by Meli Raine
Even being tickled mercilessly is better than nothing.
As I recover, Silas gives me a self-deprecating smile. Kelly carefully steps over the bathtub edge and sinks in under the white shampoo foam. She turns her back to us. I stifle a gasp. Silas’s hands curl into balls, fingers tight.
There is a very large fading bruise on Kelly’s back.
Eyes closed, Silas struggles to control himself, his quick bottling of emotion almost artistic if it weren’t for such a sad, despicable reason.
“Kelly,” he asks softly, the back of his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed. “What happened to your back?”
“I fell,” she says in a voice so quiet, she might as well be a church mouse.
“Okay,” I whisper, needing to say something, to exhale, to breathe, to remind myself she is here with us, safe, and not being hurt like she was in the past. Emotion tornadoes around me until all I can do is link myself to Silas’s feelings, tracking him, making sure he’s safe, too.
You can fool yourself into thinking the only way to be unsafe is in your body. We have so much more vulnerability on the inside. The wrong person can harm your skin and bones, sure.
But true evil invades your bloodstream.
I grab a small washcloth and hand it to Kelly. “Why don’t you wash your body, nice and clean.”
“Okay!” she chirps. “Mama taught me to wash like a big girl!”
Silas’s brow lowers in pain. The kind that burns from your chest on out.
“Your mama really loves you, huh?” I say reflexively, the words making me choke up. I suddenly miss my mama. So much.
“Yes,” she says, looking at Silas. “Hey, Uncle Silas! Don’t go to sleep! It’s not bedtime yet!”
He opens his eyes slowly and I swear he’s trying not to cry.
“No, you’re right,” he says in a choked voice. His eyes dart to catch mine. “Can you help her wash her hair?” He starts to stand.
“No water in my eyes!” Kelly screeches.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” he says, his voice craggy and uneven. “Jane’s a good person. She’ll be careful.”
Jane’s a good person.
It’s been so long since someone said that to or about me.
“Do you know how to pour the water so it goes on my hair but not in my eyes?” she asks somberly, like I’m being interviewed for a job.
“Yes. I’m an expert.” I speak to her but watch Silas as he leaves the tiny room, blinking hard, his face roiling with so many different emotions, but one stands out.
Not anger.
Grief.
Suddenly, Kelly dips under the water, her thumb and index finger plugging her nose, and she comes up sputtering but laughing.
“I did it! Mama told me I could put my face in the water and be okay!” she crows, but too much water is in her eyes and she starts to whine. I grab a dry towel from a rack and blot her face as she wriggles.
“Good job!” I assure her, meanwhile freaking out on the inside. Why is Silas so upset? The mark on Kelly’s back is bad. She’s clearly been hurt by someone. Silas’s sister? “Uncle Rick”? Someone else?
And wouldn’t Silas be furious? Why is he so choked up?
Kelly hums to herself as she uses the washcloth to clean herself, blowing on the foamy bubbles and begging for more. I run the faucet and pour a thin stream of shampoo on the running water. We do this for about twenty minutes until finally she trusts me to wash her hair and rinse it the “right way.”
“I got some water in my eyes but it didn’t hurt!” she says as I hold open a big towel for her to step into. Just then Silas appears, his face a little red, a bottle of hair detangler and a comb in one hand.
“Comb my hair, Uncle Silas?” she asks. He holds the hair items like this is a familiar ritual.
“Of course,” he says.
“When’s Mama coming for me? I’m spending the night for the sleepover, right?”
Silas looks like he’s in the crosshairs of a sniper’s shot.
“Uh, Grandma’s coming tomorrow, sweetie,” he finally says as he turns her away from him and starts lightly spraying her tangled hair. He’s an expert, combing the crazy, straight hair until it shines like a wet seal’s coat. “Remember?”
“Tomorrow? So soon?” She claps and grins.
“It’s all last minute. A surprise,” he adds in the kind of voice you use with little kids.
“Ice cream, a bubble bath, a sleepover, and Grandma! This is great!” she says, beaming.
I look at her face. Dark circles under her eyes but no bruises. She hums a Disney princess song to herself and Silas starts to lead her out of the bathroom.
“I’ll help you get dressed,” he says.
“I know how!” Kelly protests. “Just give me the clothes.”
Silas looks at the dining table at the end of the hall and walks to it, grabbing a bag from a store he must have gone to while he was out. He extracts a pack of new underwear and a cute set of cotton jersey pajamas.
“New? For me?” Kelly asks. “Mama says I only get new stuff for my birthday and Christmas. It’s not Christmas, is it?”
Silas is stricken.
“No, no, sweetie. Just some nice, new clothes for you.” He hands her the clothes and points to his bedroom. “You go get dressed and come back so we can brush your teeth. I got you a new toothbrush.”
Kelly skips down the hallway and goes into Silas’s bedroom, cradling her new clothes. The second she’s out of earshot, I turn to question Silas, just as his phone buzzes.
He looks at it, mutters something I can’t hear, and turns away.
I take a moment to go into the bathroom, take care of my own business, and look at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. I am shaking, eyes haunted, my own dark circles mirroring little Kelly’s. I’ve obviously been brought into a serious family drama, the personal line crossed in my relationship with Silas.
Relationship? Is that what you call this?
His kiss on the top of my head back at The Grove, after rescuing me from that creepy doctor, runs through me like a racing train. I feel like I’m in the conductor’s seat but there are no controls. Just a smooth, flat table covered with nothing, but a panoramic view of what I’m about to crash into.
Something is very, very off right now.
And the second Kelly falls asleep, I’m demanding answers.
I walk down the hallway to find Kelly on top of Silas’s neatly made bed, dressed in the clothes Silas handed her. Wet hair curls against her cheek, her eyes closed, the light, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep child the only sound in the room.
The light behind me from the hallway suddenly dims. Silas’s presence blocks the doorway as I pull up one corner of his comforter and cover her. Instinct makes me bend low and kiss her cheek.
She smiles in slumber.
Tiptoeing out, I carefully shut the door, turning the knob first and letting it click softly. By the time I’m done, Silas is gone from the hall. His apartment is small, so he can’t really hide.
I won’t let him.
I find him digging around a tiny coat closet by the front door. He turns, a tightly rolled sleeping bag in one hand.
“Oh,” he says, looking at the couch. “It’s a sleeper. You take the sofabed and I’ll crash on the floor next to Kelly in my room. If Joey climbs on the couch at night, I can lock her in the bathroom so she won’t disturb you.”
“Silas,” I say softly.
He’s tense, pure adrenaline radiating off him. “Someone else can take over with you around 3 am, so sleeping here is temporary. Drew says once the team goes through decontamination, he can send a guy to–”
“Silas,” I repeat, voice firm, trying to shake him out of this weird state.
“It’s only for another few hours, and then–”
“SILAS!” I shout, cringing immediately after because I don’t want to wake Kelly, but–
His hand covers my mouth instantly, body pressing me against a wall I
didn’t realize was right behind me. His nose brushes against mine, his eyes wide with emotion.
I can’t tell whether it’s anger or lust.
I’m not sure I want to know which it is.
“Don’t you dare wake her up! Not after what she’s been through. Not after what she’s about to go through,” he says, breath covering my face, anguish in his voice and eyes. We’re both breathing hard, me through my nose, Silas through his entire body, which is hot and hard against me. He smells rumpled and tired, wired and ready to defend and oh, so real.
When he peels his hand off my mouth, I don’t know what I’m going to say.
We stare at each other, ears perked for Kelly. She doesn’t say a word, still asleep. Silas’s shoulders drop a few millimeters, tension dropping on a tiny scale, but his body is still walling me off from escape. The weapon on his belt scrapes against my hip, his flat belly against mine, and while he’s at an angle, it’s really clear how primed for battle his entire broad body really is.
“I’m not the enemy,” I whisper.
Any other words might not have mattered. Those do.
“No, you’re not. You’re my client,” he replies, but doesn’t move back. We’re locked in a fused half embrace that Silas started.
How will he finish this?
“Am I?” I ask. “Just a client?”
There. I said it. It’s out there now, and his mouth is so close to mine. He’s shaking, a short frantic tremor that seems to come from some energy force beneath us. It consumes his entire body, pure energy, all madness in movement.
“No,” he says as he backs away. “You’re not. Thank you.”
Huh?
“I appreciate everything you did for Kelly tonight. It was unprofessional of me to break that line. I should have found a workaround. You’ve been exposed to way more than you should be, and it’s all my family mess. I’m sorry.”
This is not what I was hoping to hear.
“I–it was my pleasure! She’s sweet and wonderful. Really.” I can’t not ask, though. “But those bruises. What she said about ‘Uncle Rick.’ When your sister gets out of the hospital, you’ll have to find out what that’s all about before she gets to see Kelly again.”
Silas staggers to the couch and sits on one end, as if his legs can’t hold him up any more. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head down. His fingers rake his mussed hair.
When he looks up, it’s like his eyes reflect a world that is burning.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“What?” I recoil. “Of course you’ll say something. If you don’t, I will, and even though I don’t know your sister, I–”
“It’s. Not. Going. To. Happen,” he says through clenched teeth.
“You can’t just–”
“Jane,” he says in a low stressed voice that sounds like the universe just cracked in half. “It’s not going to happen because my sister is dead.”
Chapter 21
“Oh!” Puzzle pieces fall into place, click click click in my mind as his words sink in. I sit down next to him, perched on the edge of the couch, facing forward.
“Oh, God,” I mutter, staring straight ahead, everything going out of focus. “Poor Kelly. You didn’t say a word. She doesn’t know?” Tears come unbidden, filling my eyes. I don’t hide it. I couldn’t even if I tried.
“No. Not yet. I thought it was best, until my mom gets here tomorrow.”
“Your mom knows?”
“Yes. That was one of the calls earlier today.”
“You hid this from me?”
“You?”
“Yeah, me. I know we’re not friends, but Jesus, Silas. I’m a human being with compassion, you know.” Weeping openly, I turn to him and touch his hand. “I am so, so sorry. I’m sorry you lost your sister. I’m sorry Kelly lost her mother. I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could talk about it with me. I’m just sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry. You have nothing to do with my sister’s drug addiction and her stupid, stupid relapse.”
But he squeezes my hand back.
“You can talk about it with me, you know. I’ll listen. I’m here.”
“Nothing to talk about. My sister made heroin more important than her kid. Open and shut. Now she’s dead and I have to pick up all the pieces. So does my mother. That’s what addicts do. They make the dope more important than human beings.”
I just nod.
“She made getting high more important than her daughter. Best guess the cops have is that the heroin was contaminated. Fentanyl, some other substance–toxicology reports will take awhile. It’s all details, though. Bottom line: my sister, Tricia, is dead and someone has to tell Kelly she’s never seeing–” His voice cuts off, then an enormous sound of anguish ripples through him. “–never seeing Mama again.”
I move quietly toward him and reach up, sliding the palm of my hand over his jaw, fingers skimming his neck, tips brushing against his hair. He’s looking down but lifts his head. Our eyes lock.
His are glistening. The whites are slightly bloodshot, his nostrils flaring, jaw muscles ticking.
His brow is up and as I take in all of the microscopic ways his body is feeling emotion he can’t bring himself to express, I realize he is pissed.
Really, really pissed.
“Never seeing Mama again,” he repeats, standing up and moving away from my touch. He starts to pace, like a big predator churning all the attack instincts into the perfect form. Silas’s shoulders swell, his arms curling under yet at his sides, his eyes out of focus as he paces his small, nondescript living room.
“Tricia did it again, damn it. Couldn’t hold back. Not even one bit for her kid. Nooooo, the drugs were too powerful. And who the fuck is ‘Uncle Rick’?” he hisses, the sound like broken glass being dragged over my heart. “Who is he? I’ll get Drew to help me find out, but if that fucker laid a finger on Kelly, he’s dead.”
The way Silas says it makes me shiver.
Because I know he’ll do it.
“Silas, we don’t know. And right now, you just need–”
“Don’t tell me what I need!” he rumbles, the sound somehow more biting because he’s saying it low, in a whispered hush that seems to scream. Whipping around, he recedes, body barreling full speed toward his kitchen, fist cocked, elbow coming back. The sound of bone on wood is surprisingly quiet and shattering at the same time as he punches the door jamb quietly, the crunching all the worse for his silent destruction.
“Fuck!” he growls, the sound low and quiet for Kelly’s sake, piercing and deep to be in the room and witnessing all his pain trying to come out as he contains it. Savage and real, Silas is unmoored. Unleashed. He grunts as he thrusts his arm back, plowing it over and over into the wood until I see he’s leaving smears of blood on the wall.
I don’t try to stop him.
I don’t think I could, even if I tried.
“Why? Why why why why why,” he says, his voice fading as he repeats the word, punching softly over and over. Silas presses his forehead against the wall and bangs it, slowly, the rhythm more important than the impact. I realize how much he’s been holding it together, how skilled and eloquent he had to be through our time together with Kelly. How he was broken inside, emotional splinters working their way out of him as he pretended for his niece’s sake.
How pain finds a way out, no matter how hard you try to pen it in.
Pain won’t be denied. You can defer it. Postpone it. Think you’ve got it all under control. Just when you reassure yourself you have mastered it, the pain emerges.
Pain dominates.
And when it does, the world submits.
Drops of blood soak his pants leg, just under where his pocket seam resides. His arms are loose at his sides and I come to him now, ready to offer whatever solace I can.
“Silas,” I say, the word barely touching my lips and tongue as I gingerly rest my fingertips on his shoulder. He tenses, then leans against the wall, breathing ha
rd.
A million words rush through my mind as we stand there, Silas’s ragged breath its own language. But I say nothing, instead letting him just feel. His bloodied hand rests at his side, making me cringe. The last time I saw so much blood was yesterday, the image of Tara pushed aside quickly, triggering the scent of burning wetness. Before that, it was seven months ago, the day Silas, Drew, and Mark rescued Lindsay and me from our tormenters.
The trauma of both days is palpable.
I don’t let go, my fingers connecting us as if we have no choice. Bound to each other by forces beyond us, we’re here, together. I’m not just his client. He is not just my security person. There is no “just” here.
I am honored. I am horrified. I am traumatized. I am grieving. The space we’re inhabiting right now as Silas steadies his breathing, as his blood smears along an inelegant line on his trousers, as the scent of true expression makes me breathe in deeper–it all feels so sacred.
And oh, so profane.
“Why?” he gasps, then makes a sick, laughing huff. His injured hand comes up and runs through his dark hair as he turns around, staring down at me with eyes that somehow are devoid of emotion and also contain every molecule of feeling in the world. Inky and dilated, his eyes are a window, a black hole, a promise, an abyss.
Jump, those eyes say.
I’ll catch you.
I stand on tiptoe, arms at my sides now, and take the leap.
My kiss is meant to be gentle and comforting, to convey that I feel so bad for him and his loss, to try to share in his pain and maybe–just maybe–carry some of the burden of it for a little while. At first he moves back, a tiny recoil of surprise, but before I can react and pull away he’s enveloping me, arms crushing me to him, the comforting kiss I started turning rapidly into a passionate exploration that conveys even more of what he’s feeling, tapping into what I could see on the surface of his body, revealing the true depths.
My God. It’s endless.
Pieces of me come forward and attach to the broken pieces of him, the rush to join a physical sensation as his arms turn to steel bands around me, his heat and touch and scent so all-encompassing. So welcome. So transcendent.
