling the strings. He knows who’s
behind this. Why wouldn’t he want Abel and Braxton to know?
I sit there, perched on the hospital bed as Dean opens the gym bag he
must have grabbed from Brax and starts to dig through it until he pulls out an
oversized shirt with no sleeves. My mind riots and rolls over itself. Anger and
frustration. Suspicion and mistrust. Have we gone about this all wrong? I
thought this was about Dean, but maybe it’s not. Nicholas seemed to think it
was all about me. But why? What the fuck is so goddamn special about me?
Dean tugs on the clasp of my gown. He pulls off the plastic-y hospital
gown I'd been given and tosses it into the corner before pulling the shirt over
my head, sans bra, and gently helping me maneuver my arms through the
correct holes.
"Did he tell you anything?" I finally ask.
He moves back and goes to his knees as he takes a pair of drawstring
basketball shorts and starts sliding them up my calves. "He did say
something," Dean admits as he urges me off the bed so he can finish pulling
up the shorts and tying them at my waist so they won't fall off. "He said he
knew your father."
So, it is about me.
"My father?" I gape at him. "That's impossible." I shake my head. "Even I
don't know who it is. I figured Patricia probably just slept with one of her
drug dealers or even a guy from the strip club. A drifter." A brief thought
enters my mind, a disgusting possibility. Roger Murphy was far older than
me, closer to Patricia’s age. He very well could’ve been my father. I can’t
stop the physical shudder that moves through me.
Dean stops what he’s doing. “Ava?”
I turn my head away from him. “It’s nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
I stiffen. “I’m not. It was just a bad thought.”
“What was it?” he presses.
A scoff leaves my lips and I turn back to him with a glare. “Do you need
to know every-fucking-thing that goes on in my head?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Yes.” He says the word with such conviction, I
don’t know how I expected anything less.
My eyes roll. “I just thought that Murphy could’ve been my…” I
grimace. Shit, I can’t even finish that damn thought out loud. It’s too
revolting.
Dean shakes his head. “I doubt it.”
“Why?” I frown. “Do you know something?”
"Everything I know, Ava, you know,” Dean replies. "My father—he's..."
Dean's teeth clench as if the thought of his next words anger him and then he
continues. "He's given us his permission"— there it is, I think. The reason for
his anger. Dean isn’t the type to get permission from anyone—"to go after
Corina and the other man, what did you say his name was?"
"Ace," I repeat. "His name was Ace. I didn't exactly get a last name,
though, what with all of the torture and shit."
Dean's eyes darken. "It won't happen again," he swears, pulling me close.
I pat his shoulders. "I know, D-man," I say. "I know." The door to the
room opens again and Abel pops in the doorway.
"Hey, we're good to go," he says. "Brax went back down to get the car.
He's waiting at the exit."
"Do I need to sign anything?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," Abel replies. "It's all taken
care of."
Money, I think. It's the only explanation for my hasty check out and lack
of paperwork, and for the first time, I'm thankful that Dean is as rich as he is.
I'd always thought it a hindrance before now, but I'm starting to see how
money holds power and power makes the world go 'round. Right now, I'm
willing to pay anything to get the fuck out of here.
"Come on, baby," Dean says, taking my hand. "Let's go home."
Home, I think. A place I’ve never known before. Now, though, when he
says the word “home,” I can only think of one place. The house where three
annoying assholes live and sleep … and where I do too.
WALKING BACK INTO THE HOUSE IS LIKE WALKING INTO A WORLD I NO
longer recognize. The place is the same. Nothing touched or moved or
changed since I've been gone, but at the same time, I feel different. I don't
know—maybe torture changes a person. For me, I just feel more committed
to finding the people who've hurt me and making them pay. Starting with
Corina.
Those thoughts are prevalent in my mind as the guys and I enter the
foyer. I stop inside the doorway and Abel rushes around me as he hurries to
set the prescriptions the doctors gave me down on the front hall table that
looks like it belongs in a house decor magazine rather than the house of the
infamously fucked up Sick Boys.
"Okay," he says, quickly opening the bag and digging through the plastic
and paper until he's got two orange and white bottles in his hand. "I got this."
He turns each over and scans labels. "This one is for pain and inflammation,"
&n
bsp; Abel announces, shaking the first one at me. "And this one is antibiotics.
Which one do you want first?"
"Gimme the antibiotics," I tell him with a sigh. "That's all I need."
Dean pauses as he drops the gym bag he'd brought inside to the floor.
"You're taking the pain meds, Ava," he says without looking at me.
I snatch the first bottle from Abel's hand as Brax closes the door. "I don't
need it," I state, dumping a pill into my hand and then shoving it in my
mouth. It's big and goes down a bit rough without water, but it works. I hand
the bottle back to Abel and wave away the second when he tries to hand it
over.
"Avalon." Dean's voice deepens, but I ignore the warning in his tone as I
head for the stairs.
"I'm fine, D-man," I call out over my shoulder. "A shower, a little bit of
sleep, and—"
"You're taking the damn pill if I have to shove it down your throat
myself," he cuts me off.
My feet pause on the lowest step of the ascending staircase and I turn
back, a scowl curling my lips down. "No, I'm not," I say. "I don't need it."
Abel and Braxton exchange a look. "Avalon, we'd feel better if you just
took it," Abel says.
"I will," I tell them, " if I need it. Don't start treating me like I'm made of
glass now, boys. I can handle myself. If I need it, I'll take it, but I don't need
it."
There's a brief moment of silence and without looking back at them, Dean
speaks. "Guys, can you give us the room?"
"No need," I say, turning back to the staircase. "I'm going up to bed. I'm
fucking tired."
I don't wait to see what they'll decide. I can already guess, but whether
Dean realizes it or not, I'm not taking those fucking pills. It takes me twice as
long to get back to the room I’ve been sharing with Dean since I was
unwillingly moved into this house, partly because of my exhaustion and
partly because every movement reminds me of the aches and pains in my
bones and muscles. Almost as if my body is screaming at me to take those
damn meds. But I know I won’t.
I push the door to the bedroom open and shuffle over to the bed without
closing it. I expect within a few minutes, my own personal bodyguard will be
coming in and it just seems pointless to try and keep him out now. My body
hits the mattress and with a groan, I roll and twist and turn until I’ve got the
comforter up and over half my body. A shower would be heaven right now,
but I just don’t know if I’ve got the strength to stand for another twenty
minutes.
I close my eyes and relish in the feel of Egyptian cotton for several long
minutes of silence. Time flows so smoothly and uninterrupted, that I almost
forget what I’m expecting and drift into sleep. A creak on the floorboards just
outside of the room brings me crashing back to the real world. The gentle
snick of the door closing lets me know I was right. I crack an eyelid and
watch as Dean approaches the bed.
“Just spit it out,” I huff when he remains stubbornly silent, just staring at
me with those dark chocolate all-consuming eyes of his.
“Why won’t you take the pills?” he demands. Always demanding.
Always bossy. What an asshole.
“Because I just don’t want to,” I say, hoping he’ll drop the subject.
Dean, however, is nothing if not persistent. “Don’t bullshit me,” he
growls, rounding the side of the bed. He grabs the comforter and pulls it
back, his eyes widening. “And I thought you were going to take a shower?”
I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. “Dean … please.” I never fucking say
please. I never fucking beg or ask for shit. Why would I? Any time I’d asked
anything of Patricia, it’d been met with rejection and hate. But I’m trying. For
him, I’m fucking trying.
There’s silence. He doesn’t respond and then the comforter moves and
slides off of me and my eyes shoot open when his hands touch my skin. He
moves his hands to the bottom of my shirt and I don’t have the goddamn
energy to resist as he does the exact opposite of what he did at the hospital
and instead of putting clothes on me, he begins to strip them off.
Nothing about the way he touches me is sexual, and yet there’s still an
underlying spark of lust beneath my skin. Whenever his skin brushes mine, I
feel like fireworks are shooting through my veins. My entire being focuses
solely on the man in front of me as he tugs me into a sitting position and
helps me remove the shorts as well.
“Put your arms around me, baby,” he says quietly.
I don’t have it in me to refuse him anymore. I just do as he says. I circle
his neck with my arms and sink against him as he lifts me out of the bed and
strides into the adjoining bathroom. Dean sets me on the counter, making me
jump slightly at how cold it is against my skin. He turns to the walk-in
shower, twisting the handles until steam begins to fill the room. Then he steps
back and strips his shirt off.
My mouth waters as his hands go to the waistband of his jeans. I trace
down the grooves of his muscles and to the thatch of hair at his groin that
reveals itself when he bends and shucks his pants as well. He’s built like a
Greek fucking god. It’s not fair.
Dean turns back to me and without asking, he lifts me once more and
steps into the shower, letting the door shut behind us. The second the hot
water hits my skin, a low groan leaves my chest.
Fuck, I needed this, I think. But even as the water sluices over my skin
and down my sides, memories begin to pour in. Memories of that damn
warehouse and Ace and Corina. Dean settles me on a low bench to the side,
reaching up to remove the showerhead. I’d cleaned up when I’d first gotten to
the hospital. It’d been nothing more than a few warm wet wash cloths and
some antibacterial soap, but this—this is real. When Dean takes the
showerhead and tips my chin up so that I’m forced to look at him as he runs it
through my hair and down my back, it feels like the realest thing I’ve ever
fucking had.
There’s crusted blood under my nails. My shoulder has an angry, red
wound. The bruises from the fight are finally starting to darken. Maybe I was
just being the tough bitch I’ve always had to be. Maybe I was in denial. But
when reality finally crashes down on me, my limbs begin to tremble. I shut
my eyes—unwilling for him to see the tears that start to burn in the back of
my corneas.
I don’t want to cry. I don’t need to cry. There’s no reason to cry. No
matter how many times I repeat those lines in my head over and over and out
loud, there’s no denying the fact that I am. I squeeze my eyelids shut even
harder, but the tears merely leak out and wash away under the falling water.
I’m angry. Angrier than I’ve ever been. The tears aren’t because I’m sad.
They’re not the result of the tragic fucked up way my life has gone. They’re
tears of absolute fury. They burn down the sides of my face as Dean washes
my hair and then my body, taking care with each and every single cut and
bruise and mark. The violent need to exact revenge, to
make Corina pay for
everything she’s caused, rips through me. The things I want to do are the
actions of a true psychopath. I want to string her up and cut her open and pull
her intestines out and make her eat them. I want to tear her throat open and
watch her bleed out. I want to stab her over and over again. I want to make
her feel every single bit of pain she’d ever caused. And I know, when I get
my hands on her, I will.
She’ll know exactly what I felt when Roger Murphy assaulted me. She’ll
know every bite of pain, of confusion, of disgust, of deadened agony that
lived within me because she had opened the door for that Avalon to be born.
Patricia had merely nurtured a survivor. Corina had awakened a monster.
With my eyes closed, my anger flashes over my mind’s eye. The
reminder of Roger and Ace. Hands pushing me into cold, dirty vinyl. The
smell of old blood and the burn of drugs entering my system. The strike of a
fist against my cheek. The cut of a blade down the side of my face, in my
shoulder. I stiffen when Dean washes away the soap in my hair and body and
the spray moves over my face. For a split second, I forget. All I can see is the
towel dropping over my face and my throat closing as water comes down,
choking me. I reach out and grip his wrist, stopping him.
“Baby?” My grip tightens. I know it must hurt. I’m not a weak woman.
I’ve broken bones before. Now, would be no different. I could do it. I could
twist my wrist and snap his. I could hurt him the way I’ve been hurt. I could
—but he isn’t the one I’m angry at. That person is none other than myself.
Dean doesn’t say anything at all; he only waits for me to come to a decision.
Slowly, I release him and let my hand fall away. “Hurry up.” My voice
comes out as a croak, and I tip my head forward until all I can see are our feet
on the white tile. His tan legs next to my pale ones. No matter that I
recognize the riot within me, that I acknowledge its existence, anger is not a
creature that’s easily subdued.
Dean finishes rinsing me off. This time, I don’t let him carry me out. I get
up under my own strength, feeling the rush of life coming back to me more
and more with every step I take. Outside of the shower, he hands me a towel.
I dry off quickly, tossing it to the floor and listing towards the bedroom. He
