Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  Not until John Darling.

  The second he took my hands in his, everything faded to the background. All I see is him in front of me, all I hear are his steady breaths, all I feel is his strong yet gentle touch. It’s both the most calming and unnerving thing I’ve ever experienced.

  It’s where I belong.

  I’ve never wanted and dreaded something so much in all my life. It doesn’t matter what I want, though. Keeping John isn’t an option. He’ll get hurt. It’s only a matter of time. Our arrangement—or whatever this new reality we’re indulging in is called—is only until we take Croc down and get Starkey back. Then the people I care about will finally be safe, and after I do my time, I’ll disappear to a place where no one knows me. Where I’m not defined by my past, my sins, or my tarnished soul.

  “There,” John says, dropping his hands. “The blood’s at least cleaned up. I don’t suppose you’ll let me apply ointment and wrap them up.”

  I arch a single brow that says, What do you think? earning me a half grin of that sensuous mouth that fills my head with more salacious thoughts than I can keep track of.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with doing this…”

  Before I can even think to pull away, he proceeds to kiss all eight of my busted fucking knuckles, his soft lips pressing gently to each wound as though sealing them with his own magic brand of protection. The affection that’s so innate in this man seeps into the cracks of my battered heart, slipping into my bloodstream like a dose of morphine, lulling me into a state of serenity—

  Goddamn it!

  I don’t have a right to feel at peace. All-consuming anger, hatred for my enemy, plans for vengeance—those are the only things I should have room for in my life. They’ve sustained me for over two decades, nourishing me more than the food I ingest and fueling my every move.

  Grabbing a handful of his sweat-dampened hair, I yank his head back and glare down at him. “Why do you do these things? Why do you insist on making more of this than what it really is?”

  Honey-gold eyes, so guileless and trusting, stare back at me. “Because I care about you. I always have.”

  “You shouldn’t,” I grate. “People who care about me get hurt. Or dead.”

  “Is that why you push people away? Because you care about them?”

  I scoff. “Don’t project your sense of nobility on me, Darling. Know why I called my crew the Pirates? Because they have the ultimate freedom. Pirates aren’t tied down by anything. Not by people, not by land, not even by their own ships. Their code is loose and given to mutiny, cutting down any man who tries to control them beyond what they allow. A pirate might live and work with his shipmates, but ultimately, he doesn’t need anyone but himself. So to answer your question, I push people away because I don’t care.”

  His eyes bounce back and forth between mine for a few seconds while he thinks. But if I thought my impassioned speech would have any sort of impact on young John, I was wrong. “Sorry,” he says with a shrug, “not buying it.”

  I narrow my eyes into glaring slits. “I don’t give a shit because I’m not selling you anything.”

  “As much as you pretend otherwise, I know you cared about Peter, Tink, and the rest of the Lost Boys. Wendy told me how you used to protect the younger kids by stepping in front of them or drawing Croc’s wrath so he’d turn it on you instead.”

  He has no fucking idea the things I did to draw Croc’s attention from the others. If he did, he’d see me for what I really am. Damaged goods. A broken, pathetic shell incapable of human connection and unworthy of his naive adoration. But the thought of losing it—however undeserved—makes my insides shake. Smee and Starkey have always had a case of hero worship when it came to me, but we were raised together as brothers against a common enemy. John’s loyalty wasn’t forged from a sense of family. It was something else entirely—not that I pretend to understand what that something is—and it makes it feel more significant. More necessary.

  But old habits die hard, and the one that’s always reinforced my rep as a loner instantly coughs out a protest despite the fact that it’s bleeding out under John’s supportive assault. “Just because I don’t think little kids deserve to be beaten by a lowlife sack of shit doesn’t mean I care. It just means I wasn’t a complete asshole.”

  He crosses his arms over his bare chest, not willing to let this go. His tone is firm, but his gaze is soft with compassion. “Even if I believed that—which I don’t—what about Starkey?”

  I grind my molars together, wary of the path this conversation is on. “What about Starkey?”

  “Do you care about him?”

  Hundreds of thorny memories of feigning indifference for the little boy with stark white hair pierce my lungs, making it impossible to draw in enough air, and I explode. “Of course I care for him, he’s my fucking brother.”

  My chest expands and contracts with rapid breaths as it fights against the steel band of helplessness threatening to crush my rib cage. Unable to sit here any longer, I shove off the couch and stride over to where the blaze-orange rays of the setting sun penetrate the loft with false promises of a better tomorrow. I rest my forehead on the warm glass of the large window, using it as a preventative measure. I wouldn’t think twice about punching through drywall, but even I’m not dumb enough to put my already busted fists through double-paned glass.

  I hear John crossing the room, and I mutter a curse. The guy’s a goddamn Labrador retriever, doggedly following my every move. It’s annoying as all hell. That’s what the zing tripping down my spine is as I feel him getting closer—not awareness, not contentedness, not rightness—annoyance.

  He stops with barely more than an inch separating us. His breath fans across my neck, the heat from his body radiating through the thin cotton of my shirt. The fact that I’m letting him have my back doesn’t escape my notice. I don’t let people get behind me. Ever. It’s a position of vulnerability, of weakness; a position I’ve refused to put myself in with anyone for more than a decade.

  But I’m not prepared to turn around, either. To face the only man with the power to see through my walls to the black void where my soul should be. My darkness is my cross to bear, no one else’s. Especially not someone like John who’s only ever lived in the light.

  His hands squeeze my shoulders, then travel down my arms hanging at my sides. But instead of closing his hands over the tops like I expect, he slips them underneath mine, the backs of his hands resting against my palms. He doesn’t force anything further, doesn’t take more than I’m willing to give. He simply offers himself to me…and waits.

  I want to tell him he’ll be waiting a long time because I don’t need his comfort or his support or the feel of his strength in my shaky grip. But I don’t tell him that. I don’t tell him anything because I’m too weak to fight this truce between us right now. I’m too weak to fight him.

  Expelling a slow breath through my nose, I allow myself to thread my fingers through his, curling them tightly, like he’s the only thing keeping me from dropping into a chasm of despair. John leans forward and erases that last yawning inch between us. The second his chest presses into my shoulder blades, the tension leeches from my muscles until I’m practically sagging against him. And suddenly I’m so damn grateful he’s here. Not just for this moment, but for a whole myriad of reasons I can’t bring myself to unpack just yet. Or maybe ever.

  He nuzzles his nose against my neck and presses chaste kisses in a line up to my ear, disarming me a little more with each new touch. “Talk to me,” he urges quietly. “What happened when you saw him today?”

  “He was…fuck.” I pause to choke back the guilt threatening to cut off my airway. “He was in real bad shape. Jesus, his face looked like they’d been using it as a speed bag. But you know what he did when he saw me?”

  “What?”

  “He fucking smiled. Just like he did when he was a baby and I walked into the room. He’d grin and look up at me like I hung the goddam
n moon.” I chuffed out a short laugh, devoid of any humor. “I used to deserve that look. It was us against the world. Now he hates me. I don’t blame him, though; he should. I turned my back on him before he was even two years old.”

  “I don’t understand,” John says. I can feel his furrowed brow where it’s resting against the side of my head. “How did you turn your back on him as a baby if you were placed at the school together?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I rasp. Images assault me of the haunted look in Starkey’s eyes when he realized I’m the reason for his daily beatings and rapes. “I fucked up. Can’t fix it.”

  John pulls his hands out and turns me around to face him. I manage to keep my head lifted with the last shred of my pride still intact. But its hold is tenuous at best, and it feels like at any moment it’ll snap, leaving me to crumple to the ground in a boneless heap.

  Framing my face with his palms, he gazes deep into my eyes for what feels like an eternity, silently demanding my secrets. As though he asked for them out loud, I admit hoarsely, “If I tell you, you won’t like what you hear. You won’t stay.”

  Without breaking eye contact, John presses his full lips to mine. It isn’t sexual. It’s a statement. One he follows up with a deep, “Try me.”

  It’s in that moment that I decide I will. I’ll lay my sins down at this perfect man’s feet and bare my secrets for him to judge, one by one. Will he be disgusted? Horrified? Or worse, will he pity me? All of those reactions and more are possible. But I can’t stand the thought of holding up these walls anymore. There’s been no one in my life I could let my guard down with. I can’t imagine the relief of having even a single person I could be myself around.

  I have my doubts that I’ll ever know what that’s like. But if there’s even the slightest chance that person could be John—even for a short time while we work this case—then I’m ready to take that risk. And if it does what I fear it will and destroys things between us…then it’s only speeding up the inevitable, and I can stop fantasizing about a world where John and I are anything other than a spider and a fly with a temporary truce.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  John

  I hold my breath, hoping James will open up to me. Hoping beyond reason that he’ll trust me and let me in. His Adam’s apple travels the length of his throat several times as he works to hold back the anguish I can see gathering in his blue eyes before he blinks it away. And just when I’m afraid he’s about to reinforce his walls and brush me off…he doesn’t.

  “Our mom died after shooting up too much heroin with one of her regular fuck buddies she got high with—one of Neverland’s finest, a boy in blue,” he starts bitterly. “Her death was a problem for him. His solution was to threaten me into silence and to leave us in the apartment with a rotting body.”

  It takes me a few seconds for what he’s saying to sink in. “The guy abandoned two little kids with their dead mother. A fucking cop did that?”

  His gaze hardened. “You calling me a liar, Darling?”

  “No! Jesus, it’s just… Shit, that’s the exact opposite of what we do. We’re supposed to protect people against scumbags like that, not be the scumbags.”

  “In my experience, cops are nothing more than bad guys posing as good guys. We’re all the same, we all have our own agendas. But at least bad guys are up front about who we are and what we want. Cops use their uniforms and badges to disguise the criminals lying underneath.”

  I huff out a harsh breath as I plow my hands through my hair, then drop them at my sides, defeated. “No wonder you have issues with law enforcement. And now with the whole of NPD in Croc’s pocket, it’s not doing anything to help your distrust. I get it, I do. But, Hook, we’re not all corrupt assholes. Some of us genuinely want to make a difference.”

  “While I reserve the right to assume that anyone carrying a badge is in fact a corrupt asshole,” he says with solemn conviction, “I’ll admit I no longer believe you’re one of them.”

  I keep my features schooled, but on the inside, I’m celebrating like the Panthers just won the Super Bowl. I’m not sure there’s higher praise to be had from the Captain Hook, self-proclaimed outlaw and hater of LEOs the world over. Clearing my throat, I move to stand next to him with my back against the sun-warmed glass, so I won’t be tempted to pepper his gorgeous face with kisses of gratitude.

  Baby steps, John. Don’t scare him off.

  Keeping my focus in front of us, I guide his story back to where he left off. “How old were you when your mom died?”

  “Nine. Starkey was twenty months. I thought I could take care of us the same as always—it’s not like our mom had been much help in the day to day, anyway—but I was only a kid. I didn’t take into account how I’d get food or diapers or anything else once it ran out. I tried stealing from the corner store, but I wasn’t very stealthy.”

  “And that’s how you both ended up at the School for Lost Boys.” He makes an affirmative sound but doesn’t elaborate. “Then I don’t understand how you think you abandoned Starkey. As far as I remember, he was stuck to you more than your own shadow. Well, you or Smee. They were attached at the hip, too. I’m actually surprised he kept the fact that you’re brothers from Smee all these years.”

  “Starkey didn’t know,” he says, his voice gravelly. “That’s how I abandoned him. When we got to the school, I didn’t want anyone to know he was my brother. I didn’t want to have to take care of him anymore. I wanted him to be someone else’s problem for once. And he was too young to remember, so after a while, he didn’t know any better.

  “I don’t think I ever intended to keep it from him indefinitely. I just wanted a fucking break, just for a little while.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Little brothers can be super annoying.” Michael is only three years younger than me, but I remember sometimes it felt like a lot more. There were plenty of days I wished he’d go away and leave me alone. And I’d never been in the position of being his sole competent caretaker before the age of ten. So I sure as hell can’t begrudge a nine-year-old James for wanting to distance himself from his baby brother for a while. “What made you decide to keep the secret?”

  “Croc.” He speaks the name with all the vitriol it deserves, his drop in tone causing goose bumps to pop up on the back of my neck. “It didn’t take me long to realize he was a manipulator. Any connection to the others would give him leverage. He’d use them to control me. And if he knew Starkey was my brother, it’d be the worst for him.”

  “Wow,” I say, unable to articulate the whirlwind of realizations in my mind.

  I’ve always suspected Hook wasn’t as heartless as he wanted everyone to believe. That deep down he cared about the kids he grew up with, however reluctantly. Now he’s confirmed it. People with drug addictions are great at manipulation; it’s how they hustle their loved ones or even strangers to help them get their next fix. They take what you care about—whether it’s other people or as simple as a favorite treat—and use it against you.

  Hook’s rough start in this world meant he knew how to recognize that trait and how to battle against it. And he used that knowledge to do what he could to protect the others by showing indifference and holding everyone at arm’s length. What a heavy burden to carry for such a young soul.

  Thinking back on what he said, my mind snags on a certain detail. “You said that Starkey didn’t know he was your brother. When did you finally tell him?”

  “I didn’t.” As if the strength he’s been using to keep himself upright is sapped out of him, James slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, his forearms resting on bent knees. I follow him down. “One of the prison guards handed Starkey a note while I was talking to him. He freaked out.”

  “Fucking Croc,” I growl. “He set you up.”

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t have had a card to play if I’d done the right thing and come clean to the kid years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “When he was
young, I was afraid he’d let it slip. He was always shit for keeping secrets,” James muses with a slight smirk. One that only lasts for a second before the amusement drops from his face. “But once he was older and out of the school, I should’ve told him the truth. Or at the very least, I should’ve made him and Smee go with Peter and the others. But I didn’t. Because even though he had no idea we were brothers, having Starkey underfoot as a Pirate was better than losing him completely. Guess it was inevitable, though. He doesn’t want anything to do with me now.”

  James lets his head drop back and thump on the wall, his eyes staring at where the orange rays are creeping onto the ceiling as the sun gets closer to the horizon. From my spot next to him, I can see the water shimmering in his eyes and his throat work to keep everything from spilling out. He’s hurting, and I don’t know how much he’ll allow me to comfort him. If I move too fast or offer too much, I run the risk of him shutting down and shutting me out. Which is why I do what I can with my words and refrain from wrapping him in my arms like I’m dying to do.

  “He’s in shock. After he’s had some time to wrap his head around it, he’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t get it,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “All I’ve ever wanted, from the time he was born, was to fucking protect him. At the school, I…I did th-things—” James chokes back what sounds like the beginning of a sob and turns it into a frustrated growl as he bangs his head on the wall once, twice, before trying again. “I did what I had to do to ensure he was safe, to ensure he’d never have to fucking go through any of that, ever. I was older and stronger. I could handle it. But Starkey and the others, they were too soft, too innocent. And they needed Peter, so it…” He swallows thickly, and a fat tear escapes the corner of his eye to stream down his temple. “It had to be me.”