by Leddy Harper
I opened my eyes and caught my reflection. I studied it, like I hadn’t seen it in a while. This time, instead of adrenaline coursing through me, excited anticipation covered me like a warm, welcoming blanket.
“Happy! C’mon! Time to get out here!” Cal called from the door around the corner.
When I approached him, his mouth hung open and his eyes widened.
I grabbed the zip-up hoodie from behind the door and exited the room, completely prepared for the fight. For the ring. For Jag. Excitement danced in my fingertips as they flexed by my sides, knowing just how ill-prepared he was for me.
He thought he was.
But he had no idea who he would step into the ring with.
With the hood pulled over my head, my gaze on the ground in front of me, I stepped to the side of the stage. All the lights in the room had dimmed, other than the ones directed inside the ring, and the excitement was felt all around. People buzzed in their seats, murmurs, screams, claps, and cheers of support filtered around me. Everything I’d done up until this point had all been for this moment.
Cal clapped me on the back, signaling it was my time to step up. Josh was already inside, bouncing around to the sound of his name being hollered out from the stands. I turned to face my coach, took the jacket off, and looked him square in the eyes.
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” I said to him, unsure if he could even hear me over the ruckus. But he must have, because his gaze softened and he offered a short, jerky nod.
Keeping my head down, I made my way through the ropes, my back to Josh. I stood on the other side and nodded to Cal. Then I glanced around me, noticing the size of the crowd for the first time. Every Saturday night, if I peeked out beyond the ring, it’d only been to find Rylee. But not this time.
She wasn’t here.
She was in my bed.
Waiting for me.
So for the first time since this all started, I took in the atmosphere. No matter what, this would be the last time I’d set foot in this place—or any place like it. I came for a reason, and I’d leave with a purpose. With my girl. With my voice.
This. Was. It.
As if in slow motion, I turned to face Josh. His gaze wasn’t on me, but grazing through the heads in the crowd, probably looking for Rylee. I felt content, knowing she wouldn’t be here to witness this, and even more relieved to know he’d never touch her again. I waited in place, never taking my attention off the asshole in front of me. Waiting for him to face me.
And then he did.
There are no words that could ever describe the expression on his face when he looked at me. The way his chest stilled, no longer working to pull air into his lungs. The paleness of his skin. The intensity and awareness in his eyes.
I simply smirked and waited for the officiant to call it.
Rylee
I stretched my arms over my head and felt every aching muscle in my body pull taut. With it came the memory of Killian and what he’d done to me. Glancing at the clock, I realized the fight would begin soon, and it took everything in me to not jump out of bed and go hide in the crowd, just to make sure Killian was okay.
My bladder needed to be relieved, so I wrapped myself in the sheet and headed to the attached bathroom. On my way out, I noticed the edge of his sketchpad sticking out from beneath the disheveled covers. As I reached for it, I found a box beneath the bed, and decided to sit on the floor while looking through his drawings. He’d said he used me to relax before a fight, and I found myself curious as to whether he depicted me from when we were younger, or from now.
I started from the beginning, admiring his talent as I flipped through image after image of my likeness. The first few of them were of my younger self, but as I continued through the pad, I found my face, as it was now, staring back at me. However, most of them had me with curly hair, even though I didn’t wear it that way anymore. I smiled at the thought of him saying he missed it, and decided he would come home to find me naked, in his bed, with spiraled hair draped over his pillow.
When I finished going through that notebook, I pulled out the box and began to sift through the belongings in search of other drawings of me. More pads of paper, pens, a set of charcoal sticks, and a container of markers sat inside. Beneath it all lay a yearbook, the same one I’d seen in his room when he was younger. Leaving that in the box, I opted for one of the other sketchpads.
Nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for what I found inked on those pages. Gory depictions of death. Blood. Lifeless bodies. Guys dressed in dark clothes. I flipped through each page, not looking too closely at the images. In the back, Killian had newspaper clippings. No pictures, just words—I couldn’t stop myself from reading them. Needing something—anything—to take my mind off the images I’d just witnessed.
Jameson Richards, age thirty, found dead in home. Apparent cause of death seems to be overdose, although authorities haven’t released official report as of yet. I skimmed the article, wondering why Killian would have this in his possession, but stopped when I came across the line that read: Richards grew up in New Hope, Pennsylvania.
Picking up another article, I realized it was about the brutal slayings of Killian’s parents. In it, I read about the vicious attack on the couple’s eight-year-old son. Other than what he’d told me in the past, this was the first time I’d gotten any real account of the incident. And it left me running for the toilet.
I washed out my mouth and returned to the box. Somewhere deep inside, the need to know more drove me further. Another article, not about his parents but of yet another death—this one seemed more gruesome than the first. Lance Parsons was violently stabbed behind a nightclub. Nineteen stab wounds in all. His body was found by a bartender, who’d gone outside to throw out a bag of trash. And again, a little farther down, I found that he, too, had once been a resident of New Hope.
With nothing else to go on, I dug through the box and took out the yearbook from the bottom. On the front was the familiar tiger, along with the name “New Hope” in gold lettering. Flipping through the pages, I eventually found the names and pictures of both victims—teenagers smiling at the camera in their black-and-white photos. Part of me was confused; albeit, a very small part, only because I didn’t want to believe what I was reading. Reason told me these were two of the intruders from so long ago, but I tried to ignore it, knowing that meant there was still one more out there.
I went back to the sketches and found an uncanny resemblance between the penciled faces filled with color and shadows, and the small, grainy photos in the yearbook. I flipped to the next drawing and gasped.
Blue eyes.
A cut on the bridge of his nose.
Thin lips adorned with a sharp Cupid’s arrow.
My stomach rolled as I sat hunched over the yearbook, dry heaving with tears flooding my eyes. Through warped vision, a small face came into focus. It was identical to the one on the paper next to me—different expression, different clothes, but same face. And next to it, the name Joshua Disick.
Bile rushed up my esophagus as I ran into the bathroom again, only making it to the sink this time. My abs ached with each heave and the hot tears refused to submit. A blazing fire scorched the back of my throat as I emptied what remained in my stomach into the porcelain sink.
I couldn’t think.
Had zero rational thought.
All I knew was I had to make it to the gym to stop Killian. He knew who Josh was—had known this whole time. I was the fool who thought he’d come here for me. Never, in my wildest dreams, had I imagined he’d shown up in Baltimore for someone else. Especially for the man who’d killed his parents.
Slaughtered his parents.
I couldn’t even wrap my head around that.
I had to push that thought to the back of my mind and focus solely on getting to Killian before the fight began. I couldn’t imagine the rage he must’ve had filling his veins. Thinking about how I’d kissed Josh’s lips, let him hold me, done things
with him… I couldn’t. It sickened me and left my skin prickling like I had thousands of roaches crawling all over my body.
The drive was a blur. I couldn’t recall even getting dressed or finding my keys, let alone every turn and stop between his place and the gym. I pulled into the first spot I came to, knowing there wouldn’t be anything available closer to the front. Two steps into my sprint, I had to stop to remove my wedges. There was no way I could run without falling or twisting my ankles, not while frantically trying to get to Killian.
It started with a pinch in the soft part of my bare foot—the arch. The pain didn’t register through the adrenaline. It wasn’t until I’d almost made it to the front door before realizing I’d even cut myself, rather than just stepping on a sharp rock like I’d assumed. The trail of blood and sticky warmth gave away how bad it was, but I didn’t waste the time examining it. I didn’t have a single minute to spare. Not a second. Millisecond. Nothing.
Either the doors were heavy or I’d somehow lost the vast majority of my strength between parking the car and this spot. It was hard to pull open, but I managed to get inside and head straight for the ring in the center. The lights were lowered, but the stage was lit like a Broadway show…only this wasn’t a play.
This was reality.
A nightmare.
My fingertips tingled and my knees felt numb, just beneath the kneecaps. The room seemed to dim again and all the sounds began to fade into the distance. My movements were sluggish, but nothing would keep me from making it to Killian. Stopping the fight.
In front of me, raised four feet off the ground, stood Josh and Killian. Jag and Happy. Josh’s eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open in shock. Surprise. Awe. Whatever it was, for the first time in as long as I’d known him, he appeared to be afraid. Fear paled his cheeks, trembled in his hands, and struck him still. Killian’s face was cleanly shaven, his scars no longer hidden beneath the growth of facial hair. A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth and his soft green eyes lit up with…vindication maybe. It was hard to tell.
“Killian!” I screamed, but I doubted he could hear me over the hollering in the room. People were going crazy—yelling, clapping, stomping. I stepped closer to the stage until my hands came to rest on the flooring. It was against the rules, but I didn’t care. I needed to be seen. Heard. I needed this to end. “Killian!”
It must’ve been enough for him to hear, because he turned his focus to me. Instantly, his expression fell and concern laced his features. No longer the smirk, now a frown. The glint in his eyes had vanished and the color had darkened. His brows dipped and firmed. All in a split second. In two long strides, he was in front of me, kneeling down to bring himself closer to my face.
“Don’t do it. I know why you’re here. I know about Josh. About your family. I saw… Please, Killian, don’t do it. It won’t make you feel better. It won’t erase what he did to you. It’ll only make everything worse.” I tried to get the words out, but they sounded sluggish even to my own ears. The confusion deepening in his eyes let me know it hadn’t just been me. “Don’t do it,” I repeated, hoping he’d hear that part, if nothing else.
“Happy,” the officiant called from behind Killian and pulled his attention away. “You ready?”
He took one last look at me and mouthed, “I’m sorry” before standing and reclaiming his spot in the ring. His fists clenched, his jaw tightened, but when he found me out of the corner of his eye, he seemed to go soft.
Killian must’ve missed it. I know I sure as hell didn’t hear it. But while I observed my fighter, the officiant must’ve asked Josh if he was ready—which he must’ve said yes. Because without warning, he swung his fist through the air and landed a hard punch to the side of Killian’s chin. His head snapped back and his feet faltered, offering Josh just enough time to step up to him and land another punch to Killian’s ribs.
A thud rang out just as the boy who owned my heart fell to the floor.
The room became almost silent, but I didn’t know if that was me or if everyone had quieted down. A strange warmth covered my body until I felt like I’d been swathed in a fuzzy blanket. The room darkened again, and small black spots danced in my vision. I felt weak—even breathing took conscious effort, labored and desperate.
The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Killian flipping Josh over onto his back. He climbed on top of him, pinning Josh’s arms beneath Killian’s legs, and then he stuck his thumbs into the sides of Josh’s mouth, pulling the skin until it resembled a clown’s smile.
And then he turned his head toward me.
A second was all I had before the lights completely went out.
Twenty-Six
Killian
Another nurse came in with a tablet in her hand and crossed the space to Rylee’s bed.
No matter who came into the room, they all looked at me with a level of disgust in their expressions. The swelling on my face and the way I winced when I moved or took a deep breath probably had a lot to do with it. But I really wished they’d stop being so concerned about me and start doing something for Rylee.
The clock on the wall said it’d only been about forty-five minutes since we’d been in the hospital. I knew it had to have been wrong. It felt more like days. Each second ticked by without a single person giving me any information.
Rylee had started to stir, and now, her eyes opened. They were nothing but slivers of gold, out of focus. She groaned, but I couldn’t imagine it was out of pain. They had to have given her some kind of medication to alleviate it. I didn’t remember much about the time I’d been in the hospital when I was younger, but the pain medicine was something I’d never forget—or should I say, I’d never forget that feeling when it would start to wear off. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe whatever they gave her wasn’t working and she needed more.
I didn’t bother trying to talk to any of them.
It was useless.
They wouldn’t tell me anything, anyway.
“Sir,” the nurse said, repulsion lacing her tone, “I’m going to have to ask you to step out for a moment, please. I need to discuss some things with Miss Anderson.”
Rylee’s head rolled to the side, and the second she saw me sitting in a chair next to her, her eyes fell closed and a long, ragged exhale slipped out. “No,” she rasped and then opened her eyes again to find mine. “Stay.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” It was clear this nurse didn’t want me here. She’d asked me to go to the waiting room beyond the curtain separating Rylee from the other patients in the emergency room, but I could tell she really wanted to ask me to leave the hospital completely.
Isn’t gonna fucking happen, lady.
Rylee looked to the woman in scrubs on the other side of the bed. “He stays. With me.” Her words were filled with air, the spaces between used to refill her lungs with oxygen. “Whatever you have to say can be said in front of him.”
“Okay…” She dragged the word out and focused on the tablet in her hands. “You came in with a large, deep laceration on the instep of your right foot. We cleaned it out and stitched it closed, but you won’t be able to walk on it for a while until it heals. Straining it or stretching the wound will cause the sutures to rip, and therefore, reinjure the tissue and possibly the tendons as well.”
There was a long pause, as if to let that information sink in before she offered more.
“You were also unconscious from the blood loss. We were able to give you a transfusion to bring your levels up, but we were unable to give you any narcotics to offset your pain.”
“Why?” Rylee croaked out, stealing the thoughts from my head.
The nurse glanced at me and then at Rylee again. “If you’re asking, then I should assume maybe you don’t know. When was your last menstrual cycle, Miss Anderson?”
Rylee turned her head to stare straight ahead, but closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek before I swiped it off her jaw with the back of my finger. She licked her li
ps and then whispered, “I don’t remember.”
“We ran your blood because your…friend here…couldn’t provide your blood type to us.”
Rylee squeezed my hand. I hadn’t remembered she even held it. I was so absorbed in what this woman said, utterly confused as to how Rylee’s blood type had anything to do with her not receiving medicine for the pain she clearly had.
“From the hormone levels in your blood, we’re looking at around six to eight weeks. Does that sound about accurate?” she asked, but only got a nod from Rylee. “At this time, all we can offer you is Tylenol. Would you like me to bring you some?”
Again, Rylee only nodded, her eyes still closed and her hand still gripping mine.
Without another word, the woman vanished through the thick blue curtain, leaving me alone with a somber Rylee. “What’s going on? What did all that mean?” I whispered, too worried to speak any louder.
She barely opened her eyes, not looking at me but focusing on our joined hands. “She can’t give me any pills because I’m pregnant.”
All the air had been sucked out of the room. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process her words. Couldn’t hear any sounds around me. No beeping machines. No shuffles of feet on the other side of the curtain. No coughing, crying, moaning from any of the other beds.
“Y–you knew?”
“No, Killian.” Her eyes finally found mine, and they shone with truth. Honesty. “I didn’t know. Trust me, I swear to you, I would’ve told you had I known. Everything’s been so crazy lately with Josh and moving and finding a new job…with you showing up. Being with you. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to my periods.”
The words, “Who’s the father?” sat at the tip of my tongue when the nurse walked in again and stole them away. She handed Rylee a plastic cup of water and two white pills, which Rylee took and swallowed down. And again, the nurse left the room without another word spoken.
