Made for Breaking (The Russells Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Can you move your fingers?” she asked, and they drummed against his knee in response. She saw the tremor race up his arm though. Carefully, as if approaching a startled animal, she reached up and took his hand in both of hers. It was big and heavy and all bones and tendons. When she palpated his knuckles, she heard his breath catch, and she knew why when she felt what reminded her of shattered glass beneath his skin. “You need to go have this X-rayed.” Lisa dropped his hand, but stayed on her knees.

  He shrugged, and his head tilted up enough so she could see his eyes. He was in pain, probably a lot of it, and his face was strained with the effort of not showing it. “Won’t say anything I don’t already know,” he said.

  An old injury, she realized. One made worse tonight. “It needs a cast, or splint at best,” she insisted, but not unkindly. She’d really wanted to be furious with him for starting a bar fight, but it hadn’t been a brawl, and he hadn’t taken any pleasure in it. He looked so miserable now, it was almost endearing.

  “Can’t do shit with a cast on.” He shook his head. “And it won’t fix anything.”

  “Don’t try to be macho about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  And he sounded sincere. Lisa was fast realizing that the only thing better than watching Tristan get his face ruined was not having to hear a bunch of gloating about it afterward.

  She bit back a smile. “Will you at least let me tape it up? And keep the ice on it?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Alright, well, there’s not shit here, so we’ll stop somewhere on our way out. I’ve gotta feeling your ride won’t be waiting anyway.”

  16

  Carl hadn’t been a smoker when Ray knew him last, but he was now, hands shaking as he cupped them around the cigarette that dangled from his lips and lit up. With no more than a handful of words, Ray had gained the man’s audience, and now the three of them stood in the rear of the hotel, standing in the dewy grass that separated the building from the parking lot. An occasional car slid around the corner, searching for a space, but they had plenty of privacy.

  “How’ve you been?” Mark started the conversation, as congenial as ever. Ray saw the tightness in his brother’s face, though.

  Carl shrugged. He was a tall guy, taller than both of them, but he’d lost a considerable amount of weight. Physically intimidating before, now he looked like a child could have pushed him over…which, Ray thought bitterly, might be a necessity with this asshole. “I’m working.” His voice didn’t even sound the same. “I’ve got an apartment.”

  “You been in touch with your family at all?”

  He had parents and a sister who lived south of Atlanta, but he shook his head. “No.”

  The major disadvantage of being a lawyer was being limited by the actual law. Here, in the shadows, Ray had no laws to which to adhere. He wasn’t going to waste time with court-approved interrogation tactics.

  “The flowers, Carl,” Ray prompted. “That shit stops tonight, you understand?”

  The man’s face went blank – he’d always been quite the actor – and he scratched at his graying stubble. “I don’t know what you mean. Flowers? What – ”

  So flooded with sudden rage, Ray might have tackled the guy if not for Mark’s hand on his shoulder. He settled for glaring a hole through his lying, wife-killing face. “’All the pretty colors for a pretty girl,’” he recited and Carl’s already-pale cheeks went white. Ray pulled his iPhone from his back pocket and scrolled through his photos until he found the shot of Lisa’s flowers sitting on the desk at the office. “No one would say that but you,” he said through his teeth, showing the picture to Carl. “It stops. Now. If you’ve got a beef with me, you come after me, but you leave my family out of this.”

  The janitor raised his hands in a helpless display. A fine sheen of perspiration glittered across his forehead. “Ray, I swear – ”

  “I don’t want your swears. Nothing but shit comes outta your mouth.” Ray was aware, in the professional part of his brain that was dedicated to all things impartial and suave, that his legal prowess abandoned him when it came to his wife and daughter. Which was dangerous, but he couldn’t seem to control himself at this point. Raymond Russell esquire had abandoned him, and in his place, big brother Ray from Cartersville was doing all the talking.

  “This isn’t a discussion,” he continued, satisfied that Carl retreated a step. “This is me telling you that if you don’t back off now, if you keep harassing my girls, I’ll put a bullet in you and there’s not a damn soul who could find your body.”

  Carl swallowed, Adam’s apple jackknifing in his throat.

  “We clear?”

  He nodded.

  Mark pulled Ray away and across the parking lot before he could say anything else damning. Ray caught one last glimpse of Carl Shilling’s stricken face, then he shook off his brother’s hand and followed willingly.

  “That was subtle,” Mark said with a snort as they moved single file between two cars.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be,” Ray said. “Monsters don’t understand subtle.”

  Lisa had traded her heels for cowboy boots in the bar parking lot, and Drew heard her approaching now. She had the hood of her zippered sweatshirt pulled up. A big bag of Twizzlers was sticking out of one pocket and she had a limp one dangling from her mouth like a thin, red lizard tongue while she juggled the rest of her purchases in her arms. He was sitting on the lowered tailgate, waiting, because she’d insisted she didn’t need his help. The way she dumped all her boxes into the bed of the truck told him otherwise, though, and he felt guilty.

  “Twizzler?” she asked, taking a bite of hers and pulling the rest out of her mouth. She turned around and hopped backward onto the tailgate, booted feet swinging.

  Drew had expected her to rage at him after his bar stunt, but she’d been surprisingly cordial. Friendly, even. “No, thanks.”

  She reached into her other hoodie pocket and pulled out a king size Snickers that she waved in offering.

  “Not part of my…program.”

  She bit off another section of Twizzler and rolled her eyes. “God. You’re on one of those training diets where you can only eat chick food, aren’t you?”

  It sounded ridiculous when phrased that way. He thought of the breakfast he’d had at IHOP that morning of his “interrogation” – definitely not on the diet. “Kinda. But guess I’m done with that now.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care.” The last of the candy was folded into her mouth and, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk while she chewed, she reached for a box of medical tape. “I was gonna buy a brace,” she said, mouth still mostly full, “but that was kinda expensive, so…yeah. Jumbo craft sticks for a dollar. Grab two.”

  He complied with his good hand, amused that here they sat in the Wal-Mart parking lot, passersby giving them strange looks like they were teenagers loitering so they didn’t have to go home.

  A silence that wasn’t uncomfortable descended as she opened the tape with a wicked looking pocket knife and then framed his knuckles with the craft sticks. Her fingertips were so small, smooth and cool against his burning skin. A shiver went up his spine at the contact. Even this kind of touch felt like an accomplishment, like two steps away from those slender little fingers framing his face as her lips sought his. Stupid, he scolded himself.

  She’d gone twice around his hand, the tape coming off its spool with loud sounds, when Drew decided that she was in a good enough mood for him to press her for information. “So what’s your dad gonna say?”

  A thoughtful frown flitted across her face. “It’s good to be worried about him, you know. He really does like to have his ass kissed.” She snorted. “But he’ll probably shake your hand when he hears you hit Tristan.”

  What a stupid damn name. “Tristan?” he asked. “And we hate him because…?”

  Her shoulders sagged as she sighed. Her hands kept working, but the change in her posture was notable. “Tristan Albright.”
She said the name like it left a bad taste in her mouth. “The douchebag I almost married.”

  He hadn’t expected that. He blinked.

  She glanced at his face and then looked away, sighing again. “Yeah, I know.” She sounded embarrassed.

  “So…you were engaged to him?”

  The light was poor, but her grimace was clear. “Right up until I walked away from him in front of the minister.”

  It was more than a little difficult to imagine her up in front of a crowd in a white dress. Not because it was a bad mental picture, but because the guy he’d punched at the bar had been one of those pretty boy types, and he hadn’t figured her for liking those. It was sobering, really. All girls preferred pretty boys at the end of the day, he guessed.

  “Anyway,” Lisa continued. “I moved on, but he likes to keep torturing me.” She finished the wrap job on his hand, ripped the tape in two and secured it, then scowled at what he’d known from the start would be an ineffective solution. “Well, that didn’t work.” She started peeling the tape off.

  “It’ll be fine,” Drew said. “I’ll put some more ice on it and – ”

  Her eyes flashed up to his, bright green and almost neon in the glow of the street lamp a few parking spaces away. “No, I’m gonna do it,” she said stubbornly, sounding more frustrated with her own fumbling than his protests. “It’s the least I can do.”

  He watched, patient, as she tore into boxes of heavy duty foam and tape that were better suited for the job – like the stuff basketball players taped their ankles with – and tried to think of something to ask her that wouldn’t piss her off.

  She beat him to it. “So when did you break it the first time?”

  Drew shrugged and extended his hand at her beckoning fingers. “Couple years ago.” The first time around with the foam was so tight his skin felt pulled, which was a good thing, though painful. “Cage match. Guy got me penned up against the post.” Sometimes he still dreamed the pain again. After a hard fight, as he drifted between the layers of consciousness, the fire in his hand would roar until he thought he was back in that cage, his bones shattering to bits under his opponent’s boot.

  Lisa whistled softly as she wrapped. “Cage match? That’s…”

  “Stupid,” he finished for her, and she chuckled. “Yeah. But I needed the money. And, well.” He shrugged. “It’s the only thing I do right.”

  She secured the end of the tape down and then smoothed her fingers over her handiwork, which, actually, felt like it might do some good. Regardless, it was better than having a useless, plaster-covered arm for six weeks. “I dunno if it’s the only thing,” she said, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “You were pretty good at making Tristan look like shit tonight.”

  Something in his chest contracted at the praise. Her face, tipped up to his in the shadowy parking lot, was absolutely beautiful. “So I’m not getting fired?” He was only half serious.

  “Definitely not.”

  Done, she sat back, hands falling in her lap, hair sliding over her shoulder and shielding part of her face from view, so only her nose was visible. For the first time, Drew sensed an awkwardness from her. When she was busy, she was totally in control, but now, he swore he felt her putting bricks of ice up between them.

  “So, guess we better get going,” she said, hopping off the tailgate abruptly. “I’ll drop you by the house on my way home.”

  And just like that, the camaraderie was over.

  The house was dark save for one upstairs window when Ray and Mark returned. The small lamp in the kitchen hadn’t been visible from the front of the house, but Sly was flipping through a magazine at the big ranch table by its light. He lifted his head as they entered and gave a nod of greeting, then went back to his magazine.

  “What’d you find?” he asked.

  Mark went to the fridge for a beer. Ray pulled out the chair across from Sly and collapsed into it, hands finding his face and sliding down it in a habit Cheryl always chastised him about. “Shilling was there. And he’s good and spooked.”

  “Spooked?” Sly closed the magazine. “How?”

  Mark joined them. “Like Ray was the damn ghost of Christmas past. I swear he was gonna piss himself.”

  “Or,” Ray said, “like he knew he’d been caught.”

  Sly’s glance spoke his agreement, but Mark gave a facial shrug. “Think what you want, but that wasn’t the face of a stalker we saw tonight.”

  Ray scowled down at his hands as he flattened them on the table top. Mark had a point…if he only looked at the surface of their encounter. The hard truth of the matter was that a guy like Carl, who’d fooled a poor, unsuspecting woman into marrying him, into having a child with him, could easily play the innocent when asked about two bouquets of flowers. Monsters had to learn to hide their obsessions and proclivities – it was a survival technique that enabled them to blend into their world, to thrive in it even. Carl Shilling had been a successful businessman, well-loved by family and community. No one had seen the tragedy coming. Which meant no amount of “spooked” under the streetlamp that night could ease Ray’s fears.

  And they were fears. Suspicions were for everyone else, but when it came down to his family, it was terror that ran like chunks of ice through his veins.

  “How’d things go here?” he asked, wanting to change the topic even if he already knew the answer.

  Sly shrugged. “Fine. The missus and I designed a living room. It’s monochromatic,” he deadpanned, gesturing toward Cheryl’s sketch pad at the edge of the table. His message was code for: nothing suspicious happened, so stop worrying. And what had Ray expected? A drive-by? Kidnapping? A brick through the window?

  In truth, he had no idea what to expect. Shilling didn’t have a previous record, so God knew if this was part of some sick pattern he’d kept all his life. Or if, just maybe, Mark had been right and this was the work of some copycat who knew about the flowers and the note found with little Anna Shilling’s body.

  “Thanks,” he told Sly, and the mechanic pushed back his chair with a nod.

  He was out the back door and his bike was grumbling to life in the drive before Mark spoke again. “Do you want my real opinion?”

  Ray glanced at his brother with a snort. “Didn’t you already give it to me?”

  “I don’t think Shilling sent the girls the flowers.”

  “You have a better explanation then?”

  “Hell if I know. But what we saw tonight…that just doesn’t sit right with me.”

  And since when are you the perceptive one? he wanted to ask, but kept the thought to himself.

  Headlights cut a bright path across the tile as they came flooding in through the windows of the screened-in porch. Hektor had been stretched out asleep in the corner, and rose with a yawn, going to meet Lisa as she entered.

  “Hey.” She didn’t seem surprised to see both of them awake and at the table.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Mark greeted.

  Ray was preoccupied with the realization that she was very alone and unescorted. “Where’s your detail?”

  “Well, let’s see.” She pulled out a chair and sat, scratching Hektor behind the ears when he laid his head across her knees. “Eddie may or not may not have gone home with some chick. And I dropped your newbie off after I finished taping up his smashed hand.”

  There were too many things wrong with that statement. “What?”

  A smile touched her lips. “Tristan stopped by for his usual game of Giving-me-Shit and your new boy, well…let’s just say he’s a bit overeager when he’s been told to ‘watch’ a person. He broke his hand on Tristan’s brick head. Well, re-broke, I guess…”

  Ray pinched the bridge of his nose, too tired to deal with the explanation properly. “I’m gonna assume you’re okay though?”

  Her grin widened. “Peachy.”

  It was after three, which meant Lisa’s alarm would sound in less than two and a half hours, but she sat up against her headboard, flipping thr
ough her mother’s sketchbook. The monochromatic living room done in shades of blue was very chic, but she would have liked to see some pops of an accent color – red maybe. She pulled a pencil off her nightstand and made a note to that effect at the bottom of the page, telling herself interior design was what was keeping her awake as effectively as three cups of coffee.

  From his dog bed, Hektor grumbled in his sleep, reminding her of the sound Tristan had made as he’d collapsed against the bar.

  The rustle of the breeze as it slipped into her cracked window and tousled her curtains sounded like laughter.

  When the sketches proved not to be enough of a distraction, she set the book aside, turned off her lamp, and slipped down between the sheets as the room was bathed in darkness. Moonlight flirted with the gaps between her gauzy drapes, turning her world into a patchwork of blue and gray her mother’s room design would have been envious of. Lisa curled one hand beneath her pillow, dropped the other at her side, and closed her eyes…

  But sleep wouldn’t come right away. And it was not because she was thinking about anything…or anyone….she shouldn’t have been.

  Nope. Not at all.

  Never again, she reminder herself, but the mantra was only a whisper.

  Behind her eyelids, she saw Drew Forester’s hand making contact with Tristan’s face. She saw the intense, professional gleam in his eyes, that exact, perfect knowledge of his own strength. She saw the leaping tendons in his arms. Saw the bruises on his knuckles…felt them, the way his skin twitched. She saw his face over hers…felt his arms go around her…felt…

  Her eyes slammed open and she exhaled in a shaky rush. She was hot and restless all over now, nipples hard points under her sleep shirt.

  “No,” she said aloud. Never again. But she couldn’t shield her dreams, and they were invaded by Drew, once her stir-crazy body finally gave over to sleep.

  Drew could feel his pulse thumping in his hand, and he imagined black, damaged blood gushing inside his knuckles, threatening to split his tender, bruised flesh. So heavy and useless, it felt like he was dragging a Christmas ham around on his wrist, and though the pain was tolerable while awake, it was keeping him awake now. Lisa’s wrap had stayed in place, but it wasn’t helping. He needed a brace. Or a cast. Or, like the doctor had said the last time this had happened, an operation.