by Kat Kenyon
The elevator stops and the two guards who entered with us exit, sweeping the halls, leaving Sam beside me, leading me down the pristinely decorated hall to the complex’s gym. Sticking close, voice low, he says, “You’re pissed—”
I shake my head. “Not at you guys.”
We walk into the gym where a few people are on the treadmills, but Sam walks through the machine and weight room into the empty cross-training room. The space isn’t too impressive, but it does have a heavy bag, ropes, a sparring area, and some other luxuries.
“So, why are you punching walls?” he asks, walking to the back and grabbing a pair of boxing gloves.
“Because I can’t punch her grandfather.”
When he hands the gloves to me, I shove my good hand in one, ignoring the scrapes.
“We looked into him.” Sam nods, waving me after him to the heavy bag. “Ghost with the gimp hand, a hundred with the other if it’s good enough to put through a wall. Let’s see your form.”
Rolling my eyes, I begin a basic routine I learned in high school. “Why am I down here?”
“You can’t hit people.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not following you to jail. Besides, I’m going through withdrawal on this case. If you’ve got energy to blow after your workouts at school, I’ll beat the energy out of you. We both win.”
“Withdrawal?” I punch the bag and spin on him.
He pulls a small circle out of his back pocket and waves it in my face. The tobacco tin disappears just as fast. “I can’t dip in this place, or in the car, or at the school, or pretty much on the job. This is the first time in a long time I’m actually on the job and I can’t get my fix…so withdrawal.” He gives me a dangerous smirk. “So, I will take that shit out on you.”
“I don’t care if you dip,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “As a partner in the firm, I do.” Shoving me back at the bag, he shifts my hips. “Your form’s okay, but it can get better. When it’s perfect, we’ll make you lethal.”
Taking a test swing with the new angle, I nod, feeling the difference. “Lethal is good. For me and her.”
Sam walks around, gets a grip on the bag, and gives me a few pointers before his brown eyes meet mine. “How was she today?”
“Livid.”
Her therapy session had gone badly, and it took almost forty-five minutes before she stopped ranting. If I’m mad, she’s worse. The only thing is, while I’m sure everyone, from the hospital to my mom, would say it’s unhealthy for her to be on fire like this, I’m grateful. Rage is better than dead. Because you can come back from rage. Rage means you care. It takes energy and will to rage. And if she can sustain rage, she can heal. I’ll make sure of it.
So rage, baby, rage.
For the next two hours, a Marine with a wicked sense of humor and a chew addiction makes me run through exercises designed to prep me for close-quarter combat training. Each step, twist, and maneuver we go through bleeds out my tension. The idea of protecting Rayne pushes me to focus and memorize the new concepts. By the time Sam leaves me at the door, my body feels loose for the first time in a week.
“Ty!” Corey’s voice echoes from the kitchen, startling me.
I find him in front of the oven, pulling a couple large pre-packaged chicken pot pies out, and drinking a beer. Grabbing one of my water bottles, I slump onto one of the stools. “Why did I give you a key?”
“Don’t know. But who broke the wall?” he asks, lips thinning as he eyes the jagged hole in the wall.
“We have ghosts. I’m calling for an exorcist first thing.” Giving him an acerbic smile, I inhale half my water.
Corey’s blond hair is tousled like he hasn’t touched it in days, and his eyes are bloodshot, dark circles making him look worn down. The same bone structure the siblings share makes him look like a runway model, but the man in front of me is too dangerous to dismiss as a pretty face when he looks up, hands running down his face and says, “Good, we’ve got a demon to get rid of.”
Taking a deep breath, I brace myself for whatever has him dropping in. “What happened?”
Sliding onto one of the tall black high-back stools, he drops down in front of a chicken pot pie and shoves the other to me. “It’s bad. She had enough money to go back,” he mumbles between bites, quickly gnawing on the too-hot food.
I shake my head, knowing this is going to be bad. “When does anything good come from your mother?” Rolling my eyes, I add, “With the exception of you and Rayne.”
He leans back over his food and cracks his beer. “I know what you meant. But Ty, I know Emily. She’s done something horrible for this money. I just don’t know who would give it to her.”
The liquid in my mouth burns like acid all the way down. Because there’s one person I can think of who would. “We need to put a detective on her and give you a break so you can spend time with your family.” I pause when he whips up his glacial blue eyes. “I know you have work and people who miss you.”
His beer slams against the table. “Fuck you, Ty. Keep your detectives on Gabe. I’ll deal with my mother.”
And there’s the name. Gabe. That’s the exact person who would happily throw Rayne in a cell. He shouldn’t be this hard to find. Even with his dad’s cash, Gabriel Stevens shouldn’t be able to outwit the police department and two professional detective teams. He isn’t that smart.
“His dad,” we say at the same time.
His dad. He has to be telling him where to go, how to move around the net being cast. It would still take a lot of luck to stay free, but it’s the only thing that make sense. Gabe’s going to get caught, so it wouldn’t be much of a stretch for his dad to reach out to Emily.
“I’ll call Granddad to ask for another team to tear his life apart down to the last penny in his key dish. We’ll track everything.”
I’m not letting him stay on the run, and I want every person helping him to suffer just as much as Rayne has.
“Is that legal?” Corey’s brows rise.
Scoffing, I grab his beer and chug a quarter of it before I give it back.
“Get your own, asshole,” he says, snatching the can and draining it himself.
Shrugging, I head into the kitchen and grab two beers, wondering how long it’ll take Neil and Sam to put together another team.
Taking the can from my hand, Corey’s head tilts to the side, assessing me. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m with you, but don’t do anything that puts you behind bars. She needs you out here,” he finally says.
I roll my eyes at him. “I won’t.”
Corey doesn’t look convinced, but it’s not like I plan on shooting the fucker. I’m just making sure he’s thrown behind bars. And if that doesn’t work…then I shoot him. I’ll be damned if he gets another crack at her.
I don’t blink while Corey keeps an eye on me. “Just be here when she gets out,” he says.
Annoyed, I just tip my chin, my eyes narrowing. “I will be.”
“Seriously, Ty—”
“Stop,” I snap at him. “Don’t tell me where I need to be. I know. We’re talking about the woman I love. You think I don’t know I can’t fuck this up?”
The crush of air in my lungs burns, and I’m struggling with my vision. I grip the counter to stop from swinging.
He’s standing, hands up when I finish my rant. I haven’t moved, but the man in him responded to the threat. Slowly lowering his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried.”
His palms rise to placate me, but it pisses me off more. “And I’m not?”
“I know you are…I just—” He heaves a tired sigh. “We’re both doing the best we can.”
“I won’t tell you how to be a brother; don’t tell me how to be her home.”
Shock passes over his face and then turns peaceful.
Gritting my teeth, I take a swallow of beer, before snapping, “What?”
“What, what?” he asks, a small grin breaking out.
“What’s with that look?” I point at him wi
th my beer.
He takes a bite, rocking his head back and forth a couple times. “What look?”
The smell of the food finally gets to me and I grab my pot pie and smash the crust in, counting in my head how long it’s been since I’ve allowed myself to eat anything like this. “Cut the crap, you’re gonna piss me off again. What’s with sudden calm?”
Digging into his pot pie, he gives me the same grin Rayne does when she’s figured something out. “You said you’re her home.” He hesitates then says, “Not boyfriend, not lover, not anything expected. Her home. That’s a permanent kinda thing.”
Well, yeah.
Rolling my eyes at him, I take a bite. “What did you think we were doing here?”
“I don’t know. I thought you were a good guy. I didn’t get further than that.” He settles into his chair, leaning forward on his elbows. “You planning on keeping my sister?”
“You mean my girl. My baby. Yeah. I’m not leaving until she makes me. You planning on sticking around for her? ’Cause she wants you to.”
He grimaces before taking his own bite. “Point taken, but you didn’t answer. What are you planning?” He’s got a small smirk when he looks back at me.
“She’s my everything, asshole. I’m going nowhere.”
“Does she know?” Lines of tension age him as his hands practically rip his hair out. “After what’s happened to her? Does she realize how loved she is?”
I have to take a moment, because I’m not sure how to explain what’s happening with her…I’m not her. “She’s been told and I’ve shown her, tried to make sure she feels it.” Salt threatens and I shove it down. “In the only ways that are safe…” My lungs deflate and I struggle to inhale. “Does that mean she feels loved, I don’t think it does and that crushes me. But, for some reason, getting thrown in there is sparking something. She was doing better, she was, but she was still flat, disconnected. Now, it’s like she’s found a powerline and she’s plugged in. She’s reaching out and there’s laughter and fight. So, if she can feel that, she can feel something else.”
“She’s laughing?” he asks, his smile getting practically weepy.
If I hadn’t almost just cried, I’d give him shit. “She did yesterday, like a crazy person.”
“Did you just make a joke about my sister being nuts?” A wry grin hits his lips.
Lips pressed together, I punch his shoulder. “No! What the hell are you talking about?”
“Laughing like a crazy person in a psych unit,” he repeats, parroting me perfectly, giving me an evil grin.
“I’m telling her you said that.” I glare at him and reach across the counter to punch his shoulder. “She was happy and making fun of me, fuck-nugget.”
He grins at me and laughs. “I’m not the one cracking jokes about crazy people laughing in the psych unit. You tell her and see what she says…she may punch you.” He pops in another bite. “I dare you.”
“Whatever.” I wash down my food with more beer. “The point is, she’s sparking, and I’m gonna blow on it until it catches fire.”
When it does, we’ll burn it all down.
A wary look crosses Corey’s face. “Sometimes you scare me a bit.”
I don’t answer him. I just take another bite. But he should be scared. The kid who was upset about his dad’s threats is a lifetime behind me. He was stupid and didn’t understand shit. The man I am now has held the bloody pieces of his heart in his hands and refuses to ever do that again.
Chapter Seventeen
Rayne Mathews
Tyler’s my lifeline in the middle of my nightmares. When he’s not here, I’m left facing the sterility of the unit and the joy of group therapy. The group is small—it’s six people around my age—and the first thing the therapist says when we all sit down is, “Remember, we’re here to learn how to recognize what circumstances brought us here.”
It makes me want to cry. The circumstances that brought me to this room full of kids who don’t look much different than me, who probably don’t feel much different than me, is a lot different. Needless to say, I don’t talk much. I politely say my name and share my sympathy for their problems, but when it comes time to share, I pass. And when the clock runs out, I walk away without a word.
Back in my room, within an hour, it feels like it’s getting smaller, shrinking around me. I’d eat my lunch somewhere else, but the halls stretch out in front of me, like a horror house adding doors as I go.
Eating lunch does nothing to help settle my nerves, and I can’t focus on my homework. The longer I sit, the longer the static builds from my toes, starting as a shiver that travels, becoming a vibration strong enough to make my teeth chatter.
I don’t want to cry and I. Can’t. Scream. It won’t come out.
Jumping up, I slam the door shut, ignoring the way it reverberates long after I’m already shoving everything against the wall, pissed that the bed won’t move.
“Rayne, are you okay?” Tom, the nurse on rotation, calls from the door.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk?”
Rolling my neck, I grab my headphones from the small table, wanting to growl at him. “Nope, just wanted privacy. Sorry for the noise.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
I can almost hear him staring at the door like he wants to say more, but I know he’ll give me some space. He’s not invited. No one is.
Music blasts as soon as my fingers can find the right list, and even in the small space, my body moves. Around the room. Around the bed. Around the pain.
A rhythm that bleeds my agony.
The space is too small to fly or exorcise my demons, but it lets me fling the static off, spinning the ugly away from my skin using centrifugal force.
Words of monsters and misery.
The hands that have touched me and the voices that have screamed in my ears, slipping behind me by a fraction as I move.
Notes of nightmares that never die.
The four walls I’m stuck inside disappearing for a moment. Until there’s a knocking on the door that bleeds past the music.
“Rayne, I need to know you’re okay.”
Whipping the door open, I glare at Tom. He’s nice and patient to the point of being annoying, but interrupting this tiny moment of freedom makes me want to snatch his phone and throw it down the hall. “I’m fine.”
“We can give you more privacy up here, but when you slam doors—”
Snorting, I wave my iPod at him. “It was an accident. I was trying to dance. I’m a dancer. I dance every day, but I’ve been locked up like a criminal for days. I just wanted some privacy to move. Not like there’s enough space, but I was making do.” Pointing at the door, I grit my teeth. “And you could see what I was doing.”
He gives me a wry grin and shrugs. “So, tell me that next time. Privacy and headphones to dance aren’t the same.”
“Privacy to dance.”
I can tell he wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. He reminds me I’ve got a meeting with Vanessa. Grunting, I drop my stuff and walk to her office. She’s in a blazer and jeans, and when she looks up, she asks me to close the door. After I do, I take my seat. Her pen taps on a yellow notepad for a few minutes as she stares at whatever is written there. Her face stays blank, not telling me anything, and if she means to frustrate me, she does.
“Are we done?”
Vanessa looks up and gives a small smile that looks more like a grimace. “Sorry, Rayne.” Taking a deep breath, she relaxes a little in her chair and drops her pen. It appears as though she’s trying to figure out what to say. After a couple moments, she nods. “So, I looked into the issues you mentioned the first time we met.”
That makes me blink and leaves me needing my own moment before I speak, “Okay.”
Her nod turns into a shaking of her head. “I can’t believe how badly we’ve handled this situation. I’m sorry.”
Now, there are two people here who’ve apologized.
“Thank you for that, but I’m still being held against my will.”
Her lips purse. “I do have concerns about that. In the meantime, I’d like to help you.”
“Help me how?” Her face turns compassionate, and the softness makes me want to spit fire. I don’t want pity. “No.”
“You’ve been through some really horrible things and talking to someone could help you work through them.”
“Which horrible thing did you want to work through?” I practically sneer at her. I’m not opening up my wounds or broken wires and parts for inspection.
“Which one is on your mind today?” It’s disturbing how happy she is when she thinks I’m going to talk.
Looking back out the window, the clouds make me want to hide under Tyler’s bulk. They remind me of who I was. Of who stole it. Which makes me think of cops, the drug brigade, then to my piece of shit mother. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t sleep without him. I haven’t had him in over a week and you guys just keep saying it’s in my best interest. Send me home where I’m safe. Send me home where I can sleep.” Tears break out, the waves of anger ebbing. “Send me home where I can breathe,” I whisper.
Vanessa’s face falls. “I’m sorry. If I could check you out today and send you home, I would. I’ll do the best I can.” She writes something on her notebook. “I didn’t realize you couldn’t sleep.”
I shake my head, not sure how much I want to share, then realize that it can’t hurt. “I’ve had nightmares since Gabe put me in the hospital the first time. Tyler made them go away. I can’t sleep without him.”
“We can give you something—”
Narrowing my eyes. “You’ve medicated me enough.”
