Love the Way You Lie

by Skye Warren

  Kip isn’t safe yet though. I try to tell him. “Bathroom,” I yell, but it only comes out as a wheeze.

  It’s all right though. He seems to already know. His gun is pointed toward the open door, waiting to take his shot. But Byron didn’t get to be where he is by accident. He’s not only a fucking good criminal. He’s also a cop. “You don’t want to do this, Kip,” he calls. “Turn yourself in now and it will go easier for you.”

  Kip shakes his head. “This is much easier.”

  “You may have gotten through them, but you’ll never take me. You won’t make it out of this room alive.” There’s a pause, and his tone changes. “Unless we work together, like the old days. I know you have a thing for the girl. We can work it out. You can have her.”

  Kip glances at me, and for one awful moment I wonder if he’ll go along with whatever horrible thing Byron plans to do to me. Then Kip’s eyes darken at the welts on my skin, and I know he would never do anything to hurt me. He’s here to save me. But Byron must have expected me to distract him, because he takes the opportunity to pop out of the bathroom and fire off a round.

  Kip dives to cover my body with his, shooting back.

  The thing about a bullet is, it doesn’t feel like fire after all. Maybe I’m numb from being tied up too long. It feels like ice instead. I’m hit, I realize. Hit in the side.

  Be careful, I wish I could say. He doesn’t fight fair. No one does. Not Byron, not Kip. Not even me.

  I fought as dirty as possible, keeping Clara away from Byron, keeping her safe—and I succeeded. This is the jungle, and only the fittest survive. Though I may not be very fit anymore, because I feel myself fading. Falling. Thank goodness for the rope around my wrists. Otherwise I’d sink down beneath the ground.

  Instead I’m suspended, waiting.

  There’s shooting back and forth—all around. That much I can tell from the blasts to my eardrums. But Kip is trapped. I’m the one tied up, but he’s the one in a vulnerable position—right in front of me. He can’t duck behind the bed where he’d be safe. I think he can’t even storm the bathroom because that would leave me exposed. The only cover he has is the second bed. He’s using it to protect himself—and shooting whenever Byron tries to aim out, so he’s forced to retreat. It won’t last for long though.

  He’s going to get himself killed, and it will be my fault. Mine. I can’t let that happen.

  I force myself back to reality. I’d been slipping before. The pain and shock of it had let me drift in a kind of unreality. But now I’m fully aware of every bruise and cut on my skin, acutely aware of how much I hurt. I pull my hand where it’s tied—nothing happens. The rope may have more give, but it’s still tight enough I can’t pull my hand out.

  I pull again, harder, twisting myself, as the bullets ricochet off the wall. One lands in the mattress underneath me, snapping a coil with a loud twang. Any second now one will hit Kip. He’s still blocking me. Still protecting me.

  The hole is too small. It’s like I’d have to break my hand to get it out.

  Something settles over me. Confidence. Recklessness. Sometimes they’re the same thing. So let my hand break. It’s a hard thing to break your own hand, in the same way that it can be hard to die. I have to let go of the survival instinct. I have to break myself.

  I pull, using all my strength, straining at my ankles to build this much force. The bed creaks.

  Something in my hand snaps.

  Now my left hand is free. That gives me enough room to un-loop the rope from the pole, so my right hand is free. My left hand is messed up—broken?—but my right hand still works. I jerk myself up, unsteady on my feet.

  And fall, stumbling to the ground. It’s safer here.

  “Stay down,” Kip orders before firing off a round.

  Safety doesn’t matter anymore.

  If anyone will get shot, it will be Kip. He matters.

  I crawl to one of the men on the floor and take his gun.

  The thing about men is they always underestimate me. Because I’m small and weak. Because I have a pussy instead of a cock. And my father, he kept me locked up. For all those reasons, I am ill-equipped for the world. But one thing I know is violence. I’ve been around violent men all my life. I’ve been around them when they pulled out their guns, when they flicked off the safety. Been around them when they fired. And I was watching.

  I aim and fire. The kick is enough to knock me backward, but there’s a brand-new hole in the wall courtesy of me.

  And I have Byron’s attention. He’s smirking, of course.

  So I walk toward him. Kip lunges for me, but I’m expecting that. I evade him and go toward Byron. I know I don’t have the aim to hit him far away. I don’t have months or years of target practice. And my hand is possibly broken. It feels like it’s on fire. But if I’m close, I can get him.

  That assumes he won’t shoot me first. He could. At this point I wouldn’t mind much. But I don’t think he will. Because he underestimates me most of all.

  We’re one foot away now. Kip is right behind me, about to expose himself, make himself vulnerable to save me. I can’t let that happen.

  I aim the gun at Byron. Now he’s the one looking down the barrel. He’s the one counting.

  “You wouldn’t,” he says coldly. Confidently. Not counting, after all.

  I fire. I’m aiming for the center of his chest. The kickback from the gun and wrenching pain in my hand means I hit his shoulder instead. And it feels good. After all the times he slapped me, fucked me. Hurt me. God, my hand hurts. But it feels really good too. Sweet victory.

  Though it doesn’t feel exactly like victory when he manages to grab me. He spins me around and puts a gun to my head.

  He wants to use me as a hostage. And it’s already working. I see Kip’s eyes dark with anger—and fear. He’s afraid for me, because there’s a gun to my head. But I’ve already broken my own hand. I’m fucking invincible. He’s pointing his gun at us both, but I know he won’t shoot. He can’t, not without hitting me too.

  “Hello, little brother,” Byron says, and that’s enough to shock me out of my plan.

  Kip nods slightly. “I wish I could say I was glad to see you.”

  Byron laughs. “Aren’t you? You’ve been searching for me for weeks.”

  “Not you. Her.”

  “Ah yes.” Byron looks down at me, moving the nozzle of the gun to my side. “She’s a good fuck. But not worth all this trouble if you ask me. Girls like that, they’re a dime a dozen.”

  Kip looks furious. His nostrils flare. He’s probably going to say something to defend me. Or maybe he’ll just start shooting. I don’t give him the chance. Because I can defend myself.

  I’m only Byron’s captive if I want to survive. I’m done surviving.

  I reach down and grab the gun. He could have fought me if I tried to take it from him. I don’t. Instead I squeeze the trigger. I shoot myself. I cinch the trap. He doesn’t have anything left to bargain with now. He doesn’t even have my body to shield himself. I fall to the floor, and I hear the shots that kill Byron—one, two, three—before he collapses beside me.

  Then Kip is there, turning me over, pressing a hand to my side, swearing and praying and pleading. “God, Honor. Why did you—Jesus. Please live. Please keep her alive. God, please.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It feels like a dream.

  I’m underwater. Lights and shadows dance in front of my eyes. Everything is muted, even the pain. But it’s there. And voices. I recognize that voice. She’s not talking to me, though. She’s far away.

  “Clara,” I say, but it comes out like a croak. A rough sound, like rocks tumbling over each other.

  She hears me anyway.

  “Go back to sleep,” she says, and something cool and soft brushes over my forehead. It feels important, her saying that. It feels important the way she’s taking care of me, keeping me safe. Isn’t that my job?

  Safe.

  I have to make sure she�
��s safe. I fight against the water, but it’s so heavy and thick. The only things I can see are a sterile white ceiling. The only thing I can smell is the sharp tang of cleaning solution. I’m in a hospital bed.

  “Everything’s fine.” Her voice is soothing. “Just rest.”

  But I can’t rest if I’m worried about her. I could never rest. So tired. “Are you okay?” The words are still garbled but she answers me.

  “I’m fine. And you are too. We made it out okay, because of you.”

  Only then can I relax again. Only then can I breathe.

  It’s like breaking the surface, coming up for air. Safe.

  Her hand grasps mine, warm where I’m cold. I soak in her heat, basking in the rays of her. “I know you’re hurting,” she says softly. And even in my delirium I know she isn’t just talking about the physical pain. She’s talking about every cold glance on my body and every cruel word. She’s talking about being afraid. And I am afraid, just not for the same reasons I was before.

  “Kip?” I ask, my voice rough.

  “He’s not here right now. If you wait a minute I can—”

  But the pull of the drugs and the pain and the tiredness are too strong. They drag me under, like an anchor tied to my ankles. I sink to the bottom, barely aware. I only know one thing. I may have lost Kip. I may not have ever really had him. But I have Clara back.

  I set her free.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I wake up like coming up for air—suddenly and with a jolt. I’m upright in a bed, and there’s an ache in my side. The bullet. Byron. Kip.

  It comes back to me in a rush, and I lie back down in the bed.

  Close my eyes.

  Wish I could be asleep again.

  That ship has sailed. I peek one eye open and look around at the pale yellow curtains and the painting of ballet dancers on a barre. The floor is the color of cinnamon, the walls a soft taupe. The elements of the room chatter together, that’s how it feels. They’re friends and confidantes of each other, and my presence here feels intimate, not intrusive.

  I’m not sure how much time passes like that, drifting, communing with doorknobs and drywall. I turn my head and face the window—and then I see it. Silhouetted by the orange glow is the Madonna from our motel room.

  “Clara,” I whisper.

  Something moves from the corner of the room. Kip.

  My head is still a little woozy from whatever drugs I have in me, but I would recognize him anywhere. Even though he looks rougher for the wear, his eyes shadowed, his scruff darker. He’s blinking away sleep just like I am, except he was on a hard chair in the corner, and I was on the bed.

  “You’re up,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s time for another dose.”

  “No.” I shake my head, ignoring the pain even that small movement causes. My hand is aching and bandaged. My side is on fire. “No drugs.”

  His expression is stern. “It’s medicine for the pain. You can take two pills every six hours, and it’s been—”

  “I don’t want it. At least, not right now.” I have to speak slowly, carefully, but I’m gaining more focus with every word I say. I have hazy memories of a hospital bed with thin sheets and a warm, strong hand holding mine. I remember being discharged and coming here… Has he been taking care of me?

  It’s all too unreal, like something I dreamed instead of lived. That’s the drugs.

  He doesn’t look thrilled about the deviation from my schedule. “You’re in pain,” he says flatly.

  “I’ll live.”

  No smile either. “Honor—”

  “Oh, I’m Honor now? I thought you liked me better as Honey.”

  Pain flashes over his face. “You were shot a week ago. You need rest. You need to take your pills.”

  A week? How many more days will I lose if I swallow more pills? No. No more delays. I went too long without knowing the truth. Especially the truth about him. I can deal with a lot of bad things. Hell, everyone has a past. Including me. But I need answers now. I need to know.

  “Where’s Clara?”

  He meets my gaze. “She’s here. She’s safe.”

  Relief is cool and wide, an open space so I can breathe again. “And she’s your sister?”

  His eyes are solemn. “Yes.”

  So what does that make us? “Tell me everything.”

  He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. “Okay. That’s fair. But before I tell you that…” He paces away and comes back. “Just know I’m not proud of what I did. Maybe I had my reasons. Like being a selfish bastard. That’s a reason. But I’m not proud.”

  I already feel sick to my stomach just thinking of it, and I’ve only been conscious for a few minutes. “You told me the story of how the tiger got his stripes. Now tell me how you got yours.”

  I’m asking for more than the story of his tattoos. I’m asking for his life, his pain.

  I deserve that much.

  He sits on the edge of the bed and takes my hand in his.

  “I told you my father left us, my mother and me,” he begins. “What I didn’t say is that he left to be with another woman. He worked security for a wealthy family. He had an affair with the woman. They ran away together.”

  I didn’t kill her. No one did. She’s still alive. “My mother.”

  He hesitates. Then nods. “Yes.”

  “But you and I aren’t…”

  Kip’s brow furrows. “Related? No.”

  “Thank God.” I hadn’t thought so because of the timeline. But then I hadn’t thought Kip was Clara’s half-brother either. It feels damn good to be sure…

  A ghost of a smile brushes over his lips. “Clara is your half-sister. And she’s my half-sister. If our parents had managed to get married, that would make us stepsiblings. But they didn’t. And so we’re nothing.”

  Nothing. The word clangs in my hollow chest.

  Maybe he feels the loss too, because he paces away and then walks back. He runs a hand over his face. Every anxious movement increases my fear tenfold. I thought I was safe now. The monster was slain—both my father and Byron. I’m out of my childhood mansion. I’m no longer in the Grand. I’ve escaped everything I’ve ever been running from. Only I don’t know where to go next. And I’ve come to need a man I shouldn’t have.

  Turns out what I had to fear the most was the man I ran toward.

  “I got involved with some bad stuff when I was a kid. Dealing on the street. Shaking down other dealers. It paid well and kept food on the table.”

  I nod because that’s all I can do. For all the darkness I grew up in, I never knew hunger.

  “I knew I didn’t want that life forever, so I went into the military.” He shakes his head. “All that time and the only useful skills I have are shooting and fighting. My only local contacts were criminals. And Byron was a fucking cop. We were on opposite sides of the law, only he was the one hurting people.”

  I shudder. That much I knew. The upstanding cop, who rose through the ranks. Who had moved to Las Vegas and already made a name for himself. The next police commissioner. That’s what people were saying. How honorable he was, how tough on crime. And meanwhile he was arranging deals in backrooms, setting up busts and taking the credit—and the true criminals were making bank.

  And I was engaged to him. Fucking him. The brother of my sister. Not my brother.

  “And Clara?”

  He looks pensive. “For a long time I hated her. Only when I got older did I really question them leaving her behind. But I knew she had money and a family. I figured what did she need a bastard half-brother for?”

  I flinch at his assessment of himself. “Kip.”

  He waves away my attempt at sympathy. “But then I got word she’d run, that Byron was looking for her. And you too. I knew I had to do something. I wasn’t even sure what I’d do when I found her.”

  I remember our time in the VIP room, on the roof. In the alley. I remember every time we’ve been together. He started out almost sweet.
Conflicted. And then he’d turned hard. He fucked me with his boot and pushed me against a brick wall. And even though it had felt good, it hadn’t been kind.

  “If you came for Clara, to protect her, why didn’t you tell me who you were? Why did you…?”

  I can’t finish my question. I regret even starting it.

  His expression is as grave as I’ve ever seen it. It feels like an apology. It feels like goodbye. “When I found you in the Grand, I realized you might have the clues to find the jewelry. That’s what Byron’s been looking for all this time.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “And you wanted to find it first.”

  “Maybe. Yes. Call it sibling rivalry. Call it stupidity.”

  “Sibling rivalry.” I can’t see him now. There’s only tears. The dark ruddy colors of him in a wavy abstract painting. “Is that why you fucked me too? Because you knew he already had?”

  Silence. That’s my answer.

  I close my eyes tight, squeezing a tear onto my cheek. And then another. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, but it’s too late. I already am. I didn’t want to fall for him.

  I already did. “You must have thought I was so stupid,” I whisper.

  “Never,” he says roughly. “Brave. Strong. Beautiful. That’s what you are to me.”

  “But you didn’t help me, when you found me. Even knowing who was after me. Even knowing I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I thought I could use you to get close to Clara but keep you at a distance. I thought I could fuck you and not care about you.” His eyes are a dark sea, his anguish like waves. They batter me. They break me. “I was wrong.”

  It’s everything I’d known and feared, that Clara is the only one worth saving.

  Not me.

  I don’t even hate Kip in that moment. I hate myself. “I’d like to be alone,” I whisper.

  There is a long second where I think he might not go. Might ignore my request, like he ignored so many before. Then I hear his booted footsteps on the hardwood.

  Then the quiet click of the door.

  * * *