by Lucy Smoke
“Too fucking bad,” I curse, grabbing her arm when she moves to slide off
the bed. “No,” I snap. “You started this, don’t you fucking run away. I will
always put you first, Avalon. Before myself. Before my best friends. Before
any-fucking-one else. If you’re gone, I can’t live. If you die, so do I.”
She turns around, her hands snapping out. The crinkle of plastic reaches
my ears as she leans into my face. “The same damn thing is true for me.”
Each word shoots out of her mouth like her lips are triggers and she’s over
the edge. “I almost died, too,” she admits, “and I’ll be honest, if I woke up
and you weren’t here … I would’ve closed my eyes and just given up. I am
tired of being lost and betrayed and hurt and abandoned. If you want me—
stay with me. If you love me like you say you do, don’t you ever fucking do
that to me again.”
My lips part, but no words emerge.
“Do you understand?” she asks, shaking me slightly.
I wince, but her eyes never leave my face as she waits for a response.
Like this … how the fuck can I deny her? I release a sigh, reaching out and
touching her hands where they clench in the front of my hospital gown. “I
understand,” I whisper as I move one hand up her arm. She doesn’t pull away
from my gentle touch. In fact, she leans closer.
When I palm the back of her skull, her eyes close, and I drift forward. My
mouth finds hers once more. I kiss her for a long time, longer than before.
Until the pain comes back and then leaves again. Until I hear the hitch in her
breath and wetness against my cheeks that isn’t my own. I keep my eyes
closed as I kiss her, twisting my tongue along hers, biting her lower lip, and
dragging it back into my mouth to suck on it.
“I love you, baby…” I whisper against her lips, tasting the salt from her
tears. It’s like nirvana on my tongue.
50
AVALON
BRAX AND ABEL COME BACK AND BOTH LOOK RELIEVED WHEN THEY SEE
Dean's awake. I stay quiet, exhaustion pulling at my nerves as the three of
them shoot the shit and talk about what their plans are for when we get out of
here. My hand finds Dean's chest. Even beneath the shitty plastic fabric, I can
feel where the bullet entered his chest and tore him apart, nearly ripping him
from this world. It's going to scar, but it's kind of funny—because I have a
similar, albeit much smaller scar in almost the same area. The bullet had
passed through him and hit me. Overall, though, he'd taken the worst damage.
My main issue had been the concussion. I'd had several apparently.
I'm so lost in thought that I don't even notice when Brax and Abel head
out of the room. It's only when Dean captures my hand and lifts it to his lips,
pressing a kiss to the back of my knuckles that I realize they're gone.
"Where'd the guys go?" I ask.
Dean snickers. "They went to see how your friend is doing and to grab me
some sweats," he replies, shifting beneath the covers. "I can't fucking wait to
get out of this damn itchy mess."
"You're gonna need help getting dressed," I warn him. "I did."
His eyes narrow on me. "Those fuckers better not have—"
"Calm your tits, D-man," I say, rolling my eyes as I tug my hand back and
return it to his chest. "Rylie and a nurse helped me."
He huffs out a breath as he settles back against the mattress. "Good," he
mutters.
Our heads turn as the door to the room opens once more and a tall figure
fills the entryway. Dean sits up. “Dad?”
Nicholas Carter approaches the bed, eyeing the collection of machines
alongside us. He releases a slow breath. “I won’t stay for long,” he tells us,
his eyes scanning the rest of the room, from the windows to the machines
once more. “I’m preparing for the funerals, but I needed to stop by to see how
the two of you were doing.”
“We survived,” Dean manages to say. How a man can seem so powerful
and commanding even when lying down, I’ll never know, but he pulls it off
quite well. I reach behind me and press the button that’ll help him sit up
anyway. His lips tighten with pain, but he doesn’t stop me.
Nicholas nods. “I’ve been told that you’ll have some physical therapy for
the next several weeks.” I watch him curiously. He keeps his hands in the
pockets of his jacket. Again, it seems odd given the time of year, but maybe
it’s just something about rich people. His voice is gruff and he can’t seem to
meet Dean’s eyes or mine. Finally, when he does look up, he catches my gaze
and I refuse to look away.
He inhales a slow shuddering breath. “I am…” he begins, appearing
unsure how to get out what he’s trying to say. Nicholas shakes his head and
stands straighter. “I am truly sorry to the both of you,” he finally confesses. “I
thought it was safer for you not to know—especially knowing that you would
tell the boys. If they had known—”
“They would’ve been prepared,” I cut him off, frowning. “For what they
had to do.”
Nicholas stiffens. Dean’s hand touches my arm. “Ava…”
I shake my head. “No, he knows that he fucked up. He should’ve told us
from the beginning. Had he done that, we wouldn’t have been in this
position. We wouldn’t be laying here. You wouldn’t have gotten shot. You
wouldn’t have nearly died.”
“I know you’re upset,” Nicholas starts.
“Upset?” I snap. “That’s an understatement. I’m fucking pissed. You’re
supposed to be an adult. You look at the two of us like we’re fucking children
—and shit, maybe other people our age act like it. Fuck knows it’s not
normal for an eighteen-year-old and a twenty-one-year-old to be able to
figure the world out, but the two of us aren’t normal fucking people. The both
of us had to fight and bleed our way to where we are. The least you could’ve
done was give us a modicum of fucking respect and told us the truth from the
beginning. Instead, all we got were ‘almosts’ and ‘half-truths.’”
Silence descends for a moment, and Dean turns his head towards his
father, waiting. Nicholas stares straight back at me. “You’re right,” he finally
admits. “I didn’t consider seeing either of you as allies. I treated the two of
you as children and that was my mistake. It was my fault that things ended
the way they did. I truly thought that Elric and Lionel wouldn’t make a move
so soon.”
“Well, you were wrong—”
“Avalon, that’s enough.” Dean cuts me off by placing a palm over my
mouth and though a part of me wants to rip it down and continue, he isn’t
looking at me. His attention is solely on his father. “I appreciate you
admitting your mistake,” Dean says. “You understand, though, that it changes
nothing.” He inhales. “I let my anger get the best of me whenever you’re
around because the truth is—a part of me hates you.” My lips part beneath his
palm, shock ricocheting through me. It’s not like what he’s said is truly all
that shocking, but the fact that he’s said it aloud is. “I hate the things you’ve
done. The lies. The secrets. But at least now I understand how much of who
you are revolves around Eastpoint. The only thing you can do to make up for
everything is fucking change it.” Dean’s voice deepens. “Change that stupid
contract between the Eastpoint families. With Elric and Lionel gone, Brax
and Abel are the next heads—they’ll sign off on it. But no more. No more
arranged marriages. No more fucking trials. It’s over.”
“I think that’s for the best,” Nicholas agrees. “I’ve already got my legal
team drawing up the paperwork. As for Braxton and Abel … I think it would
be best if they would only be figureheads for now. At least until they finish
schooling.”
“That’s up to them,” Dean says. “You’ll have to take that up with them.”
Nicholas nods, taking a step back from the bed. “I’ll do that then.” He
turns to go, but just before he steps out the door, he looks back, his lips
tightening. “Oh, and Avalon, you should know your father’s businesses are
under my control for now. If ever you decide you’d like to take over, let me
know. I’ve run them for quite some time, but they were Chaz’s and by right,
they’re yours too. I’ll respect whatever decision you make. Also, the money
he left for you is being redeposited in a bank account for you. Someone will
be by the house after you two are out of the hospital with the details.” I frown
but don’t say anything. I don’t need his damn money, but then again, it was
never really his to begin with, was it? Nicholas’s attention refocuses on Dean.
“I’m truly glad you’re alright, Son,” he says and then he’s gone and the door
slides shut silently behind him.
Dean drops his hand away from my mouth and his head collapses back
against the pillows. After a long moment of silence, I nudge him. “Are you
okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, Dean pulls me down to his side and
snuggles closer. I note, though, when he winces and adjust myself when I feel
like there’s too much pressure on his wounds. We lay like that for a long
time. The silence, though, isn't uncomfortable. I stare at the window across
from the bed, watching as the sun begins to set and the light pouring in
through the vertical blinds grows dimmer and dimmer until we're shrouded in
darkness once more.
There's something about dusk, about the dark gray murky light in the
room, that makes it feel more intimate. "You know," Dean finally says, "for
as bad as this whole situation has been, at least it's done one good thing."
I frown, trying to think back, but nothing comes to mind. "Are you
dumb?" I ask. "What good thing came from this?"
He chuckles and shakes his head. "Always with the insults," he murmurs,
cupping the back of my skull, his fingers playing lightly through the strands
of my hair. If he notices the unkept and unwashed mess of it, he doesn't seem
to give a shit. "You finally admitted you love me."
I freeze. That's what he meant. Tingles start at the tips of my fingers and
work their way up my limbs as I consider that. Yeah, it had taken a whole
shit load of gunfire and blood and near death for me to admit that. Out loud,
at least. I suck in a breath, but Dean starts talking before I can speak.
"I wouldn't have been surprised, you know," he says quietly, "if you never
said it."
"What?" Through the darkness, I blink at him.
"I'm not a good person, Avalon," he continues. His hand flexes against
the back of my head, tugging—not as gently as before as he forces my face to
tilt upward, towards him. "I've never been good and I never will be. I like that
you've killed," he admits. "I liked watching you exact your vengeance, and I
had no fucking problem hurting and killing whoever it took to get to you. I
didn't think twice about it—I didn't have to. People like me, I guess, are born
dark. If there ever was any light in me to start off with, it's gone. Eradicated.
Burned away. I'm bad, baby, and I like it that way. I don't see a problem with
how possessive I get over you. If another man so much as fucking hints that
he desires you, it makes me want to cut his tongue out and shove it up his
ass."
I can picture that, actually. But there's something wrong with his words.
The way he says them. His tone of voice—it almost sounds like he's resigned
to what he is, rather than proud of it as he should be.
“Light? What is light?” I ask. “Is it good? No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t
give you any light or good. Good is easy to love. I’m not. We’re taught to
value what’s good from a young age, just as we’re taught to fear the
darkness.” I take a breath, feeling the cold air infiltrate my lungs, permeating
my body—sliding into every bone and crevice. Every scar and pore.
“I don’t fear the darkness,” I say. “Especially not yours.” I move so that
my breasts brush against his chest. I lift my hand and let my fingers trail
down his throat until I find the hollow of his collarbone. “I crave it,” I
confess. “I want all of the darkness you’ve never shown anyone else, Dean
Carter.”
He catches my wrist and moves it down and away. I look up, meeting that
dark, intense gaze of his. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” He doesn’t
crack a smile and neither do I. “Just everything.”
“I ask for as much as I’m willing to give in return,” I say.
“And are you willing?” he asks, dipping his head until the warmth of his
words slides over my cold lips. “To give me everything?”
And in that dark room, with our hearts pounding against our ribcages, I
finally utter the truth I’d been so desperate to deny. I hadn’t wanted to admit
it—not to him, but certainly not to myself. “I already have.”
His head lifts and his eyes meet mine. “That’s your answer?”
“Yes,” I say.
Dean’s breath catches in his throat and for a moment I think he’s going to
break, but that’s not like Dean. Dean isn’t someone who breaks. He can cry.
He can yell and throw shit. That’s just him showing his emotions. Crying
doesn’t mean someone’s broken. So when his eyes begin to fill with tears and
he leans down to bury his face against my neck, my reaction is simple. I lift
my arms and hug him to me. My lips twitch as I hold him and let him hold
me.
“Are you going to actually ask the question now?” I prompt.
He snorts. “God, baby, you’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters.
“That’s not exactly the kind of proposal I expected,” I deadpan.
Dean laughs, the sound heavy and warm, and it lights up something
inside of me. When he leans back, his face covered in the tracks of his tears
and his smile so fucking gorgeous it hurts my soul, I think I finally get it. If
Patricia ever felt even a fraction of what I feel for Dean for my father, then I
guess I can understand why she made the choices that led her to her death. I
don’t regret killing her. I’ll never regret dealing out my own brand of justice,
even if it’s not exactly what society says is right.
Too many people fall through the cracks of the system. Money and po
wer
make people do crazy things. Just like love.
“Avalon Manning,” Dean begins, “will you stop fucking torturing me,
and marry me?”
I snort. “No can do on the torture,” I say, pushing up on my knees as I
cup his face between my hands. I pause right before his lips and smile. “I
plan on doing that for the rest of our lives, but the marriage bit, well … I
guess I can do that.”
Before he can comment, I press forward and kiss him like it’s the last
thing I’ll ever do. If I’m lucky, in another fifty years or so, it will be.
Until then, the rest of the world can go fuck itself.
EPILOGUE
RYLIE
6 weeks later …
My phone goes off, the sound so quiet in the darkness of my new dorm
room that I almost don’t hear it. But as I sit there, so focused on siphoning
through the layers and layers of information before me, something crawls
into my consciousness. A warning.
My hands pause over the keyboard in front of me. Avalon isn’t really the
type to ask for favors, so I know this is important. Unfortunately, even with
the skill I have, I’m not a miracle worker. I can’t just make someone with no
last name and no past magically appear out of thin air.
All I have to go on is a first name, a relative age, and where she lived.
Whoever this Micki girl is, someone has spent quite a lot of time and energy
to turn her into a ghost. By all means, she doesn’t exist. There’s no record of
anyone named Micki living in Plexton, Georgia in the last several years, nor
in the surrounding areas. At least, no female of her age by that name.
I lean back in my chair and groan as my spine bends and aches from too
many hours sitting at this desk. Not for the first time, I think about putting the
money I’m making from the Sick Boys to use and buying myself a nice
ergonomic computer chair, complete with all the bells and whistles. Back
support would be a fucking treat right about now. Maybe even a vibrating
cushion that would massage my lower spine and keep me from feeling like an
eighty-year-old woman in a nineteen-year-old's body. I’m practically
drooling at the very thought, but no, all of the money I’ve made is secured
safely in an offshore bank account. No one and nothing will be taking it away
