by Aly Stiles
But she follows. I hear her, sense her movement down the hall, and in my battered state she’s faster than I am. She beats me to my destination, pushing through the door and cementing herself firmly inside. Her arms cross over her chest, her eyes both hot and imploring at the same time.
She thinks she wants to know? She doesn’t even know what she’s asking.
The sobs are far away now, successfully blocked by anger, a much more useful emotion. Survival depends on the red cloud of rage, the willingness and ability to fight. She wants the truth? Fine.
I fish Naomi’s phone out of my pocket and slam in the passcode. After opening the text stream with “Danny P,” I toss it to her with a dark look.
She recoils, catching the phone against her chest, but I don’t wait for her to read it. Instead, I use the distraction to stalk to the master bath and lock the door. She thinks she knows so much? She thinks she cares? Let’s see what she does with that bombshell.
I’m already regretting my impulsive move as I strip off my bloody clothing and start the shower. While the water warms, I stare at my abused reflection in the mirror. The skin around my left eye is red and puffy. By tomorrow it’s going to be a rainbow of purples and blues. My lower lip is split. And my torso… I stare in numb fascination at the patchwork of bruises and cuts, blood, both fresh and dried, creating a macabre mural to a life poorly lived.
Steam gathers on the mirror, obscuring my view after a while. I’m sure Hadley is gone by now, and definitely will be by the time I finish my shower and venture back into the darkness of my room. At this point, all I can hope for is that she doesn’t alert Viv and beg her to sever our relationship, even though I expect exactly that.
I gasp when I step into the water. The hot droplets pelt my skin with agonizing tenacity. Clenching my eyes shut, I brace against the wall, absorbing the assault in silence, knowing it will pass once my body adjusts to the pain. Soon the fresh sting subsides back to aching stasis, and I reach for the soap to start cleaning the wounds.
The cut on my ribs isn’t bad, but the one on my upper arm is deeper than I thought. It’s still oozing blood and probably should have stitches. I’ll have to wrap it tight and hope for the best. I glare at the wound through the steam, wondering how I’m going to do that on my own.
By the time I finish my shower and wrap a towel around my waist, I feel ready to collapse. The combination of the mental war, the physical trauma, and exhausting heat of the shower has left me weak and nauseous. Nothing seems as important as my bed. My sheets will do fine absorbing the blood until morning.
I stagger to the door, pull it open—and freeze.
CHAPTER 6
HADLEY
Strangely, I notice his eyes first.
He’s standing half-naked in front of me, pretty much as perfectly carved as I expected, and it’s the raw emotion spilling from his eyes that takes my breath away. The sheer shock to find someone waiting for him. They search my face, flashing with confusion, then a hint of relief before tilting down, and that’s when I figure it out. His allure is in the contrasts, the details he tries to hide that are so addicting when they’re uncovered. Eyes that tell a story the rest of him tries to deny. Hands that caress a guitar and just as easily form into fists to defend those he loves.
Who is Julian Campbell? All I know for sure is that he’s not the man I knew this morning.
But it doesn’t take long for my gaze to drift.
Heat swells through me as I study him in the harsh light from the bathroom. His vague silhouette transforms into sharp lines and angles that disappear beneath the towel hanging low on his hips. Bruises weave seamlessly with swaths of tattoos. His hair, wet and messy plays along in its own way, as if the descending water drops exist solely to draw my attention to their slow paths down his body, taunting me with a coveted brush over his skin.
Is this sudden fire erupting deep inside me, this hunger to touch, because he’s changed, or because I have? Probably both, because you can’t read the chilling story on Naomi’s phone and piece together the rest of this twisted narrative without suffering a jolt of awareness.
No, Julian Campbell is not the man I thought he was.
“You’re still here,” he says, his voice hoarse, scratching out words he wasn’t expecting to say. He cringes when his gaze lands on the first aid supplies I’d gathered and piled on the bed.
“You going to patch that mess up yourself?” I wave a hand over his battered torso, and the slightest smile ticks up the corner of his cracked lips.
“Was planning on it, yeah,” he says with an air of amusement.
“I see. Or you could just let me help.”
“I don’t think that’s in your job description.”
“Pretty sure none of this is in my job description, yet here we are.” His smile spreads into a grin that cuts through me. I swallow the effect and clear my throat. “You coming over here or what? Also, feel free to put some clothes on.”
He winces through a laugh as he crosses the room toward a dresser. “Gonna be hard to patch me up if I’m dressed.”
“You know what I mean,” I grunt, infusing an admirable amount of irritation into my voice. I don’t sound like I’m erupting inside, like I kind of hate myself for asking him not to be naked. But, seriously, anything would be better than trying to function with him standing there in that towel. The thought of touching him right now… I avert my gaze and pretend to do something with the bandages as he changes.
“Hopefully Danny P looks a lot worse,” I say, partly because I want assurance the guy’s had his throat sufficiently ripped from his body and partly because silence with a naked Julian Campbell is much more dangerous than I anticipated.
“He’ll be sore tomorrow, but he had friends. And a knife. In a fair fight, he’d probably be dead.”
“A knife?” I glance up in alarm, immediately regretting it. Whoa. I was so wrong. There are worse, more distracting images than Julian Campbell in a towel. Julian Campbell in dark boxer-briefs is a much bigger problem. I blink through the wildfire spreading over my skin, praying it’s not visible in the dim lighting.
“He’ll be leaving her alone, though. That’s the most important thing,” he says, tugging on a pair of gym shorts.
I nod, swallowing hard as he approaches. How did the world’s biggest asshole transform into a shirtless superhero within a span of minutes? Because hands that wanted to slap him most of the day are suddenly trembling at the thought of touching him. Eyes that have been narrowed in glares, suddenly can’t get enough.
He reaches past me to flip on a lamp by the bed, assaulting me with a wave of soap, shampoo, and mint. It happens too fast to avoid breathing it in. Yep, now that potent virus is weaving through my brain, leaving me lightheaded and addicted to something I definitely should not want.
Don’t want.
Can’t want.
Except, right now, in this moment, I do. I want it so much I’m afraid to move when he finally lowers himself beside me on the bed. He’s right there. Half-naked, broken, smelling like forests and fresh rain and I just… blink.
“You okay?” he asks, those dangerous eyes dark with concern for me, the one person in this apartment who doesn’t need a life overhaul.
“Fine. Why?” I clip out. It sounds rude, and I notice the way he recoils before adjusting further away.
“I said you didn’t have to do this. I can take care of myself, trust me.” His voice is darker than it was a second ago. I don’t like it. I miss the smile on his face. The way these rare glimpses past the façade make me ache.
“I totally believe that. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t let others help when they want to.” I realize as I say this how confusing and hypocritical I must seem. Why would he expect me to help him after I’ve done nothing but hate him up until this point? Why would he want me to?
His expression confirms it, and I let out a heavy sigh. I’ve always been direct. It’s just so much easier than the political games I was forced to pl
ay growing up.
“Look, did I think you were an asshole? Yes. Did I think you were self-centered and didn’t care at all about your niece? Yes. Am I maybe starting to think differently now?”
“No, I’m definitely an asshole,” he cuts in with a breathtaking grin.
Wow.
My hand lifts to touch it before my brain intervenes, and his smile fades. He stares at my fingers as I curl them into a fist and force them back to my lap. “Hadley…”
“It’s so late. Can we just get this done so I can go to bed? I have to work tomorrow.”
“It’s Sunday. We don’t have rehearsal.”
“My job isn’t to watch your rehearsals, Julian,” I say in a flat tone.
A smirk leaks over his lips, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he shifts to face me so I get a better view of the damage. I hiss in a breath when I take in the true extent of his injuries for the first time.
“Yeah, it didn’t exactly go as planned,” he mutters, wincing as he studies his chest. “I didn’t expect him to have six guys with him.”
I nod, holding in my opinions and any more words that will get me in trouble. Concentrating on the task at hand helps, and I suddenly get super interested in antibiotic ointment and medical gauze.
“This one should probably have stitches,” I say, examining the slash on his arm. “Was this the knife you were talking about?”
He nods. “I cleaned it out pretty well in the shower. Just pack it with gauze and wrap it as tightly as you can.”
“I already washed my hands.”
“That first aid kit should have gloves.”
I reach for it and get to work.
Through the silence, though, the words start building in my head again, the questions. I think back to the photo of Naomi and her mother. The physical transformation she’s undergone and how it must be mirroring some deep emotional wounds. Then my thoughts turn to Danny P and the chilling account I’d read. I’m not surprised by Julian’s actions after finding those texts. I burned so hot, I would have finished the job if Julian hadn’t assured me it was done.
His gasp draws me back to the present, and I realize I’ve been taking out my anger for Danny P on the latest cut I’ve been treating. “Oops, sorry.”
He shakes his head, but remains silent. In fact, I notice a general worn look on his face when I dare a peek. Whether from pain or exhaustion, I don’t know, but he clearly is done with this day and ready to collapse.
“Almost finished. I’ll get ice for your chest and eye too. Those bruises look pretty bad.”
“Thanks,” he says.
I finish up the last bandage and move to rise when he grabs my wrist. Surprised, I stare at our connection, a shiver running through me when he tugs gently.
“Seriously, Hadley, thank you. For this, but mostly for staying with Naomi. She likes you. I can see that and…” He looks away. “Anyway, she does. So thank you for shining a little light in her world. She needs it.”
So do you, I want to add, searching his eyes. Doesn’t he see his niece isn’t the only one drowning?
“Just talk to her, Julian.” His gaze lowers, and I touch the edge of the bruise around his eye. “Danny P and I can’t be the only ones who know you care about her.”
He ducks away from my touch and releases me. “I will. Just, not about this.”
I straighten, staring at him. “You’re not going to tell her about confronting Danny P?”
He glares at me and pushes up from the bed. “Of course not. Why would I tell her that?”
“Um, because it’s extremely important that she knows you care and guys like that are dangerous. Besides it’s going to be obvious something went down the second she sees you.”
“I’ll talk to her about jackholes like Danny P, but I’m not telling her about the fight. I’ll come up with some other story to explain the injuries.”
My fists clench in my lap. “You have to, Julian!”
“No, I don’t.”
“You can’t lie to her!”
“I have to.”
“She needs to know—”
“No.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t you—"
“Because that girl carries enough shit! She’s not carrying this too,” he snaps back.
My anger stammers to a halt, all my judgments falling away again. Our worlds couldn’t be more different, where we come from, where we’re going. When will I acknowledge the fact that I can’t understand him because I can’t understand his universe?
“Where’s her father?” I ask, unable to let this go for some reason. Let her go. Him. I may not understand but I want to.
He blinks over at me, clearly surprised I’m staying. Not just staying, pushing.
“I have no fucking clue,” he says darkly.
“He abandoned her?”
He shrugs. “Dropped her off a month ago and never came back. Her mother died a year ago. I’m all she’s got. Lucky girl, right?”
“Her mother?”
“My sister.”
“The blond woman in the photo.”
“What photo?”
“Above her bed.”
By his expression he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “She doesn’t let me in her room. She despises me.”
“She doesn’t. She despises her life. Her situation. You represent that.”
“What’s the difference if she hates me or hates what I represent?”
“There’s a huge difference.”
“How?”
“Because you can’t change who you are but you can change what you represent.”
He quiets, almost startled, before the shadow returns to his face. “You have no idea what I represent,” he mutters, limping toward the door.
I get up to follow him. “So tell me.”
He glances back, but the sneer this time makes my blood boil with a less enticing heat. “Danny P. That’s what I represent. All those kids I confronted tonight? That was me ten years ago.”
“But it’s not now.”
“No. Because I got lucky.”
“Was it luck?”
He turns away. Shuffles into the kitchen.
“You just happened to become a rockstar?” I call after him.
“Failed rockstar.”
“Future rockstar.”
He doesn’t look at me when I reach the kitchen, but I feel the heat radiating from him. Good. It means I’m getting through.
“So was it luck? You woke up one morning in an entirely different future?”
“Fine. No. It was my sister. And music.”
“Music gave you hope.”
“Music saved my life.”
“So why can’t it save hers?”
He stills, his hand petrified on the handle of the freezer.
“She loves music, Julian,” I say softly. “It might be the only thing she loves right now.”
“It’s the only thing I know how to do,” he whispers. Was I even supposed to hear it?
I step toward him, reaching up to slide my hand over his arm. Just the briefest touch, the slightest acknowledgement that I’m still here. I didn’t run. He doesn’t always have to be alone if he doesn’t want to be.
“So save her life with the only thing you know how to do.”
CHAPTER 7
JULIAN
A truck. Ran over me. Then backed up. Then ran over me again. Then a cloud of ravens swooped in and pecked at my flesh while the truck returned for a few more passes.
I groan and glare at my phone screen that’s telling me it’s much earlier than I want it to be. But that’s the paradox of getting your ass kicked, isn’t it? You want to sleep, to do anything you can to drown out the pain, all while the pain works overtime to make sure you can’t.
I reach for the pills Hadley left for me on my nightstand and pop a couple more in my mouth—then glare at the water bottle that’s too far to reach without a major shift.
“You awake? We’re out of waf…. fles.” Nao
mi stares at me, hovering in the door with the empty box. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing. Just fell down the steps when I came home last night.” I know. Not exactly a Pulitzer-winning story, but I couldn’t come up with anything better during the night. I’m a musician, not a screenwriter.
She scans my face, and I can only imagine how bad it looks. Probably not as bad as the rest of me, though, so I pull the sheet tighter around my neck.
“Okaaaay…” she draws out. Maybe she believes me. Probably not. “Where’d you go anyway?”
“The store.”
“And you didn’t get waffles?”
“I didn’t know we needed waffles.”
“We always need waffles, Uncle J.”
I roll my eyes and wince. Shit. No sharp eye movements for the next couple of days. “I’ll go back this afternoon. Anything else we need?”
“Why didn’t you get the other stuff we needed if you were at the store?”
“I meant, anything we need that I didn’t know about.”
“What did you get?”
Oh. Um. “It wasn’t that kind of store.”
Her head tilts, but at least she’s not yelling at me for once. This might be the longest conversation we’ve ever had that didn’t involve yelling. “What kind of store doesn’t have waffles?”
“Music stores.”
Her expression changes, lighting up in a way I don’t expect. Maybe Hadley was onto something. Crap, how could I have missed this?
“What did you get at the music store?”
“Some strings. A new tuner. A couple quarter inch cables.”
She nods, her attention darting to the corner of my room where one of my acoustics is propped on a stand.
I swallow the pain and force myself up. “Grab that.”
Her gaze snaps back to me, and she cringes. “Your…” She points at my chest, and I let out a frustrated breath.
“It’s nothing.”
“You got that from falling down the steps?”
“I fell down all three flights. Grab my guitar, okay?”
“Why?”
“Just…” I rub my hand over my head and pull in a soothing breath.
