Six Feet Under (Mad Love Duet Book 1)

by Whitney Barbetti

  I didn't cry, but I nearly wanted to.

  He pulled back and pressed his forehead to mine. “Fight for it,” he said. “It's good for you, Mira.”

  My skin itched. The way he was looking at me, the release of the emotion, all of it was overwhelming. I couldn't live under his gaze. “I’m going to throw up,” I said again, feeling the roll of my stomach among the unfamiliar emotions that were swallowing me whole.

  “You won’t. Fight it.”

  “I'm a fighter,” I said, not quite believing it.

  “As long as you're fighting, you're living.” It reminded me of how reckless I'd been with my life when I'd met him. Six had made me a fighter, and I wasn't just talking about training my body. I was fighting all the time; for my sanity, for Six.

  “Fight,” he said, pulling me from the memories of years earlier.

  Nine years later, I'd get the word tattooed on my chest.

  17

  December 2002

  One year later

  I knew it would happen. It didn't take a fucking fortune teller to know that it was only a matter of time before I fucked up. And this matter of time was exactly two years after Six had kissed me the first time.

  It started with Six and a job we’d been working together. This time, we were investigating a lawyer who was suspected of laundering funds. Six had been hired to be discreet, and he brought me along to provide distraction, as I often did.

  Except this time, I'd taken a souvenir.

  Six had seen the Rolex when my purse had fallen open in the car in our rush to escape. Six hadn't known at the time why the lawyer had chased us, but when he saw the heavy gold band fall onto the center console, his face whipped up to mine and stared at me with barely controlled anger.

  He gunned it out of the parking lot, hands gripping the steering wheel in a white-knuckled hold. His jaw had been clenched so hard, I'd expected his teeth to grind against one another, and crack underneath the pressure. It was a gruesome image, but it was the only way I could think to describe how very tight Six kept his anger.

  I'd barely had time to buckle my seat belt when he'd accelerated, and the contents of my purse lay in his center console, my guilt completely naked to our view.

  When I opened my mouth to speak, Six merely reached over and turned the music up to blasting, drowning out whatever words I'd intended to say. So I sat quietly in my seat, feeling anger bubble up inside me as well. Anger with myself.

  When we'd made it out of the neighborhood and pulled into a parking lot, Six flung his door open and walked away, far from the car and from me, pulling his hair and reaching into his pocket for some smokes.

  I waited in the car, feeling the self-loathing take over. Despite my refusal to participate in committed relationships, I had tried for Six, for the last nearly two years. To not only be a partner in his work but in his bed or, rather, my bed.

  When he was done pacing, he returned to the car, sweat shining on his knuckles. Part of me had expected to see blood instead. But knowing that Six had the power to keep that kind of anger contained made me feel envy. I wasn't someone to keep my energy contained in my skin. I hit. I kicked. I paced. When anger manifested itself in my bones, it needed release, plain and simple.

  This was, fundamentally, why I was a danger. And not just to Six, but to myself.

  When we were one block from my apartment, he finally spoke.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  I shrugged. “It was on his desk. He was distracted.” I needed money, I added silently. For just in case. Whatever progress I'd made in the two years since we'd entered this itchy relationship, I still wasn't able to completely trust that he was here for the long haul.

  “And what? You were going to hock this?” he asked, lifting the Rolex up between us before dropping it unceremoniously back onto the pile. He pulled the car off the road to my designated parking space, flipped the emergency brake on and shut off the car. “Hock the Rolex for what, huh?”

  I looked at the pile and saw what he did. Tape recorder, Rolex, lip gloss, eye glasses and, most damning of all, the tiny plastic bag of pills.

  He picked up the bag and held it between our faces. “For someone as cunning as you are, you sure make spitfire stupid fucking decisions.” He emphasized 'fucking' and brought the bag close to his face. “What are these, Mira?” His voice, normally so even and controlled, was louder than he'd ever spoken to me.

  He knew what they were. He didn't need me to say anything, but I could tell he still wanted me to explain. “I need them,” I answered simply. “Just in case.”

  He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, startling me. He leaned toward me, eyes wide. “You do not need them. You don't need anything, anyone. You are fucking toxic, all by yourself.”

  His words lashed at me, even though he wasn't saying things I didn't know. But to hear him say these things was hard to process, hard for the rational part of my brain to see what was going on. In hindsight, I'd realize that he was stressed and taking it out on me. He knew I was a somewhat recovered drug user. He knew I was impulsive. None of this was shocking to him, but it had exploded when the lawyer I was supposed to be distracting had caught on to me stealing the Rolex and chased me out of the building.

  “Get out.”

  “Right now?”

  His head whipped to me. “The lawyer saw me. He saw my car. I need to get the fuck out of here. Now. So,” he paused, eyes flashing, “get out of my car. Now.”

  I didn't hesitate, leaving my clutch and its contents on his center console. I barely had time to close the door when his car peeled out, loud and squealing tires in the quiet night.

  With shaky legs, I climbed the stairs to my apartment and let myself in with the spare key I kept above the door trim since Six had made me lock it.

  I closed the door and then fell backwards against it, my back sliding down the cool wood.

  My mind was running a million miles.

  I fucked up on Six's job.

  The pride he normally felt wasn't there after this. He was disappointed, he was angry, and it was all my fault. This was what I did. I screwed shit up, inevitably.

  He had called me toxic.

  I'd brought drugs along with me. What had I been thinking? I hadn’t used them yet. I really was mostly recovered. But I needed a backup.

  I didn't have money to pay for the drugs Six had taken off with. They were borrowed, and I’d had every intention of returning them, or paying for them later.

  And I knew, no matter how much pleading I did, Six wouldn't give them back.

  I was so terribly, fucking screwed.

  I surged to the kitchen, threw open the cupboard and pulled out every single bottle of booze I had, searching for something to help me forget. All my wrongdoings were bouncing back and forth, against my skull, fighting against one another for the winner. But there were no winners, there was just one loser: me.

  When I only found dregs, I tossed them in the sink, angry, and stalked to the bathroom.

  I flipped open a cupboard, made a mess of its insides, until I found a bottle of nail polish remover. It would have to do. Spinning the top off, I inhaled, hard and fast, through my nostrils. I felt the rush instantly, but the pain of my mistakes was still there, pushing through my high, slithering under my skin.

  You're a fuck up.

  Six hates you.

  You hate you.

  My anger at myself manifested in my throat as a growl. Sobs wracked my body and tears streaked my face. I needed that release. I had no drugs to give it to me. But my self-loathing was crawling under my skin, a disease that needed to be cut from my flesh.

  I grabbed an old, dusty basket in the back and shuffled through the contents on the floor, searching for something—anything—to give me the relief I was desperate for. That's when I saw the glint of silver at the bottom.

  I grabbed the razor blade and without a second's hesitation, I put it to my skin, pressing deep enough for a bead of blood to appea
r, before I pulled it right across my skin, opening up old scars and creating new ones. Over and over I did this until I had six lines in a row across my wrist. Each one deeper than the last.

  I was holding on so tightly to the razor that it cut into my hand, right along the joint of my forefinger.

  There was pain, of course, but the pain was not nearly as hard to endure as the weight of my mistakes—which was why I needed the release.

  The combination of numbness and stinging created goosebumps across my skin. Relief poured in as the blood poured out, fast, dripping down the sides of my wrists. I cried out and dropped the blade then brought the bottle of nail polish remover to my nose again, sniffing hard.

  Through the dizziness, I thought it was better. The voices were quieting, smothered by the loss of consciousness.

  I was losing sensation and my slippery hold on reality, as I sniffed the bottle and concentrated on the droplets of red sliding off the sides of my wrist onto the white vinyl flooring. The reverberation of my sobs bounced off the walls in my tiny bathroom.

  I smelled him before I heard him, but my nostrils were burning, and nausea was crawling up my throat. Whenever I blacked out from a high, my senses came back to me slowly, never all at once. It was as if my brain was conditioning itself from experiencing too much right away.

  “Mira,” he said, his voice tinged with something sad. “Are you there?”

  With my eyes closed, I croaked, “Where's there?”

  He sighed, and I registered that I was in his arms, lying on his lap.

  “What did you do?”

  “Hurt.” My lips couldn't close after I exhaled the word. “Better.”

  “No. Not better.”

  My brain couldn't grasp that thought, couldn't process it, content to stay in this high for however long I could.

  I felt his touch on my arm. “Can you stand up? I need to wash and bandage your arm.”

  I didn't answer, just sagged further into his arms, feeling content in my heightened state.

  I blacked out again.

  “Wake up.” His voice called to me in my dream, commanding me through the veil of my subconscious.

  I stirred and registered the ache in my head. I didn't want to move, didn't want to let the light come through my eyelids.

  “Open your eyes,” he commanded again. I felt a pinch of regret, but I wasn't sure what it was from.

  I opened them, but in a flash, they were closed again, shutting myself from the world and its light. “Can't,” I said. Or, I thought I said. My voice sounded weak and hoarse, but my lips had moved to let the word loose.

  “You sure as fuck can. Open them.” His hands came to my face and squeezed. “Open or I'll make you open them.”

  I frowned, annoyed. But I did as he asked, slowly, my eyelashes feeling sticky, making me think I had tons of sleepy seeds along my waterline. Six was looking back at me. “Bloodshot,” he said without emotion, as if he expected as much.

  I moved my lips to say something, but felt my throat burn as I tried to add sound. I swallowed and tried again. “What happened?”

  Six leaned back, away from me. “You really don't remember?”

  I shook my head, but then groaned at the movement. “Mother fuck,” I croaked.

  Six mumbled something and climbed off the bed. I heard his feet pad away before I tried to sit up, pushing my elbows to the bed. Instantly, I felt the ache of cut flesh, the tear of skin burning. I dropped my arms and rolled to my side to look at my left arm. It was covered in bandages, some small blood spots coming through the gauze.

  Fuck. I knew what it was from, based on the weeping line of dots. My memory pulled in a vision of a blade in my hand, slicing my skin over and over and over. I shuddered, remembering the warm blood, moving down my cold arm, pooling on the floor.

  I wrinkled my nose, felt the burn, and knew I'd inhaled something.

  I'd gone a whole year, from the moment I'd told him I loved him, to last night, when I'd last cut myself. I hadn't inhaled in even longer.

  I rolled my head to look at my bedroom door and that was when I registered the sounds of pots clanging, plates clattering.

  Gingerly, I sat up and scooted to the end of the bed, letting my head settle from the movement before standing up. I shuffled my feet across the floor, wincing when my toe got caught on a loose board, and walked out to the living area, bracing myself for Six.

  His elbows were propped up on the counter, his head resting in his hands. His face was angled down, and his upper body was heaving deep breaths.

  “I'm sorry you saw that,” I said, my words sounding tiny in the space.

  I watched his body tense before he straightened. His face whipped to me and he shook his head, shoving a pot into the sink. “Is that the only thing you're sorry for?” His fists balled on the counter and from the table I could see his knuckles go white. I knew he wouldn't hurt me, so I felt no fear when he pushed away from the counter and marched toward me.

  I braced myself for his hold.

  “You tried to kill yourself,” he said. His hands cupped my face, grasping each side. Fingers dug into my skin and his jaw clenched.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “You know I cut, Six.”

  “You haven't in a year.” He shifted forward, effectively pushing me until my back met the wall behind me. “But you cut yourself last night. And you shoved a bottle of acetone up your nose and sniffed until you blacked out.”

  He was so angry, so upset. I tried to play it off like it was no big deal. “Look,” I said, holding up my un-bandaged arm. “Take a good look. That wasn't my first time cutting.” He looked with me to my arm, saw all the white scars cutting through flesh, straight lines down from the crook of my elbow to my wrist.

  His eyes turned back to mine, a fire burning within them. “Six,” he said.

  I looked at him, not understanding.

  “Six,” he repeated. He flipped his pocket knife from his pants and slid the blade under my bandage, letting the tape and gauze fall to the floor. He put my arm at my eye level.

  Six straight lines, stacked on top of each other. I flexed my fist and saw the skin stretch over one of the fresh scabs, felt it struggle to reopen.

  He shook his head, grabbing my fingers and wrenching them open. “Stop,” he growled. “Do you see what you did?”

  I gave him a look, because of course I saw it. Six lines.

  “It's not enough to hurt me, is it, Mira?”

  He dropped my hand and stalked away, pacing. I saw the anger contained in his bones again and I wished for the power myself. How easy, I thought, to be able to compartmentalize your emotions. Six was solid, steady and I was impulsive, weak. Give me a push and I'd push back before I’d inevitably fall. Give Six a push and he'd stay still.

  I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the orange juice from the fridge, pouring a glass.

  “Do you have anything else to say?”

  I lifted my eyes, seeing Six leaning across the countertop on the other side of my kitchen.

  He wanted me to be sorry for doing this with him on my mind. But I couldn't be sorry for that. It was who I was, how I handled stress. The only thing I was sorry for was that he saw it. So I said nothing, only lifting my orange juice and swallowing it back.

  He shook his head, eyes downcast. And then he grabbed his coat and left my apartment.

  He returned, as I knew he would, his hands empty and his eyes clouded. I was sitting on the couch he'd given me a year before on Christmas, smoking my fifth cigarette that hour. The sun had set hours before and I'd tamped down whatever worry I'd felt for him, choosing to wait for him to come to me. He always did. What a very privileged assurance that was. One I couldn’t give him in return.

  He dropped his coat to the back of the chair at the table, flung his keys across its surface. That table was a warzone for our relationship, with marks and scratches that told the story of our ups and downs. I didn't let myself think of that now, choosing instead to think about th
e Christmas movie on the television.

  I snuggled deeper into the sofa, wrapping the blanket that smelled like Six around me. The shower kicked on behind me and I let out a breath. I listened as the water splashed, as he banged against the fiberglass walls while he tried to wash his large body in the small space.

  After the water shut off, I kept my ears attuned for him, expecting him to come out and say something. So when I heard nothing after the bathroom door opened, I stood up and looked behind me. He wasn't at the table or in the kitchen.

  I padded across the wood floors to the bedroom, pausing at the threshold. Six was lying on the bed, his back to the door, the sheet slipping down to his waist. The moonlight that poured through the room lit up his silhouette and the droplets that clung to his skin.

  I ached for him. I didn't deserve to, not after this morning or the night before for that matter. But nonetheless, I ached. With a heavy heart, I slid under the sheet and rolled to face him.

  His face was shadowed, the night holding fast to his brow line and his nose and lips like a clingy lover. I was jealous then, of the dark, and reached a hand to touch his skin. Before my hand could rest on his cheek, his hand snapped out to me, stalling me. His eyes opened and met mine. Exhaustion darkened the circles under them, reminding me who'd caused it.

  “Do you hate me?” I whispered. It was one of the thoughts that had gone through my head the night before, when I'd cut.

  “Mira,” he breathed. He brought my palm to his lips and kissed it reverently. “I love you.”

  I sighed, feeling relief settle my taut muscles.

  “I fucked up,” I admitted, wanting this quiet time with Six to last.

  “You carved six lines into your skin. You hurt yourself, because of me. For me.” His hand tightened on mine. “Don't ever do that. Ever.”

  I couldn't promise I wouldn't cut again; it was a compulsion I couldn't seem to kick. So instead, I said nothing, hoping the silence would feel comfortable and not like the result of me not answering his question.