Red: Fiery Finale (Spectrum Series Book 8)

by Allison White

  Red mumbles something, and I kiss her cheek. Her eyes close tightly. They better hurry up and finish off their damn questions. She’s going to close up real soon. I can tell by looking at her.

  “Do you have any enemies? Any person who would do this?”

  She shakes her head and tugs at a loose blonde curl. I frown. She’s hiding something. Her tongue plays with her lip ring, and an icy lake fills up my stomach. What is she not telling them, me?

  “You had to have,” he says.

  “Why?” I question.

  He looks at me, shrugging and looking around. “Nothing appears to be stolen. Isn’t that right, Miss…Sylvetti?”

  I look at her. She shrugs, eyes darkening.

  “The person who broke in didn’t put up much of an effort to do so—” he begins to explain.

  “It was effortless,” trigger-finger adds.

  I glare.

  Note-taking cop sighs. “Yes. And he fled the second he heard you, judging by the smashed vase.” He glances at it, and I make a note to clean it up when they leave. “Which most likely means he would have done much more damage if you hadn’t shown up.” This time, he’s looking at me, and it’s harder to swallow, then back at her, calculatingly. “Miss, are you sure you don’t have an enemy? This looks like he was trying to prove a point of some sorts.”

  We all gravitate our attention to Red.

  Red is staring at a spot on the coffee table, maybe coffee itself? Point is, she isn’t answering the question, and I can’t even stop and wonder: what the hell isn’t she telling me? There has to be a reason she’s not recalling everything that happened, in hopes of catching the man who did this to her.

  Maybe she’s so traumatized that she just wants to be alone…? Or her mind is repressing the moment he laid a hand on her.

  My stomach tightens, and so does the arm wrapped around her. I want to tell her I’m sorry until it seeps in how fucking sorry I am. I wasn’t here.

  “I think that’s enough for tonight,” I tell them in a firm tone, leaving no space to negotiate. They need to leave us alone. She needs to breathe. Her cheeks are flushed, blue eyes glossy, and mouth ajar; she wants to tell me something, hold me, have me hold her—she just needs me, and these guys aren’t doing anything but making things hard for her.

  “All right…but please, if you remember anything or have any other information, call us. Here’s my card.” He holds out a flimsy business card while putting away his notepad. I take it and side-glare at the lanky cop. If I were him, I’d drop that prick. I bet he causes a lot of paperwork.

  I wait until I hear the front door shut before turning to her. Her eyelashes flutter under their closed state, and a breath falls out of her plump lips. She falls into my arms, and I hear the sob before I feel it. The thunder outside is nothing compared to the storm sparkling under her skin, between her reddish lips. She cries and cries for hours on end, or minutes, or seconds, or eternity—they sort of just collide and form this beautifully chaotic girl.

  I have a million questions to ask her, have a lot to apologize for, but I let her unravel beneath me. Her muscles loosen under my soft, stroking touch, and it becomes easier for her to breathe. I feel myself unfurl before her in the form of a selfish fool, as I hold my broken girl that had this much tension and despair in her, that she only now got it all out.

  How had I become so blind to this? That I’m only finding out how much she’s been keeping inside of her like china plates and finding the damage rather than helping her manage the crazy amount?

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her softly.

  She shudders as she pulls away, fingertips finding my own. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says and pushes a thumb across her cheek for a spilled tear but misses altogether.

  I lean down and press my mouth against her cheek; my mouth becomes a sponge as I kiss her tears and blink against her hauntingly soft skin.

  “Yes, I do,” I say against her wet skin. “I wasn’t here when this happened. I focused on the stupid shit and completely blocked you out—”

  “You didn’t,” she croaks.

  I pull away and thumb her soft hands. “Yes, I did…well, enough that I let this happen.”

  “You did not let this happen,” she huffs.

  “I didn’t come after you,” I point out.

  She rolls her eyes, closes them, and smiles. “Yes, you did. You found me. He left because of you.”

  “And he assaulted you because of me.” I pause and choke on air. “W-what if I didn’t get here in time? What if he did more? What if—w-what if…?” I can’t even say it, because if I do, then the guilt and possible future will utterly tear me, bone by bone. I will be left as a scattered skeleton of “what if?”

  “He wouldn’t have done that,” she says.

  “You don’t know that!” I cry, flinging my hands to my wet cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever cried this much in front of or because of a girl. She has let down this masculine wall and let me face my emotions head on, and trust me when I say there are a lot storming my body like a castle.

  “Yes, I—I do,” she whispers so softly, I almost don’t hear her.

  “How could you have possibly…” I pause and let her words marinate. I pull my hands away from my face, and they shake a bit before they drop into my lap. I stare at her as the gears in my head work themselves to the point that it hurts to even look at her, to imagine that what she’s saying is real.

  “It wasn’t…was it?” My voice is a shattered, fragile doll.

  “The bowling alley…before,” she mutters, more tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “That was…” I swallow thickly, and she nods, looking me in the eyes with so much sorrow and pain, I have to shut my eyes to stay afloat.

  “Link. He’s here, Noah. H-he’s here,” she whispers before falling against me, and I hold her—hold us—above water. But by her sobbing in my arms and my own frozen state…barely.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I hold her for an insurmountable amount of time. I don’t question her or how tightly she holds me until I could barely breathe—I just let her hold me and hold her right back. She needs to understand that I’m not going anywhere, no matter how ugly it gets. As weird and insufferably romantic as it sounds, she looks utterly beautiful when she cries, pure in a way, expressing her raw emotions.

  And it feels overwhelmingly satisfying to have her show this rare but genuine side of her. I almost feel a part of her, with every shuddering breath and stammering hiccup and every soft breath released.

  When she finally calms down and she’s able to breathe calmly, soundly, I uncap the bottled water I got from the fridge and help her take small sips. Her hands shake slightly, and she tries to still them, to make it go unnoticed, but it’s all I can think about as I guide the bottle to her dry, busted lips.

  The urge to wrap her in a blanket and clear her beautiful face of these heinous features grows so strong, I have to divert my mind elsewhere before I lose my mind.

  I make a note to myself to stock up her fridge, change this couch—hell, redecorate this entire place, make it shiny and brand new. If I’m making notes to do the impossible, I want to pack everything she needs and sweep her off to my condo, have her live with me. I’ve wanted this since I got the place. I was in a very dark place and dreamed she’d leap back into my life and wake me from that nightmare. I had this grand idea that she’d move in with me and we could live happily ever after.

  Unfortunately, happy ever afters don’t exist; reality’s presence demands we keep our feet on the ground, not dangling from a cloud.

  Too bad I don’t give a crap about what I’m supposed to do; I’m supposed to despise her, but how can I? She’s too amazing and selfless and beautiful to even look away from for just a second. I have her in my life, and I’ll fight like hell to keep her here.

  “Stay with me tonight,” I offer, more like announce.

  Her brows scrunch together, and she wip
es her mouth. “What?”

  “Stay with me tonight,” I repeat, more hopeful.

  Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. “That isn’t necessary…” she says, and my eyelashes go crazy, batting, as I play her words in my head.

  “Of course it’s necessary; you were just attacked by a very bad guy, who may be out there. He’s probably waiting for me to leave to come back and finish the job.” I pause, not to think about what to say next, but to catch my breath and not venture out into the wasteland that is “what ifs?”

  “That wasn’t him,” she says.

  “Then who?”

  “One of his goonies,” she says around a bored sigh.

  How involved was she with his gang? Was she one of his goons?

  I try to picture her in all black, wielding around a bat, inciting terror on local business owners. But then I look into the eyes of this gorgeous, remorseful girl and figuratively punch myself. She wouldn’t go wheeling around town with muscly guys; she’s too independent and clever to do that.

  My mind wanders off, wondering what she did do for that corrupt mind, but I stop it before it can get too far. That was the past, and this is the present, and in the present said gang leader is harassing her for…wait, why is he doing this to her?

  “Red, why is he doing this to you?” I ask her.

  She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I gingerly gesture to her face. “This—breaking in and sending people to beat you up. Does he do this to everyone who drops out of the gang?”

  “More or less, but he mostly stops after a while, to teach them a lesson. Once you join, he expects you to never leave. Like, once you’re in, you’re condemned for the rest of your sorry life,” she explains.

  “And he’s targeting you so intensely because…” There’s something she’s leaving out.

  She squirms and shrugs. “Probably thinks he didn’t get a big enough cut, even though he just spent it on drugs and escorts and shit.” She bites her lower lip, and her gaze flits to the dark, creaky wooden floor.

  There’s more.

  “And?” I inquire.

  Her eyes dance over to mine, darker now, and her mouth parts slowly. I can see the words screaming to be released from their cell, but she threatens a life sentence and tells me, “And he’s a dick, nothing more. He always has been. For a while, I thought he and the gang was all I’d even have.” Her fragile voice cracks just the slightest.

  Does she ever wonder what would have happened if I didn’t come to college? Now that I am wondering, would she have been in that malicious gang, igniting some kind of terror? Would her eyes be lit now, despite the obvious, holding my hand with a sort of light air around her? Or would she be drowning in a sea of darkness?

  I don’t want to think about it, life without this girl, without her radiating smile and remarkable confidence and everything in between. Without it all, I know I would be nothing, no doubt about it.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks gently, threading my fingers through hers.

  “How much I love you,” I say earnestly.

  “You’re a cheesy motherfucker,” she replies. All I can do is smile and look into her eyes, finding her already looking at me. Her smile takes me off guard, and my ears and cheeks feel hot.

  “Move in with me?” I blurt.

  Her smile drops slightly. “I don’t know about that…”

  “Why not? I love you, Red…and there is no way I’m letting you stay here.”

  “As if you decide what I do with my life. You’re not some grand master just because we love each other.” She rips her fingers from mine and faces the other side of the couch, and I laugh. Annoyed, she throws over her shoulder, “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because you’re obviously scared…and you have me totally wrong,” I tell her, and her ears perk up, literally, and it’s one of the cutest things about her; her body responds to my touch without much effort, like there’s thin string connecting from me to her, and vice versa.

  She doesn’t let up or move—not that she knows her ears pop whenever I talk, it’s the cutest thing I swear—and so I sigh and scoot over to her. I wrap my arms around her, and she groans and stretches her neck in a failed attempt to get away from me.

  “Stop, please,” I whisper, and her shoulder rolls a little, leaning back. Seriously, does she even know she does this? Smiling, I peck her cheek before turning her body to me. “I love you—hey, look at me.” Pinching her chin, I tip her head back, and she begrudgingly stares into my eyes. “I love you more than anything in this world—you know that, don’t you?”

  She nods wordlessly, but her eyes are spinning words she’s too stubborn to say.

  “Which means I care about you a lot, including your safety…and you staying here after what just happened, what has happened in the past, and will continue until that fucker is tossed in jail, is not plausible in my mind. I only want what’s best for you.” I take her hands and focus on her knuckles. “I wouldn’t survive the impact of losing you. No matter what extent, the result is inevitable…destruction.”

  “I don’t want to drag you into this,” she blurts out, her blue eyes widening and her shoulders slumping, lip ring taut between her teeth.

  “Oh, Red.” I tsk and cup her cold face in my palms. I lean my forehead against hers, noses brushing, lips teasingly warm and hovering. We stare into each other’s eyes. Then I close mine and feel her eyelashes flutter as they shut against mine. “I’m already in too deep, and I wouldn’t have it any other way…”

  ***

  With much reluctance and natural stubbornness from my lovely Red, I move her into my condo. She didn’t have many things, considering, in her words, “everything else was hazardous trash and just drab as fuck,” since they came with the apartment. I just laughed and helped her quickly pack everything in a few bags before dealing with the landlord and driving her to my condo complex.

  I introduced her at the front desk so there were no problems with security. She was uncharacteristically shy, but I think it was because she maybe felt out of place. I didn’t understand that until we were riding up in the elevator.

  She’d pointed out the obvious discomfort of Brittany, the young girl at the front desk, or in her words, “Ms. Bitchy-Bitch Brunette at the front desk,” when I introduced her. I still didn’t comprehend until she thoroughly pointed out our appearances.

  I’d frowned, confused, and examined what we were wearing: she had her leather jacket with pins and zips, band t-shirt, and combat boots. I, on the other hand, was wearing jeans and a light blue polo shirt. She called me cute but stupid for not thinking how weirdly different we looked standing side by side.

  I kissed the hell out of her, hoping to vanquish that silly thinking. Two people’s love can’t be, nor should it be, based on appearance. That’s just the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life. I love her because of her, not her clothes.

  Now, I’m lying on my stomach on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how people can be as single-minded and shallow. Sure, on paper we wouldn’t even sound like friends, much less a couple, but I don’t give a single fuck.

  A sharp “NO!” startles me, but I don’t really jump into action until she’s writhing around and screaming it even louder.

  I quickly turn on the nightstand lamp and look at her, eyes wide in fright and uncertainty. Red is screaming “NO!” and crying for her mother and thrashing around. The sight is terrifying, but I dive in, wrapping my arms around her waist. She hits me and tries to squirm away, her back touching my chest.

  My heart is pounding, and I don’t know what to do. Do I hold her up sideways? What do I do to make her stop? What’d make her react like this? Does this happen every time she sleeps?

  She didn’t the other few times we slept in the same bed…did she? I wouldn’t know; I’m a shit sleeper. Once I close my eyes, I’m gone from the world.

  “Shhh, Red—calm down. Please, I have you. I’ve got you,” I coo gently and frantically, but
her limbs are spazzing out, and I gasp and wriggle her body around to face me. I want to reach for my phone to dial for an ambulance. What if she really does have a serious head injury and is having a seizure?

  But she hugs me to her body and straddles me, and her breathing is heavy. I breathe out a heavy sigh of relief and kiss her sweaty, damp hair. Her body convulses lightly, and her small fingers desperately latch onto the back of my neck. I have no idea what just happened or when she fell asleep against me with her face in my neck, her breathing cool and calm, but I do know that I don’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

  Chapter Thirty

  She’s the first thing I see when my eyes peel open the next morning. The sunlight pouring through the high-ceiling windows is such an effective alarm that I don’t even bother with an actual one. A grumpy groan spills out of my dry lips, and I like them as I stretch my long and lean body out from under her. Her legs are on either side of me, her hair spilling onto my chest, her mouth open and breathing warm breaths against me.

  I crane my neck to look at her. She looks so vulnerable, so soft, so unguarded when she’s sleeping, I can’t fight the smile playing on my lips. I wind my long fingers through her wild blonde hair, gripping gently. I play with her hair, swirl it around my finger, dance my hands along the delicate rose tattoo on her shoulder—falling under her spell and willing last night away, until it persists and it all unravels in my mind.

  I remember how terrified she was, how she screamed her throat bloody raw. I was afraid she would tear it completely. And the look of sheer horror in her red face as she thrashed around on the bed and latched onto me…it makes me shudder just thinking about it now.

  Looking at the deep purple bruise on her cheek and the cut on the left corner of her plump lower lip fills my body with a fiery rage. I want to kill the guy who did this to her. I want to make him suffer…these murderous thoughts aren’t me and terrify me, but he hurt my girl.