by Jory Strong
It looked like maybe he was arguing with Jordão. She didn’t really like Jordão though he was popular too. A lot of kids she knew had major ‘I’m hot shit’ issues, but he was the worst, probably because he was a diplomat’s son and knew he could do anything, and the only thing bad that might happen to him was being sent back to Brazil by his parents or getting kicked out of the country by the U.S. government.
Jordão turned toward them and waved. Caitlyn gave a little scream and the car sped up.
“Stop! Stop!” she said when Jordão stepped into the street. Her cheeks burned but it would be worse if they raced past and Adam or Jordão ended up telling everyone she and Caitlyn had been following them. How pathetic was that.
Caitlyn stopped the car. Jordão and Adam came over.
“Pretend it’s coincidence,” she whispered to Caitlyn as they both rolled down their windows.
Her heart was going a mile a minute. She thought she might faint when Adam leaned down so his face was only inches away from hers, close enough she could taste the beer on his breath when he said, “You bailed on the party, too, huh.”
She blushed and hoped the darkness in the car hid some of the redness. They must have known all along they were being followed.
“Yeah. We bailed.”
“Our lucky day,” Jordão said from the other side. “Come in with us?”
She sent a pleading glance in Caitlyn’s direction before Caitlyn could say anything. “Please,” she mouthed to Caitlyn. Out loud she said, “We can only stay for a few minutes.”
“A few minutes would be great,” Jordão said. He gave Caitlyn a huge smile. “I’ve been trying to hack into a site. I could use some advice.”
It was the magic thing to say. Caitlyn relaxed totally. She could talk all night about computers.
They parked the car and got out. There was music coming from the house, but it wasn’t blaring.
Inside there were only three guys. Adam introduced them as Mason, Owen, and Carter. One of them, Owen, looked vaguely familiar but she wasn’t interested in knowing him better.
“Party’ll get going soon,” Jordão said. “Get you girls a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Beer? Rum and Coke?”
She didn’t want Adam to be embarrassed hanging out with her. “Beer.”
“Just Coke,” Caitlyn said.
“One beer, one Coke coming up.”
He disappeared along with Adam and the boy named Mason. When they came back, everybody sat on the couch, listening to tunes.
Heaven. It felt like heaven to be sitting next to Adam.
Slow dancing felt even better. She didn’t protest when Adam started touching her. Little sparks of fire burned in her breasts and between her legs even though a part of her said she should make him stop, or at least make him take her somewhere private.
She wanted to be with him. She wanted him to be her first. But not like this.
“Finish your beer,” he told her in between kisses. His lips were incredibly soft.
She finished it, the bottle falling out of her hand and onto the carpet. She wanted to fall, too.
Another beer was pressed into her hand. She watched it lift, a hand covering her hand and couldn’t seem to make herself resist, even when she realized it was Carter’s hand instead of Adam’s.
Confusion filled her. When had she stopped dancing with Adam?
She opened her mouth to say she didn’t want more beer but ended up swallowing it instead. She couldn’t help herself.
And then Carter was leading her to a bedroom. A scream welled up inside her at seeing Caitlyn naked on the bed with Jordão on top of her. This was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Carter pushed her down on the bed next to Caitlyn. She tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. But it was.
Jordão rolled off Caitlyn and Mason got on top of her. She felt her clothes being removed and tried to protest. She thought she said no, even when she saw it was Adam above her, but she couldn’t be sure.
It hurt. Inside and outside.
And when he was done, Carter was there. Then Owen.
She went away in her head and came back—
The scene skipped to the hospital and the abrupt shift was enough to cause Etaín to break the contact.
She swayed. Dizzy. Aware of a ringing in her ears, of her face wet with tears. Nausea building, not guilt but a reaction to what she’d just lived through.
The urge to explode in a fury of violence followed, only calming when she noticed how easily Brianna slept now. Reaching out, she dared to touch her again and found a measure of peace. The guilt was gone, as was the desire to die.
Etaín went to the desk where the sketch pad lay open, the pencils next to it. She hadn’t intended to do this here, but with Denis in possession of the ending scenes, there was no reason to do them elsewhere and every reason to get this behind her.
She sat, distancing herself from Brianna’s reality by drawing, turning the memories into images on paper. And then, when she was done, by forcing them into a mental prison and walling them away, using will to do it. Brianna was better off without them.
She glanced one last time at the girl on the bed before leaving the room. Surprise, longing, caution coming from an instinctive need for emotional survival, all slammed into her at seeing Cathal waiting there.
“I’ll get Denis,” the man who’d escorted her into the house said.
The nurse slipped into Brianna’s bedroom, leaving only the two of them in the hallway.
Need ripped through Cathal with proximity to Etaín. When he was away from her, he caught himself wondering if her impact on him could possibly be real. But when he was with her, his cock made sure there was no room for doubt.
“I guessed you might be heading here,” he said, speaking when it became clear she didn’t intend to, finding he didn’t want to dig himself deeper into the mire of conscience and duty and the acts committed out of protectiveness, with an outright lie.
She shrugged, affecting a casualness at odds with what he’d seen in her face when she’d stepped out of Brianna’s bedroom and found him waiting there. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from jerking her to him and delivering a kiss that would force a return to the intimacy they’d shared at her apartment.
“I called you back immediately. All I got was voicemail.”
She glanced away, one of her rare tells, and he knew she’d been aware of at least one of his calls and chosen not to answer it. A tightness formed in his chest, reverberating in his gut as silence stretched like a taut wire between them.
He wondered if she would lie. She shrugged again and said, “There didn’t seem to be any point in talking.”
As he had after the ill-advised breakfast at Aesirs, he tried humor. “I can hardly grovel if you don’t take my calls.”
She met his eyes and he knew she wouldn’t let him off the hook this time. “What was going on with you?”
There it was. And whether he intended it or not, the truth spilled out between them. “Did you go to Eamon last night?”
“Not consciously. Not that it matters. Not that you’ll believe me even. But yes, I ended up with him. I stayed the night with him.”
Why Eamon and not me? The question howled through Cathal but pride kept him from asking it.
“I’ll stop seeing him when I decide to stop. Not before then and maybe not for a while. Don’t call me if you can’t accept that.”
There was no defiance in the words, no challenge. Only a sense of defeat that helped him control himself though he couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice when he said, “So that’s it? Your way or no way?”
“I can’t change how it is.”
She started to turn away and panic seized him. He grabbed her, hands closing around her upper arms. “Make me understand, Etaín.”
Before she could answer Denis appeared at the top of the stairway without his soldier. “I’m not going to let this discussion drop,” Cathal warned, a d
ifferent worry consuming him as his uncle neared.
He released Etaín, though his hand settled at the base of her spine, and despite the churn of emotions inside him, he didn’t bother lying to himself by claiming he did it only to send a message to his uncle.
“When will I get the rest of the drawings?” Denis asked.
The question was a kick to Cathal’s gut. An accusation as he looked from his uncle to Etaín.
“You can have them now,” Etaín said.
The dead calmness of Denis’s voice after probably having looked at the first set of drawings made her wonder if he intended to take them to the police. Not my business, she thought, dismissing the question.
She offered him the tablet but found she couldn’t release it without meeting his eyes, without reminding him there could be consequences if he allowed himself to act on the emotions she knew churned inside him. “Brianna needs you to be there for her.”
He didn’t give a hint of his intentions away, just said, “I am. I will be,” before accompanying them to just inside the front door and returning the favor by giving her a warning. “You might want to stay clear of Stylin’ Ink for a few days.”
Every muscle tensed. “Why?”
“Media is camped out there. News story just broke and they’re trying to get a look at the woman they think is helping the Harlequin Rapist taskforce.”
“Any pictures of me circulating?”
“No.”
“Good. Thanks for letting me know.”
Denis placed a hand on Cathal’s shoulder. “A moment of your time.”
It was the perfect opening for her to leave. “I’ll head out now. I’ve got a funeral to go to.” There was no reason to avoid it and if she was careful she wouldn’t be noticed.
A quick in and out to show Jamaal the drawing, then she’d figure out what she’d do next. She couldn’t bolt until after the fund-raiser. But maybe then she’d head to LA or Vegas and do a stint as a guest artist.
Cathal didn’t let her escape that easily. He turned her toward him, taking her mouth in a possessive storming, reaffirming what he’d said moments earlier, that they would return to their discussion about Eamon.
She didn’t know what she’d tell him. What she could possibly say that would make him okay with her being with Eamon and with him, but she wanted to find those words.
Days ago even the thought of a long-term relationship would have scared her. But with the electric hum of desire coursing through her, it was hard to think of anything beyond getting naked so skin could touch skin.
Cathal ended the kiss and let her go, reluctantly. His uncle waited for the sound of the Harley’s engine before saying. “You need to stay away from her now.”
“I could say the same to you. She’s my concern, not yours.”
Something moved through Denis’s eyes. There and gone too quickly for him to read it.
“Think, Cathal, with your head instead of your dick. Consider what might happen if some news reporter snaps off a picture of her with you. You want to give them a face to go with the name they’ve already got? You want her family to see who she’s associating with and reel her in? Ask questions? She doesn’t need the danger being identified with you would bring her.”
Denis’s voice was smooth glass delivering a truth Cathal wanted to ignore. He was often photographed, especially when he took a woman somewhere other than Saoirse.
And beneath the truth was a message it would be foolish to ever forget. If Etaín talked, implicating his father and uncle in any way after they’d delivered their brand of justice, they’d have her killed.
He didn’t think he’d be able to turn Denis away from his chosen course, but for Etaín, he had to risk trying. He glanced down at the sketchpad. “There’s her father to consider. Her brother. They would be willing to take action.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“I’m going to see her again. I’m not going to let anything happen to her.”
“Then be careful. And make sure she is. Everybody knows this Harlequin Rapist is going to take another woman.”
A chill swept through Cathal. Fear for Etaín, that his uncle might already be thinking of a way to cover her disappearance. Meanings within meanings or just the usual paranoia, he couldn’t be certain what was behind Denis’s warning.
Sean’s assertion that sharing Etaín with Eamon might be necessary to keep her safe sliced through Cathal’s chest like talons and dug into his heart. “If that’s all, I need to get to Saoirse.”
Denis clapped his nephew on the back. “Go. Your father’s proud of what you’ve accomplished. So am I.”
He turned from the door after Cathal’s departure, mind seizing with the sight of Matt coming to an abrupt halt at the top of the staircase. “Clara said come quick.”
He took the steps at a run. His heart pounding the way it had when he’d raced to the pool.
The hallway telescoped into a kaleidoscope of images from the past. Of the dead.
He braced himself. Prepared for the worst, his throat clogging as he stepped into Brianna’s room, then clogging further at discovering her awake, her eyes clear and comprehending, seeming huge in a face that was still gaunt and pale from her attempts to starve herself.
“Dad? I want to get out of bed but she says I can’t. What’s going on? Why do I have catheters in my arms and this thing my stomach?”
Tears streamed down his cheeks then, and he didn’t care they were witnessed. He rushed to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed and gathering her into a hug, trying to be gentle in spite of the fierce, wild emotions boiling inside him.
“You’re crushing me,” she said, the laughter in her voice and the way she hugged him making the tears fall harder.
“Some privacy, Clara.”
The nurse left them.
“Dad, what’s going on?”
Fear now in her voice. Worry. And it was intolerable to him.
“What do you remember?” he asked, aware of the sketchpad he’d dropped on the floor in his haste to get to Brianna, the hair on his arms and neck rising again because of Etaín.
“I . . . I went to Caitlyn’s house.” It ended in a whisper. “What happened, Dad? Please tell me what happened.”
Nothing. Nothing. Everything inside him wanted to shield her from the truth. How could he tell his baby girl that she’d been raped, violated?
He closed his eyes, willing the tears to stop and praying for answers. He couldn’t go through what he’d just gone through. He couldn’t lose her again.
Her arms tightened on him. “Did Caitlyn and I go somewhere?”
Her question helped him find his way, like a man in an abyss following a faint, faint light out of it. “Yes, but I don’t know where.” Not the full truth but enough for now. “You were found in her mother’s car, overdosed. Caitlyn died without regaining consciousness.”
Sobs wracked Brianna, so violent he opened his mouth, ready to call for Clara only to shut it when he imagined the nurse drawing a syringe. He couldn’t stand the thought of having Brianna sedated again.
Her cries ripped through him, but as bad as they made him feel, this was better than before. She was clinging to him, her tears wetting his neck and soaking his shirt.
“You’re going to be okay,” he told her, over and over again, rubbing her back, rocking her until exhaustion left her limp and her sobs became tiny gasps of sound.
He leaned forward, settling her onto the mattress and pulling the covers up to her chin. There was bruising beneath her eyes and he cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the dark stain of undeserved suffering. “Sleep, Brianna. Clara will come back and sit with you.”
She grabbed his hand before he could stand. “We wouldn’t have taken drugs on purpose.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“I don’t remember any of it, Daddy.”
“It’s better that way. You’ve been . . . lost in your own mind. Now all that matters is what happens from thi
s day forward.”
He reached down, picking up the sketch pad before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep now. I’ve got some business I need to attend to.”
Twenty-two
Etaín blended easily into the streams of people heading toward the church DaWanda attended. She’d been there a couple of times before, for a client’s wedding and then to listen to one of Jamaal’s cousins sing.
It sat on the corner, a building originating as a church rather than a converted storefront as several others on the block had. The people making their way toward it were a mix of races, some dressed up and some dressed down.
The media waited in force. Policemen were visible, too, officers in uniforms and a few others she recognized in plain clothes.
She’d braided her hair and tucked it under a ball cap blocks away where she’d left the Harley. Still, as she neared the front doors, she ducked her head and hunched her shoulders, attaching herself to a cluster of people to pass unnoticed into the church.
It was already standing room only inside.
The sight of the casket at the front made her shiver. In the pockets of her jacket, she curled her hands into fists, the vines along her arms seeming to whisper as she fought to keep Tyra’s reality from overwhelming her.
Looking away from the dark box, she pushed further into the packed church, searching for Jamaal. Sweat clinging to her skin from the growing heat of so many people crammed into one room.
Finally she spotted him, seated near the front next to DaWanda and impossible to get to. She maneuvered to a place where she thought she’d be able to intercept him at the end of the service.
He felt her stare and turned his head. Their eyes met. Are you fucking insane? he mouthed.
She used hand signals to indicate she needed to talk to him. He held up his phone but she shook her head.
The music grew louder, blanketing the hushed murmur of hundreds of conversations before ebbing into silence.
The service began.
A homegoing, they called it.
It became harder and harder to hold back Tyra’s stolen reality as they talked about her life. Her struggles with addiction and victory over it. Her hopes and dreams and her faith.