He’s giving me an out. Despite his white lie to me earlier, John’s a man of his word. If I say no, we’ll ride to the loft, fuck out our frustrations, and go back to the way we were before all this went down. But every night we spend wrapped in each other’s arms will only make it hurt that much worse when all this is over, and we’re working on borrowed time.
“Fine,” I say, my tone heavy with resignation. “You want to know so bad, I’ll tell you. But then that’s the end of everything and we never talk about it again. Agreed?”
Tension leaks from his body, and those gorgeous eyes soften as he nods. “Agreed.”
He thinks I’m giving him what he wants.
I’m not.
By the time he realizes what he just agreed to, it’ll be too late.
It already is.
This is the end of everything.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hook
John doesn’t move a muscle. I don’t even think he’s breathing with how still his chest is. Like he’s afraid he’ll spook me into silence if he so much as blinks. He won’t. I wouldn’t stop now even if he asked me to. This is a runaway train with no working brakes.
For the past sixteen years, what got me through each day was suppression on top of suppression. Push it all back and shove it down deep. I did everything I could to not think about the events that torment me, and I sure as fuck never spoke of it. Not a single word about it to anyone. Not once.
As I get ready to do just that, every instinct I have is telling me to shut the hell up. Because once Pandora’s box is opened, there’s no closing it again. But now that I’m so close to confessing, something else is overriding that instinct like a siren’s call. For the first time in my life, I can let someone else shoulder this burden with me.
I know I shouldn’t. It’s a selfish fucking move to put this on him—despite what he thinks he wants—and a better man would keep this shit to himself. But I’m not a better man. Hell, I’m not even a good man. I’m a Pirate, an emotionally stunted criminal who has no business screwing a cop with a heart of gold and eyes the color of honey. And it’s time Darling sees things as I do.
“Croc was an abusive asshole. The only one he didn’t smack around was Tinker Bell because she was Delia’s problem. Life at the school wasn’t a walk in the park, but it was survivable. Bruises healed and bones mended. All we had to do was deal with it as best we could until we hit eighteen; then we’d be free.
“But when I turned fourteen, something changed. I noticed Croc’s gaze lingering on me as I worked in the shop. At dinner, he paid more attention to what I was doing than anyone else. I figured he was watching for me to do the wrong thing. The sadistic bastard enjoyed meting out punishments with the sting of his backhand or the blow of his closed fist, and as the oldest, I could handle more severe beatings than the younger kids.”
John mutters a curse and shifts his weight like he’s itching for a fight. This isn’t news to him, though. Back when he and Wendy hung out with us a couple nights a week, it was obvious when Croc lost his temper with one or several of us. The details were never discussed, but John and Wendy did their best to patch the kids up when they could. Everyone except Tink, who was never touched, and me.
I never let anyone near me when I was busted up, with the exception of one time. The time a scrawny boy with golden eyes who talked too much wrapped a Band-Aid on my thumb and asked me to call him Johnathan.
Christ, that feels like five lifetimes ago. And look at us now. We went from being worlds apart to being so entangled I don’t know if I remember how to be without him.
Sensing my distraction, he asks, “How long did the staring and watching go on for?”
“Long enough that I didn’t even notice it anymore. Then one night after dinner, he told me to come with him to his office. Said he wanted to start teaching me how to run the shop so I could take over someday.”
A tremor rips through me as the memory grows ghostly callused fingers that grip the back of my neck and rub along my hairline. I start to feel tight and itchy like I did back then, making me want to crawl out of my skin or shed it like a snake. Anything to get rid of the sensation of his touch.
I fist my hands at my sides to control the trembling, but I can’t stop my stomach from cramping. Bile creeps up my throat as though my body wants to burn away my ability to spill the ugly truth. I hate how weak this makes me. No matter how old I get, whenever I’m forced to remember things, I turn into that scared fucking kid all over again. Not today, I’m not. Not in front of John.
“Hey,” he says gently, “you okay?”
“Fine,” I bite out, harsher than I meant to.
Jesus, what am I doing? Am I really going to say all this out loud? To him?
That siren’s call that was tempting me earlier is suddenly gone, and I notice too late that my proverbial ship’s course is set for destruction against the jagged cliffs. Nothing has ever given me a sense of pride and purpose like being John’s lover has, and I’m about to throw that away sooner than I have to.
I should’ve kicked my demons back into the shadows where they belong, like I always have, and we could’ve enjoyed our time together while the undercover assignment lasts. I’ll still be leaving Neverland for parts unknown after I do my time, as planned, but at least he’d have good memories to look back on.
“James…”
I wince from the triggering word, but I notice it stings less with John’s voice. Especially when I can see it coming from the full lips I’ve spent countless hours memorizing with my own, and not the reptilian snarl of a grunting sadist. I wish I didn’t despise my own name. It was the one thing my mother gave me that I thought couldn’t be taken. Croc proved me wrong. It wasn’t enough to steal the autonomy I had over my own body; he had to rip away part of my identity, too.
“You wanna know why I hate my first name so much? I’ll tell you. And listen close, Darling, because here’s the last piece of the puzzle that puts the whole picture together,” I say hoarsely. All the hatred, anger, and resentment lying dormant inside of me rises up and swells until it’s seeping from my pores right along with the sweat. “It’s because the only time Croc used it was when he was raping me or when he wanted me to think about him raping me.
“It was his own private joke, his sick little pet name for the boy he fucked in his office on a regular fucking basis. And every time he said my name and saw the disgust in my eyes, or the tears on my cheeks, he laughed, because he got off on my goddamn pain. I lived that hell for almost four years, and each of those years felt twice as long as the one before it.”
Swallowing hard and breathing through my nose, I manage to beat back the urge to vomit. A minor victory, considering the rest of me is turning into a shit show. Even with the cooler nighttime temp and gusts of wind, beads of sweat pop out on my forehead and trickle down my spine as my heart begins to race again. Scrubbing a hand over my beard, I take several cleansing breaths as I try to calm the hell down. But releasing my demons from their cages so they can taunt me out in the open is doing fuck all to help the situation. Turning away from John, I face the ocean and try to focus on the low whitecaps rolling into the shore.
It almost works, until I lick my dry lips and have to choke back a Pavlovian groan. The salty sea spray tastes like John’s skin during sex or after a workout, and I can’t help my body’s newly innate need to seek out his comfort. But no matter how much I want to tackle him to the sand and lose myself in him, I can’t. Even if this wasn’t the wrong time for sex, that’s not something I get to do with him anymore. So instead, I keep my eyes forward and press on.
“As hellish as those years were, though, I made sure to keep Croc’s attention on me. I couldn’t let him turn his sick shit on any of the other kids. I was older and stronger; it was my responsibility to protect them, so that’s what I did. Even before I left the school, I had a plan in place that protected them after I moved out. That’s why I lost it when I found out what’s happening to St
arkey. It’s why I lost it after seeing Brandy, naked, high, and covered in Dust, because that’s when I realized Croc’s real game is sex trafficking. John—” My voice breaks off, and I have to clear my throat before finishing. “You know as well as I do, those girls are facing a fate worse than death if we don’t get them the hell out of there.”
“We’re going to, man, I promise.” He says it emphatically enough that I allow myself a sliver of hope that he’s right. “I have the evidence we need for a bust. I just need a couple of days to send everything up the chain of command for approval.”
I nod, taking him at his word instead of grilling him for more details. “You know what the worst part of all this is? Starkey and those girls wouldn’t be where they are now if I hadn’t set fire to the school.”
“There’s no way that’s possible.”
I chuckle darkly and turn back to him. “Oh, but there is. When I went in for arson, Croc ransacked my place and found the blackmail video I had on him of one of our more violent sessions—that’s what kept him away from the other kids until they all moved out. But along with the tape, he found Starkey’s personnel folder that I’d stolen from his office file cabinet years before. I planned on showing it to Starkey someday to prove we were brothers, but I never got the chance before Croc decided to use him as leverage so that I’d sell his drugs—something I never would’ve agreed to normally.
“Selling the drugs resulted in some girls ending up in the hospital and others getting kidnapped for sexual slavery. And Starkey’s being abused and raped in prison worse than I ever had it. All of them are suffering, whether directly or indirectly, because of something I did.”
John closes his eyes and whispers a harsh curse. His nostrils flare as he draws in a breath, and I know he’s grinding his teeth by the way his jaw muscles flex—something he does occasionally in his sleep and whenever he’s trying not to lose his cool, which is rare.
I’m not surprised by his reaction, though. He may have suspected the truth before but suspecting and knowing are two very different things.
When we woke up in my bed this morning, he was tucked into my side with his big body draped half over mine, and I was still his Captain. He saw me as a fierce leader of my crew, an equal partner in the loft, and an alpha Dom worthy of his submission, if not his love. I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge his love, but that didn’t stop him from letting it shine in those golden eyes every time he looked at me.
But now that’s all changing.
Now John knows I was defiled hundreds of times over by a monster who stripped away bits of my humanity with every encounter until there was nothing left.
Now he knows why I’m a rage-filled, poor excuse for a human who lacks the fundamental ability to return the gift of his love.
Now he knows how fucked up I truly am…and always will be.
And as he stands there and processes everything, the perception he’s had of me from the time he was young is warping and twisting into something very different. Something darker and truer to reality. At this very moment, John is realizing what I already know: that I don’t deserve to be his Captain. I don’t deserve to be his anything. He thrives in the light, and I can only cast him in shadow.
This is the end of everything.
John releases a long exhale and finally meets my gaze. “I know you think this is all your fault, but the only one who deserves the blame in any of this is that scum-sucking bastard who I’m trying not to hunt down for the satisfaction of putting a bullet between his eyes.”
“Get in line.” That was meant as a joke, but not surprisingly, it landed flat. Worry etches into his brow as he traps his bottom lip between his teeth and stares at me for several long seconds. He’s thinking too hard, which means I’m probably not going to like what he says next.
“Goddamn, I’m so sor—”
“Don’t,” I bark out with a shove to his chest. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry, or you wish you would’ve known, or any of that other cursory bullshit people say when faced with someone else’s tragedy. I told you I don’t want your pity, and I sure as hell don’t want your emotional charity.”
Indignation sparks in his narrowed gaze. “That’s not your only problem with me, though, is it?” he growls. “It’s not just about what I say—because God forbid I fucking empathize with you—it’s about what I feel. You don’t want me to feel anything for you, either.”
Unleashing all the pain of the past and the hurt of today, I shout back at him. “No, I don’t! Because that’s not what this is! I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.” I wave a hand back and forth between us. “You and me? This thing we’ve been doing? It’s just fucking. Although, don’t get me wrong, Johnny-Boy, you’re an excellent fuck, so don’t sell yourself short the next time you go trolling for dick.”
“You’ve gotta be joking. You think insulting me and telling me all the bullshit lies you tell yourself is going to make me walk away?” He plants his feet and laughs, folding his arms over his wide chest like he’s ready to hold the beach down by himself if he has to. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, asshole. And I say ‘asshole’ with love, just so we’re clear.”
“And just so we’re clear, Darling,” I say, stepping into him until our noses almost touch. “When I say anything—literally anything I’ve said to you—I’ve said it with nothing. My words are as hollow as my heart. If I’m motivated by any emotions at all, it’s hatred and guilt. I have none of the latter when it comes to you, but keep fucking pushing and I’ll have plenty of the former.”
He sucks in a sharp breath and studies my face, searching for any hint that I’m lying through my teeth, but he won’t find any. I meant every word, just not how he thinks I do. There’s no doubt that by the time this is all over, when it comes to him, I’ll have more hatred than I know what to do with…for myself. Every time I have to push him away or cut him down in order to spare him far worse things in the future, the hate will eat me alive. For the rest of my life, I will burn with self-loathing for my inability to be the Dom he needs and the man he deserves.
Finally, his expression falls, heavy with disappointment. He takes a large step back and tips his chin down once in the universal sign for surrendering one’s position. Staring into the eyes that have become my touchstone—honey-colored windows to the only soul that can soothe my own—I know I’ve effectively slayed everything between us. Just like I intended.
As I leave him behind on the shoreline of my sanctuary, I try not to care.
As I race down the highway at top speed, I try not to mourn what was and what can never be.
And as I lie awake in my brother’s bed, without the warmth and weight of John’s body next to mine, I try not to notice the wet trails at my temples.
Chapter Thirty-Four
John
Waiting. Sucks.
Several months ago, I was helping Wendy rearrange the furniture in the beach house she shares with Peter, who was delivering a custom car he’d built for a client in South Carolina. About two hours into his trip, he stopped to gas up and use the restroom. While standing at the pisser, the dumbass thought it’d be funny to send Wendy a dick pic for his check-in text and dropped his phone in the toilet, completely frying it. In true Pan fashion, he laughed, tossed it in the trash, and continued on his trip, figuring he’d worry about a new cell when he got home.
But his trip turned out to be a comedy of errors including a flat tire, pulling over to wait out a flash flood storm, and a second flat tire. Meanwhile, my sister was freaking out because she couldn’t get ahold of him and the GPS wasn’t finding his location. I watched her pace, get sick with worry, and almost call every hospital and police department along his route at least four times. No matter how often I reassured her he’d be fine, she couldn’t bring herself to relax and have faith he’d turn up.
He finally strolled through the door shortly after ten o’clock that night. Wendy squeezed the hell out of him and peppered his face
with relieved kisses, until she remembered how scared she’d been. Not surprisingly, the story of the attempted dick pic as the catalyst for her shit day didn’t go over well. He was grouchy as hell for the next two weeks for reasons I don’t want to think about when it comes to my sister.
At the time, I thought my sister was being dramatic. I mean, this was Peter Pan we were talking about. He’s matured a lot since getting back together with Wendy, but the dude’s still not known for his superior adulting skills or rational thought process.
But now… Shit, now I get it.
Because it’s been almost twenty hours since James walked away from me on that beach, and I’ve been going out of my mind with worry for the last nineteen of them. He’d found and removed the tracker I had on his bike and ditched his phone on the side of Hwy 421. When he didn’t come home last night, every possible bad scenario ran through my mind on a constant loop.
I sat in his chair to wait up for him, but I passed out somewhere around four o’clock this morning with his scent in my nose and his book in my hands. A few hours later I jerked awake and listened for any signs of life, but the loft was deadly silent. My heart sank and my stomach twisted itself into knots, despite telling myself—as I did Wendy—that he was probably fine. It was that “probably” I couldn’t get past.
That’s when I went into Boyfriend Stalker Mode. I checked his bed to see if he’d slept in it (he hadn’t), checked the tracker on his car (it hasn’t moved from the garage out back), asked Smee if he’d seen or heard from him (negative, nor was he the least bit concerned, which just pissed me off), and called his dead phone every half hour in case he went back for it and plugged it in (straight to voice mail every time).
And now I’ve spent the last seven hours pacing, yanking on my hair, rubbing my neck raw, and chewing my nails to the quick. If Wendy could see me now, I’d never live this down.
Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2) Page 22
