“Hijo de tu chingada madre,” someone screamed, and there was a blinding crack as someone slammed a foot into the side of his head. The sensation was so real Payton swore it was her lying on that filthy floor, her being slammed in the ribs, the chest, feeling an excruciating pain that overtook everything. Then a canvas hood was slipped over Cole’s head, and he was lifted up and dragged out. The world was fuzzy and Cole was no longer in control of his body, his mind, anything. He was still conscious, but it was almost as if he was watching himself from a distance. His body was a tight ball of pain and the certainty of his own death was the only thing he could focus on.
Somehow, he made his lungs work and he groaned out his partner’s name. “John. . . .”
Someone slapped him in the face. “Cierra tu pinche boca, culero!”
Don’t speak. Shut your mouth.
“John!” Cole yelled, ignoring the next blow across his jaw.
“I’m here”—his partner’s voice was cut short by the sound of bones crunching.
Payton jumped at the sound. God, it was so confusing, so chaotic. What had it been like for Cole when he’d actually lived it?
The world swirled and morphed again inside Cole’s head. Time passed or didn’t, it was too hard to tell. The sun rose and set, then rose again before the world came back to Cole.
Whoever had drugged him and taken him and his partner had slammed both men to the ground and left them. He’d heard his partner whimpering softly at one point through the night, but his body had still been disconnected from his brain and it hadn’t registered with Cole beyond a noise invading his warped reality.
Now, as daylight dawned and the reality outside of his own mind started to make sense, the hood was pulled from his head to reveal two devilish forms. Their captors. At some time in the night, John had gone silent, leaving Cole’s mind to slowly drift until he was snapped back by a sickening laughter, a voice thick with a Latin-American accent. His eyes opened, widening at the bright-red face that was inches from his own.
Bones crunched as a fist slammed into Cole’s ribs, before his head was lifted up and a fresh pack of cigarettes appeared from the man’s pocket. Cole glanced over and saw John watching carefully from the other corner.
“Do you smoke?” the red man asked.
Cole didn’t respond and the man reached down and grabbed his jaw, forcing Cole to make eye contact with him.
“Do you smoke?” he repeated. A wad of mucus and saliva fell from his mouth when he spoke.
“Leave him alone!” John yelled.
The man didn’t even turn. Instead he pulled out a lighter. “I hope you don’t mind. I need a cigarette, man. What a day!” The playful, jibing tone mixed with the dark accent was like raw energy, pulsing waves of fear through Cole and now into Payton’s mind.
The world swirled again and this time a skeletal form shrank back in a corner, muttering and sobbing.
Don’t look. You can’t look. You have to stop. Just close your eyes.
Cole’s voice echoed inside Payton’s head. The space in the room seemed to tighten, only to then grow to unimaginable heights, enveloping everything except for the sobs that met Payton’s ears.
“Here,” the man hissed again. “Have a cigarette.” The burning tip was shoved into Cole’s side and the smell of scorching flesh became a tangible force, screaming through her brain, until the pain was all that had ever existed. Other days a plastic bag was placed over his head, his hands restrained, until he was gasping for breath. Only then would it be ripped away, a question asked, and it would start all over when he refused to answer. When he really pissed them off, that’s when the cattle prod would come out.
The day played out over and over, until madness set in. Sometimes a faint tingle of lucidity would enter his mind, before he felt the prick at his neck, or his arm, his leg, and it all began again. The ropes rubbed against old burns until they turned a sickly purple color.
“John.” Cole was lying on the ground. A few pieces of straw beneath him felt like a thousand needles jabbing into his back. “If you survive this, don’t tell them I screamed.”
His already weak body was breaking down, the torture shattering his confidence, breaking his spirit, and Payton watched as Cole’s body and mind grew weaker until he was almost death itself lying still in the corner. Just as the transformation was nearly complete, the door above his head opened and men carrying assault rifles poured into the room. One man walked over to John and shook his head, while another stood in silent watch as medics swarmed over Cole.
Cole closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that the world didn’t exist.
Cole’s whole body shook as memories of the frenzied shrieks of his partner growing silent filled his mind. Payton watched as he was cut free of the ropes that bound him, and then carried up the stairs and into daylight. He was taken to the hospital, drugged again, and seen by endless doctors and psychologists, all of them meant to pull Cole back to the world, get him back on his feet.
But inside his mind, the shrieking never stopped.
When reality came back to her, Payton found herself standing by the bed. Her knees gave way and she fell to the floor, sick with shock. How could he have lived through that and still walk around like a normal person? God, Cole was strong—so strong—no matter what he thought. He was the strongest person she’d ever met. What if she reached inside his mind and took away the hell he relived every night? Could she save him the pain of having ever felt it? He wouldn’t be tortured by John’s death, or wake every night screaming. He could move on with his life without having to fight every day to stay sane.
But then, would he still be Cole?
That was the question she couldn’t answer. She still couldn’t walk through an empty room or down a dark street without trembling, but the strength she’d found within herself after the attack had changed her, defined who she was. If she took Cole’s pain away, was that all she’d be taking? Or would he still feel the aftermath of the event, and not know why? Experiences like that didn’t just impact your body; they burned their way into your very soul.
No, as much as Cole was hurting, and as desperate as she was to relieve his pain, removing the memory would be removing part of him and it would only hurt him further. He’d fought like hell to live, and he deserved to remember.
Payton left the room and wandered into the small bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. She was still naked, and in the other room lay a man she’d known less than a month, but who’d already shared his deepest, darkest secrets with her. Every nerve in her body felt scarred, exposed.
Regardless of the earlier intimacy, Cole was still a mystery. What she’d seen, even when his thoughts had been laid bare, was now running rampant through her own mind. But how he’d survived, his will to survive. That was something she was still yet to discover. It was the essence of who he was, and without knowing that intimately, she could never fully understand him. She’d trespassed in his thoughts, but she still had a long way to go before she’d understand the man.
There was a thin layer of grime covering Payton’s body, both physically and mentally. The night before, making out on the beach, the ecstasy of becoming one, followed swiftly by intimacy of an entirely darker kind when she’d sunk inside his nightmares. Payton shuddered. She grabbed a towel and turned the water on scalding hot. Stepping into the small shower, she closed her eyes and let the water flow over her head. If she was going to survive, she had to remember where she was and what the hell she was doing. The pain in that horrific basement all washed away down the drain, but Cole was still out there. In her bed and inside her head. She’d let him in.
How could I have been so stupid?
Payton turned off the water and dried herself carefully, wrapping the towel around her body like a shield that would protect her nakedness from his stare. When she walked back into the bedroom, his eyes were open.
“Hey.” Cole’s voice was thick with drowsiness.
“Morning.” Sh
e grabbed randomly at her clothes and then hurried back into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She could dress in there, away from his gaze. Would he know? When he looked into her eyes, would he see his own pain reflected there? It was clear that Cole had never left the basement he had been held in, not really. And now she was stuck there, too.
“Hey, Payton.” He knocked on the bathroom door. “I just wanted to thank you. Last night was, well, it was amazing.”
She paused, halfway through pulling her pants up. This was just too weird. Cole’s memories were rattling around in her brain, twisting and turning with hers, until Payton wasn’t sure what was his pain and what was her own. If she let him get any closer, it could put them both in danger.
“Uh, you’re welcome, Cole. I think I’m just going to take a shower”—crap, would he notice she’d already had one?—“and then grab a run. I’ll see you later.”
A pause, then his voice came through the door again. “Payton? Is everything okay?”
“Yep, yep, all good. I just need some space, um, need to get some energy out.” Her voice was too high, too thin. Surely he’d notice?
“Okay, I can understand.” Shit, he sounded so defeated.
Cole didn’t speak again. Payton heard the soft snick of the apartment door and she sank to her knees on the floor.
What the hell had she done?
12
The pounding light was like an ice pick piercing Cole in the eyes, and he had to lift his hand to block it out as he turned away from the sweltering pavement near Payton’s apartment and waded through the deep sand. The last thing he needed was to see that basement and to hear John’s cries, especially not when she was lying in his arms. He could’ve woken up kicking and screaming, or worse. There had been plenty of nights when he’d lashed out at the demons in his dreams. She didn’t need to be subjected to that.
Payton was good for him. The first person who’d really seemed to understand him.
Doesn’t mean you’re good for her, Dickhead.
Listening to her story the night before, sharing his, holding her, and then—oh God—the sex had been amazing. He’d felt nearly whole for the first time in over a year. Being with someone who knew the madness that ran through his head on a daily basis felt good. Almost too good. Drawing her into his demented world wasn’t going to help her recover. It would only expose her to the real Cole, the side he fought so hard to suppress, and it would destroy her. He’d come out of that basement a different man, and the man he was now was no good for anyone.
He’d always cherish last night, though. Hell, opening up to anyone felt good, but sharing with someone who really understood? He’d felt the tension flow out of his muscles with every word leaving his mouth, tension that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding on to since that dark night. He’d been still cowering in the basement in his mind, but now there was someone holding his hand, telling him that it was all going to be alright.
The bright morning sun stabbed him in the eye again as his feet hit the pavement. No, he wasn’t sitting in that basement anymore, but fuck, he was hung over. Despite that, his thoughts were well and truly present in the here and now. It was a rejuvenating experience, even if he wasn’t sure it was a good one yet. Cole took a right off the beach, his feet adjusting from the soft sand to hard pavement leading to the streets. Last night had been about more than just sex. He’d felt a real emotional connection between them, and he’d been sure she felt it, too. But this morning, Payton had been closed off, distant. She’d seemed almost embarrassed. Cole frowned. Had something happened while he slept after all, and she didn’t want to tell him? The thought bugged him all the way back to his apartment and he was surprised to find he’d arrived back at his front door without noticing a single thing on the walk through half the neighborhood. Not a good idea, not for a cop living around here.
Ex-cop. Get used to it.
The lawn surrounding his basic one-bedroom duplex was covered in weeds and the grass had grown out of control. He could see the layer of dust on his windows from there, and the paint on the front door was starting to peel away. When he walked inside, the stench of dirty dishes and even dirtier laundry hung in the air, an ever-present reminder that he still had a long way to go on his recovery. The world around him was passing him by, and somehow that morning, it was no longer acceptable. The world had continued to turn, life had gone on, while Cole had been hiding out there, drowning, fighting to reach his head above water.
He’d never thought he had a future then, something to hold on to, and he still wasn’t sure he did. That didn’t mean he couldn’t work toward it. He looked over to his dining-room table, and the pile of takeout boxes and nearly six months of newspapers. He picked up a shopping bag from the bottom of the kitchen cupboard and threw stuff in until the bag was so full he could barely tie it closed. He grabbed another bag and did it again, and again, until the table was clear. Picking up the bags, he ran them out to the complex’s Dumpster and threw them inside. On his way back, he noticed his trash can still sitting in the driveway, and so pulled it inside. He’d been putting that off for nearly a month.
More old takeout boxes followed the first haul, then flyers and pamphlets, even a few old apple cores. When he passed by his newly uncovered kitchen sink, he ignored the dishes and dug through the cupboard for a new sponge. The table was encrusted with old crumbs glued on by solidified sweet-and-sour sauce, along with a few ketchup and mustard stains. When the hell had things gotten so bad that this had become normal? The short time he’d spent with Payton had already shown him that things didn’t have to be like that anymore, that he could feel something other than pain and fear. He wanted more.
The sponge was ruined by the time the table was clean and so it joined its friend in the trash. He picked his way through the living room, removing old beer cans and potatochip bags along the way.
With every piece of crap he picked up and dumped outside his apartment, a little bit of the festering pain and negativity left with it. If he couldn’t have his old self back, then at least he could create somebody new that he could live with.
As a last step, he piled the dishwasher so full that he could barely close the door, and switched it on. The faint smell of lemon coming from the detergent made him smile.
Yep, man, you’ve totally lost it. Congratulations.
A sound met his ears, so foreign that at first he didn’t recognize it. After a few seconds, it dawned that he was hearing his own laugh, a deep chuckle at the thought of a grown man standing in his gleaming kitchen, enjoying the fragrance of his lemon-scented dish detergent. It wasn’t the smell in the end that meant something to him, but what it represented. For months he hadn’t given a crap about anything—what his house had looked like, even what he’d put in his own body. He’d been eating takeout and pizza every single night, half of them then drinking himself stupid, and the ignoring the way he felt the next morning.
Before the basement, he’d been in the best shape of his life, and while he’d been working to get back there, he hadn’t made all the changes he’d needed to. His hours at the gym were to keep the demons in his head at bay, not for any true self improvement. He’d have to care about himself for that, and he hadn’t. Not for a long time.
The alcohol was another issue. He’d never been a heavy drinker, and now his house was covered in bottles. In every room he looked, he found little shooters, half pints, and tall cans. It had been the only release that made any sense. But now, there was something else he wanted more.
Countless times as a beat cop, Colt had seen men whose murderous drunken fits had ended up with life in prison. He’d seen men who had committed crimes when they’d been as drunk as hell—raping, murdering, even hurting those they claimed to love the most. It didn’t matter how much work he put in at the gym, if he didn’t cut out the poison he was putting in his own body, then he’d never be ready to move forward. He’d end up on the street, homeless with a forty-ounce can in his hand, begging people for m
oney.
The night before, he and Payton had put away at least two bottles of wine between them, and once he’d fallen asleep, he’d been right back in that basement. It was time to stop.
He glanced around his apartment. It wasn’t back to its former self yet, either, but it was emptier, cleaner. No longer did he see his depression echoed all around him the instant he walked in the door. The bedroom, though, that was still an issue. Long ago, he’d tacked a black blanket over the window in an attempt to block out all light. His first day home, the morning sun had scorched his face, and he’d just wanted to hide away and forget the world existed. After finding his hammer, Cole pulled the nails that were holding the blanket to the wall. There, better. The holes where it had been were still there, but he could live with them, and eventually he’d patch them up.
Well, look at you, waxing philosophical and all that shit.
Yep, he could do this. More importantly, for the first time, he wanted to.
13
Time passed more quickly than he realized and when Cole looked up again, he noticed he’d almost missed his appointment. He threw on the best clothes he could find among the purge, made a mental note to put on a load of laundry as soon as he was back, and ran out the door.
Soon enough, his feet found the familiar path that used to walk him right back to the basement. Having to see a department shrink was yet another reminder of everything that he’d lost. That afternoon, though, things were different. He had a long way to go in cleaning the mess of his apartment, but he’d also been amazed at the progress he’d made in just a few hours. His life was just like that.
Before last night, he thought he’d gotten nowhere, had moved nowhere in nearly a year. Now, one night with Payton and he could see just how many miles he’d put between him and that basement. He was ready to add more.
Payton (Dreamcatchers Romantic Suspense Series Book 3) Page 9
