by BL Mute
I want to shut the conversation down because he couldn’t be bothered to talk before all of this, but I feel that would be shitty. He’s starting with his dead mom, for Christ’s sake, so I acknowledge and try to keep the conversation going. “I remember that. Not vividly, but I remember seeing Carter upset, and then his brother—you—were just gone one day.”
He nods. “I’m the one who found her.”
I feel my breathing slow. When I was younger, I knew how his mom died—everyone did—but I never understood what suicide really was until I was older. How am I even supposed to respond to his statement? It’s been years, so I’m sure he’s desensitized to the topic in a way, but then again, I wouldn’t know. Do you ever really get over the loss of someone? A parent, no less?
The answer is no. I didn’t even know my mom and I still miss her.
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.
For once, I don’t want to throw out insults or even be mad at him. All I want to do is comfort him and be there for him because I know what it’s like to go through life without a mom while having a shitty dad.
“Don’t be. I was just stating a fact. You wanted to know so much about me, so I figured I would start from the beginning, and that’s it.”
I nod in understanding. “So, what happened?”
I don’t really want the details of his mom’s death. I meant more so what happened after, but I guess he doesn’t pick that up with my minimalistic question. “I came home from school early. I’m not sure what it was, but I had this weird feeling in my gut. At first, I thought maybe it was because Malcolm beat the shit out of me the night before, but the closer I got to our house, the more I realized it wasn’t that.
“I remember opening the door and stepping inside to silence, which was weird. My mom was always playing music to drown out the sounds of my dad hitting her, hoping we wouldn’t hear it.”
He stops, closes his eyes, and gives my foot a slight squeeze, almost like he’s trying to regain composure.
“I did the only thing that seemed logical. I went upstairs to find her. I was almost positive she’d be in bed crying, hiding under the covers saying she was sick so we wouldn’t see the bruises—because that happened a lot—but her bed was empty, and water was running in the bathroom.
“As soon as I rounded the bed to the other side where the bathroom door was, my feet sunk into the carpet a different way. It was like stepping in mud almost. It kind of swallowed the soles of my shoes and felt squishier.” He shakes his head. “Seems really small in this whole story, but it’s so fucking vivid in my mind.”
I readjust my position, moving my feet from his lap, and sit up. “I don’t think it’s stupid.”
He doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge my comment. He just continues. “I remember looking down and seeing the watered-down blood seeping up from the carpet because of my weight and hitting the sides of my shoes. It wasn’t a lot or anything, it just seemed like it. I didn’t even know it was blood at first because most of its red hue was watered down with the constant flow of water spilling out of the tub.
“I knew I should have turned around then, but I didn’t. When I forced my feet to move forward again, I saw my mom, still in the clothes she had on earlier that day, lying in the tub with one arm hanging over the side. Her wrist was slit, and blood was still dripping out. Just small drop after small drop, and I knew I was too late. So, I didn’t move. I stood there and stared at her while the voice inside my head screamed. No matter how much it told me to run, I couldn’t. I was glued to the floor. It wasn’t until Malcolm got home maybe an hour later that I finally budged.”
“Cyrus—”
He promptly cuts me off. “As soon as he walked in and saw the exact thing I had been staring at, he lost it. You would think a man just losing his wife would be sad, or maybe even run to her, but he didn’t. He pounded his fists into me over and over while screaming how it was all my fault. That I was too loud, too messy, too bad. I was the one who sent her over the edge.
“I’m not sure what came over me because I was never brave enough to stand up to him, but that day I did. I stood up, nose bloody and my ribs screaming at me with every breath I took, and I hit him. Not just once. I kept going. We rolled around the wet floor—in my mother’s blood—for what felt like forever. I’m not sure what stopped us, but the next thing I remember is my mom’s body being taken out of the house in a black bag while Carter cried on the stairs.
“It wasn’t even a week later before Malcolm sent me away.”
“Why did he send you away?” I know asking questions and prying probably isn’t the nicest thing to do, but I can’t help myself. From the first moment I met Cyrus, I wanted to know everything there was to know about him, and now he’s finally giving it to me.
He shakes his head, then scrubs a hand down his face. “I need a drink before we continue this.”
I nod and sink further into the couch as he stands and goes back into the kitchen. With Tiny asleep on the love seat and him clearly occupied, I could run again, but I don’t. I need to know the rest. I need to know why he’s the way he is.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CARMEN
He comes back through the doorway, two glasses filled with amber liquid in hand. As he approaches, I straighten myself. “Thank you.” I take one of the glasses from him.
When he plops back onto the couch, he picks right up where he left off. “I couldn’t tell you why he sent me away. Probably because he blamed me for my mother’s death, but what I can tell you is boarding school was tough. They focused more on behavior than actual curriculum, which means they offered a lot of extra classes. Of course, there were the usual sports—football, basketball, swimming—but they also had meditation periods and yoga along with boxing for the kids who needed more than all the other stuff could offer.
“I figured boxing wouldn’t hurt. That way if I was ever faced with my dad again, I could hold my own. At that point, I had every intention of coming back to Bexley and giving him a taste of his own medicine, only I wouldn’t be a kid then and he wouldn’t be able to hurt me, but Ghost found me right before graduation—or an associate of his, rather. Ghost is a ghost. He doesn’t show his face.
“At first, I didn’t think he was serious, but the closer me graduating got, the more persistent he became, and I wasn’t the only kid he reached out to. I mean, the whole thing was kind of genius, really. All the kids at that school were unwanted. They weren’t missed or needed in their family. They just got dumped off to be someone else’s problem for a few years. Ghost took advantage of that.
“Because Mac wiped away my existence to the family, Ghost knew I had nothing, which meant I had nothing to lose. Along with a few of my classmates, he made us an offer we would have been stupid to refuse. Work for him, make ridiculous money, and leave everything and everyone you know behind, only it wasn’t some normal nine-to-five. We already had some knowledge pertaining to his business depending on what classes we took, so our training wasn’t as extensive. He wanted us to focus more on how to get away with what we did than actually doing it, which is why I’m still a free man today.
“His entire network is underground. One of those types of things you have to know someone who knows someone to even make contact. But the world is a big place, and someone always knows someone, so business stayed steady. I knew going into the job that if I kept contact with Carter, it would compromise him, and I never wanted that, so I stayed away.
“I had never mentioned him to anyone before because I didn’t want them to think of me as the shitty big brother who left him behind to endure the same shit I did. Selfish? Yes. But I was young. I thought it was best, and it turns out, it was. At least at first.
“I knew about my dad’s indiscretions because I kept tabs on him as much as I could, just like I did with Carter, but I didn’t know the full extent. It wasn’t until I met Bernard that everything unfolded. Normally, we’re tasked to watch clients for a few
days, or even weeks, before we meet. Learn their patterns, see who they’re close to, all of that so if on some off chance we need it. So, I did that while I waited for Ghost to do a deep dive online for anything else we may need, but Bernard was impatient.
“Instead of waiting for more dirt Ghost’s techs could dig up, Ghost insisted I meet with Bernard then. He didn’t want to lose the money or contract, and I agreed. But it was a mistake. And it wasn’t until Bernard was already dead that Ghost emailed me the file of everything he found. It was clear he and my dad were close. Maybe not in person, but they definitely had a connection online through businesses, bank accounts, and all that. It took me all of five minutes to put the pieces together. I wouldn’t have even needed Bernard’s explanation as to why he wanted Carter dead to know, but it was already too late.
“I’ve held so much guilt over the years for staying away that it just kind of sent me over the edge. I blacked out. The thought of someone wanting to hurt my brother made me see fucking red. It reminded me of how my father was—what he probably did to Carter the whole time I was gone—and I wasn’t going to let that happen again.”
“So that’s the only reason you did it. To protect Carter?” I’m still processing everything else he’s said, so I start simple.
He nods. “And you.”
“Me? You didn’t even know me.”
He shrugs. “I knew enough. After we hooked up, I watched you. I saw you had ties to Carter, and I figured out who your dad was, although I didn’t realize you were his daughter. After seeing you with Bernard, I assumed you were just some sort of call girl making the rounds of Bexley Falls.”
I take a gulp of my drink and scrunch my face. “You seriously thought I was fucking my dad? Gross.”
He shrugs again. “I thought you were fucking my brother too until I saw Lydia.”
I snort. “Carter has never been my type, and if you were watching me, how did you not realize who I was?”
“I didn’t want to dig. I was already feeling myself slipping around you and didn’t want to risk it. I knew if I knew more about you, I would never be able to leave you alone. First, it was only about the connection to my brother. I felt I was closer to him through you in a weird, fucked-up way. But after being with you again, I realized it was more than that.”
“More? What, like you would want to get married and have babies?” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood from our previous conversation.
He’s silent for a beat. “No. I’m infatuated. You’re different, Carmen, and I want to know why.”
His confession makes me look away and take another sip of my drink. “I’m just another Bexley Girl with daddy issues, Cyrus.”
“Yeah? Then tell me about it,” he challenges.
I bring my gaze back to him. “There’s nothing to tell. My mom is dead, and my dad is shit. That’s that.”
My stomach starts to turn because this is not where I wanted the conversation to go. I’ve never unpacked my issues for a reason because I know if I say them out loud, I’ll be forced to deal with them. I’m not ready for that.
“I just told you how I found my mother with slit wrists when I was sixteen and you can’t tell me about yours?”
I groan internally. He has a point. I asked so much from him but never even gave him any of the things I was asking. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just skim the surface. Give him a small glimpse, then lock it all back down.
I roll my eyes. “My mom died birthing me. I never even knew her.”
“And?” He raises a brow.
“And what? That’s it. I didn’t know her.”
He looks at me silently, demanding I continue without even saying the words.
I push my hair behind my ears and take another sip. “My dad boxed up everything that held a memory of her. I never even saw what she looked like. All I have is her last name.”
“Why?”
“Why’d he do it?” He nods. “Because he’s heartless, I guess. He said it was too hard, but I think there is more to it, but I never figured it out.”
“And you just left it at that? You never asked questions?” He seems shocked. “You’re so fucking feisty and demanding and you just let that go?”
I laugh and look away. “Knowing who your dad is, you should be the most understanding. I didn’t want to know because I was scared… Scared he would blame it on me. It’s clear he holds resentment toward me, and I didn’t want to have to face it. His actions are enough to remind me how much he dislikes me.”
“You know it wasn’t your fault though, right? Shit happens all the time.” He squeezes my knee, reassuring me.
I give him a tight smile. “I appreciate your pity, but it technically was my fault. If it wasn’t for me, my mom would still be here.”
“He really fucked you up, huh?”
I turn back to him. “What?”
“Your dad. He fucked you up.” It’s a statement this time and not a question.
I let out another laugh. “I’m reminded how I’m not enough by him constantly. Maybe he doesn’t outright say it, but he shows it. He’s never home, and when he is, all we do is argue. For some reason recently, it’s like he’s trying to change, but the damage is already done. It’s hard growing up craving affection from someone you admire just to be shot down all the time. So, I gave up.”
“That’s why you met me, isn’t it?”
I stare into his eyes. “I just needed to feel wanted. You made me feel that.”
“By chasing you,” he adds.
I nod and drop my head, too ashamed to even look at him. This was supposed to be about him. Him and not me. How it all flipped so quickly I don’t even know.
“Look at me.”
I squeeze my eyes together for a beat and take a deep breath before bringing my stare back to him. “Can we not do this?”
He smirks with a chuckle. “You wanted to know all there is about me but can’t talk about yourself? That’s not how this works, Carmen.”
I shake my head. “It is because I say so. You’ve already taken me against my will, so let me at least have this,” I beg.
“You know, you could have been gone already. The whole trying to run away and letting me catch you act doesn’t fool me. You’re faster and smarter than that. I may have taken you, but you’re here because you don’t want to leave. You’re the one who said I made you feel wanted, and that feeling is too intoxicating to give up, isn’t it?”
I bite my lip, trying to think of anything to say to tell him he’s wrong, but when he reaches out and gently tugs it from my teeth, my skin warms up. Fire ignites in my veins and travels through my bloodstream. I feel my cheeks get hot and my core start to clench with that one simple touch.
“Cyrus…” I start, ready to tell him to stop, but the rest won’t come out. I don’t want him to stop.
“Say it again. Say my name.”
“Cyrus.”
A smile graces his lips. “I love the way it sounds rolling off your tongue.” He leans in, and my body freezes. His lips brush the corner of my mouth, and I swear I melt.
I’m nothing but a fucked-up, needy puddle of lust. Part of it is me, but part of it is the liquor. At least that’s what I’m telling myself because I can’t want something like this from someone like him, can I? Regardless of our whole conversation, he’s still a murderer, a hired one at that, and a kidnapper. But he’s also so pretty to look at with his taut muscles, shaggy hair, and deep brown eyes.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” I finally whisper.
“Why not? It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” he replies, trailing his lips to my neck.
“This is different.”
He stops and raises his head to stare at me. “Why? Because you know who I am now?” I shake my head. “Or because I know who you are now?” My silence is the only reply he needs.
He stands, then grabs me by the wrists and hauls me to my feet. He keeps hold of one arm as he drags me to his room. Once we’re inside, he slams the door a
nd turns me to face it. Hanging off the back is a body-length mirror that reflects everything behind us.
I try to look at everything other than my own reflection and him behind me. His bed is in the center, draped in crisp white sheets. Nightstands sit on either side, completely empty on top, while a chest of drawers lies flat against one wall. Everything is dark and intimidating other than the linen.
“Look at yourself,” he demands, reaching around me to grip my chin and turn my eyes toward my reflection.
All I can see is the small, broken girl that I’ve always managed to suppress. There is no confidence, no happiness. My black hair falls around my shoulders in tangles, my shoulders slouch, and my fingernails are adorned with chipped black polish.
“You’re beautiful,” he starts, and for some reason, it makes me want to cry. “From the top of your hard fucking head, down to the ends of your delicate feet. Every inch of you is beautiful, regardless of your past.”
I bite my lip again and stare at him in the mirror. He’s so mistaken, but I can’t bring myself to tell him that. The only beauty I can see is him. Despite his past, his job, and his stubbornness, he’s the one who is beautiful. Broken but beautiful. The opposite of me.
“Anyone who has never wanted you is stupid—delusional. You’re a fucking siren.”
I turn, letting his hold fall. “You’re the beautiful one, Cyrus.” My words are sincere. I believe them more than anything else in my crazy life right now.
He smirks. “I’m a monster. Nothing else.”
He doesn’t need me to reassure him he’s so much more. No. He’s okay with being a monster. With being a killer and everything else. He’s come to terms with himself, something I haven’t managed to do myself.
“But I have a love for bad things, remember?”
“Even if those bad things include me?” he asks.
“Especially those bad things.” I smile.
Tonight, I got to see him. The real him. The one who is only a product of a shitty childhood and other trauma. The one who doesn’t care how fucked-up I may or may not be, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make my heart flutter.