Destructive (Combative Trilogy Book 3)

by Jay McLean

  Nate only stares at me, unblinking.

  “But I’m not fucking him,” I add and bite back a smile when he flinches. “And I sure as hell am not going to marry him.”

  He shifts now and stares out the window. I expect him to start the car so he can get the hell away from me. Instead, he leans over the steering wheel, rests his forearms on the dash.

  “Do you know what spousal privilege is?” he murmurs, still looking ahead.

  “No.”

  I watch as he presses the pad of his thumb against his bottom lip, swipes it once. One of his habits. “It means when a husband and wife have the right to refuse to give evidence or testify in any legal matter concerning the other party.” He faces me now. “Anything that we say to each other during the marriage is exempt unless either says otherwise.”

  My eyebrows dip in confusion, and I shake my head. “I don’t know what that means.”

  He heaves out a breath. “It means that Ashton and I—we have an agreement that comes with the marriage.”

  “Well, yeah, it’s called marriage.”

  “No,” he deadpans. “Bailey, there’s no to have and to hold when it comes to us. But there is ‘till death do us part… It’s just not our deaths that will part us.”

  I try to make sense of this information, but I can’t for the life of me figure it out.

  “Two people walk into a house,” he says, his voice so even, it’s almost terrifying. “One person takes a shot to the temple. One bullet. One gun. The same two people walk out.”

  I hold my breath, captivated by his every word—every admission.

  “Who pulled the trigger? Who’s the murderer, Bailey?”

  All air leaves my lungs, and I fight back the fog in my mind. I try to breathe, try to line up my thoughts one by one. “Who’s the victim, Nate?”

  “I can’t tell you,” he says, turning over the engine.

  I grasp his arm. “Why not?”

  He smiles, such a contrast to the man he was only seconds ago. “Because you and me, bella ragazza,” he says, his gaze focused on our touch, “we’re not married.”

  The drive back to my apartment is spent in silence. Not until Nate pulls into the alleyway behind the building, turns off the lights, and switches off the car does he even look at me.

  I don’t make a move to leave, because I can see it in his eyes. He has something to say, something to ask. It takes everything in me to hold his gaze. Finally, he speaks. “Before, you said you don’t plan on marrying him…”

  I nod.

  “Why not, Bai? If he’s everything you say he is and he’s done everything you say he’s done, then clearly he cares about you.” His voice quiets. “Isn’t he the perfect guy for you?”

  I think about this for a long moment. “Maybe,” I tell him, shrugging. “But I don’t know. It’s hard for me to see my future beyond tomorrow. I used to think about what it would be like to find a forever with someone, have children, and be free from my past.” I take a shallow breath. “It breaks me to think about it now, so… I just don’t anymore.”

  “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I get that.”

  I glance up at him. “You do?”

  “Of course. I mean, what am I going to do? Have kids, then somehow explain to them that their daddy killed their nonna… that their nonno and great-nonno were drug lords and that, oh yeah, Daddy can’t go to your soccer game because he has to go to prison.”

  My heart aches at his admission. “You can create a new life, Nate.”

  “Nah,” he says, so nonchalant. “I have to live the life given to me. For now, at least.” He leans back in his seat and nudges my elbow with his. “But when this is over, if Neilson treats you right—”

  “Are you giving me permission to marry him?”

  His lips pull down at the corners. “I just want you to be happy, Bai.”

  Warmth coats my cold heart. “I don’t even know if I can get married,” I tell him, my mind spinning from our constant back and forth. I’m swimming in too many different emotions, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up drowning in them. “Technically, I’m dead.”

  “What?”

  With a nod, I tell him, “A few days after they found me, the feds released a statement saying they discovered a Jane Doe deceased in an undisclosed address of what is assumed to be a drug house.”

  Nate’s eyes go wide.

  “Then after they worked out who I was, they released another statement disclosing my name. To anyone who cares—Franco and his men—I’m dead.”

  “That’s…” Nate exhales loudly. “That’s fuckin’ impressive.”

  “Perceval’s good at his job,” I tell him, gripping the door handle.

  I start to leave, but Nate stops me, his hand on my forearm. “Just one more thing before you go.”

  “Okay…?”

  “The guy who came by once a week while you were…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you remember what he looks like?”

  I release the door handle and give him my full attention. “He’s hard to forget.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s in the report.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  My breaths are short. Shaky. And for a second, I think twice about giving him what he wants, because I have no idea what he plans to do with the information. “He was tall. Like, maybe a few inches taller than you. And big. Not fat. But super built. He um…” Fear halts my words, but when Nate takes my hand in his, locks his eyes on mine, I find the strength I need to continue. “He had a tattoo on his neck, a bird of some sort and another one—”

  “A cross on his hand?” Nate cuts in, rubbing the spot between my thumb and forefinger. “Right here?”

  My eyes fill with tears, recalling the hours that man had spent holding a pistol to my head, the hours he threatened my life and made me fear every breath.

  “Did he hurt you, Bailey?” Nate whispers, his face so close to mine I can feel his exhale float across my cheek.

  I close my eyes. “Not in that way,” I whisper. “They wanted to keep me pure in case…”

  “In case they needed you to get to me,” he finishes.

  We’re too close now, both physically and emotionally.

  I hate this.

  I pull away from his touch, from his presence, and open my eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  He sucks in a breath, but doesn’t answer.

  “Whatever you do,” I say, opening the car door, “make it hurt.”

  24

  BAILEY

  I’d been warned.

  While Perceval insisted that I could do this, that this was going to be a breeze compared to where I’d been, Brent had warned me. “It might come out of nowhere,” he’d said. “You might become overwhelmed and end up panicking. Being out in public around all the people, all the noise, it might trigger you.” Perceval had laughed when he’d heard Brent tell me this, but Brent knew. He fucking knew. “You’ve been through a lot, Bailey, so don’t be surprised if even simple, mundane tasks set you off.”

  Trash.

  A simple, mundane task.

  But as I glare at the bag by the front door, my heart racing, my vision blurring, I can feel my panic rise.

  I drop to the floor, my breaths shallow, and raise my knees, drop my head between them and try to breathe.

  The trash bag was to be left open—that was their request. Their demand.

  Find a way to stop Tiny from visiting you. Come without a fight. Leave the trash bag open when you’re ready. If you don’t do any of these things, Nathaniel DeLuca dies.

  One life for another.

  Such a simple trade.

  Trash.

  Such a simple, mundane task.

  It was two days later when Tiny came to see me. I spent those two days going over and memorizing every single lie I’d have to tell him. He tried to fight it, but I knew he would, so I was prepared for every one of his arguments. When he left, I packed a ba
g. Just one. I dumped what little clothes I had in there, along with my medication. Then I carefully sliced open a sanitary pad and hid in there the only material thing I had that connected me to Nathaniel. I removed the gold bracelet from around my wrist with tears staining my cheeks. I didn’t know if I was going to live or die, but either way, I wanted a part of him with me. I didn’t want them taking that away from me.

  The following day, I put out the trash. Left the bag open.

  The day after, the power cut out, and they came for me.

  I went willingly, having no idea what my fate would be.

  I was scared when he said my name, terrified as I lay in the back of a van, bound and blindfolded for the second time in my life. When I was finally able to see where they’d taken me, my heart sank, died in my stomach. I would be living alone for however long they chose to keep me alive. And then I would die alone.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper now, crying into my hands. “I can’t fucking do this anymore.” I reach for the phone on my coffee table, fumble with the keys and dial a new number he’d given me. The seconds feel like hours as I listen to it ring, over and over, until it switches to voicemail. Brent’s voice, usually enough to calm and soothe me, only agitates me more. I hang up without leaving a message and throw the phone across the floor. Hand to my chest, I try to find it within myself—as I’ve always done—to gain the strength I need to get out of this hole—this darkness. But I can’t. I can’t stop the tears from flowing or the silent cries scratching at my throat. And as much as I hate the single thought that turns my stomach, I have to accept it. It wasn’t my need for Brent that had me reaching for my phone. It was my need for him. I sniff back my pathetic misery and crawl over to the phone. Fingers trembling, unable to see through my liquid pain, I send a text.

  Madison: Hi.

  It should be enough to have him replying immediately or calling right away.

  Neither occurs.

  And then it happens.

  The point of giving out.

  Giving up.

  When I’m so deep in my sorrow that I feel as though I no longer exist, as if I’m watching myself from the outside in and experiencing all my emotions secondhand. My breaths become even, or no longer existent, and my vision—it’s as if there’s nothing in front of me. I can’t tell if it’s light or dark; it’s just… nothing.

  And then my mind kicks back in, as if to tell me: fuck you, you’re still here, and there’s a reason for it.

  I just don’t know what that reason is yet.

  But it’s enough to pull myself together. To pick myself up off the floor and count the fucking tiles, or weigh the fucking drugs, or do such simple, mundane tasks.

  I wipe the tears from my face, pick up the trash bag, and head out the door. The nearest trash chute is a floor below, so I wait by the elevator with my chin in the air and hope I don’t run into anyone who might question my current state. I think—in another life—Luck and I must’ve been sworn enemies because when the elevator doors open, there’s a couple inside who can’t seem to get enough of each other. “Excuse me,” I murmur, stepping in and turning my back to them. I face the door, pray they don’t say anything in return.

  Too bad for me. “Hi, I’m Christy. Are you—are you okay? You look like—”

  “Jesus,” her guy interrupts. “What a nice thing to say to a stranger.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell them, half facing them. I force a smile. “I was just uhm… uh…”

  “Boy trouble?” Christy offers, her tone laced with pity.

  “Yeah,” I breathe out. “Something like that.”

  She releases her boyfriend’s hand, steps closer, and how fucking long does it take to move down one floor? “I live up in 408. You’re welcome to—”

  “Swear, you’re going to get murdered one day,” her boyfriend mumbles, interrupting her again. But she’s smiling at him, and he returns the expression, their eyes softening when they meet. The elevator stops and the doors open, and I’m grateful to be out of that confined space with two people who fill my chest with jealousy.

  One day…

  “It was nice meeting you both,” I manage to say, waving quickly before the doors close between us. I throw the trash down the chute and choose to take the stairs back. When I make it to my door, I push down on the handle and nothing. “Shit.” I check my pockets for my keys, but they’re not there. I try the door again, because what else can I do? Nothing has changed.

  Nothing.

  Has.

  Changed.

  The panic rises again, and I gasp for air. Knees weak, I drop to the floor, my back to the door, and pull out my phone. No calls. No messages. I try calling Brent again. It goes to voicemail. I try calling Nate. It doesn’t even ring. Tears blur my vision as I flip the phone closed. No longer my lifeline, it has no purpose. Not here. Not now. I’m alone, and I’m over it, and maybe I’m overreacting, but it’s one thing after another, and I’m drained. Physically and emotionally. And everything has turned to nothing. For the second time in minutes, I give up on myself, go numb. The nothingness begins again, until…

  Until Kyler Parker: “Hey…” The first time I’d met Kyler, I’d been prepared. I knew what he looked like, where he would be, what to say, how to dress. I was told all those things by people whose job it was to know people. Still, the first time I saw him in person, my pulse picked up just a tad. There was a stirring in my veins that I’d only felt once before. With Nate. And maybe it was an uncontrollable physical attraction, or maybe it was the way he looked at me, so similar to the way Nate used to. There was a level of curiosity mixed with fascination, and it reawakened something deep inside me. Right now, I don’t feel any of those things. I just feel... nothing.

  Ky’s shoes are fresh, barely worn, as if he’d bought them purely for whatever he’d just done. I look up at him, my mind a daze. His brow bunches when he takes in my expression, and he squats down in front of me. “You okay?”

  I shake my head. It’s all I can do.

  “What’s going on?” His voice is so warm, like the blankets I’d crave on cold nights in that cement hell or the open air.

  It takes a moment to find my voice. “I locked myself out.”

  He peers at the elevator a moment before meeting my eyes again. “Is the maintenance guy out?”

  “The what?”

  Ky’s eyes squint with his laughter, and my chest aches at his mocking. “How long have you been sitting here?”

  I shrug. “An hour. Not sure.”

  He stares as if trying to see through me. “And this is why you’re crying?”

  Wiping at my eyes, I tell him, “I didn’t know there was a maintenance guy.” I don’t know a lot about normal living in the real world, I don’t tell him. I stand up, feeling a thousand different versions of ruined. “And please don’t laugh at me.” I cross my arms, focus on his shoes, and admit out loud, “I already feel stupid enough.”

  He stands, too, his words as pitiful as his stance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you—”

  “Where is he?” I cut in.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who’s going to let me back into my apartment.”

  Ky pulls out his phone, taps it a few times, then holds it to his ear.

  I check my phone—still nothing.

  Ky’s talking now, giving the details of my apartment, and all I can do is stand there, watching him, feeling foolish and somewhat mesmerized by the way he watches me back. A moment later, a man I’ve never seen before approaches with a giant wad of keys in his hand. He unlocks my door—something I’m sure should be more complicated than it is. “Enjoy,” he says, winking at us before walking away.

  “Madison,” Ky says, waiting for me to look at him before adding, “I’m sorry if I made you feel stupid.”

  There’s a sincerity in his tone that makes me question what the hell I’m doing here, with him, to him. “It’s fine, Ky.” I force a smile. “Good night.” Without lookin
g back, I go into my apartment and close the door behind me. Then I lean against it, cursing myself for my inability to hold it together. My phone rings in my hand, and I take my time checking it.

  Sara.

  It’s Nate, and he’s too damn late. I shuffle my feet toward the bedroom, shove the phone in the nightstand, and grab all the covers off the bed. Then I go back to the living room, make a blanket fort on the floor and coat my world in darkness. I fall asleep, exhausted from doing nothing all day, and when I wake up, it’s to my phone ringing. Moaning, I get up to retrieve it.

  Five missed calls from Sara.

  One text.

  Sara: If you don’t answer in the next two minutes, I’m going to kick down your door. At least let me know if you’re okay.

  He calls again while I’m reading the text, but I reject it to type out a reply.

  Madison: I locked myself out today.

  Sara: Did you call the maintenance guy?

  Madison: I didn’t know to do that.

  Sara: So how did you get in?

  Madison: Ky.

  Sara: ?

  Madison: He called the guy.

  Sara: Did you let him into your apartment?

  Madison: No. He just unlocked the door and left.

  Sara: I meant Ky.

  Madison: No. Should I have?

  Sara: I have no idea.

  Madison: I hate this.

  Sara: Me too.

  25