by Max Henry
“What about you?” I ask, understanding what she means about all you know, being all you learn. I mean, look at me, searching out abuse as though it’s air to breathe.
“I’m older by five years,” she says with a sigh. “I knew our real father, the one who skipped out when Dallas was still in Mom’s belly. He loved us, but he didn’t love her—nobody could love her.” Camille shifts her gaze out the window over the counter, pain clear in her eyes. “Our step-father, the one who raised Dallas, would beat him for crying. It’s hard to explain, but there’s nothing creepier than having a four-year-old brother who splits his leg open playing outside and doesn’t shed a tear, let alone cry out in pain. He was conditioned to be cold, switched off, and well …”
“It’s made him who he is today?”
“Yeah.” She sighs, turning and busying herself with the leftovers.
“It’s not right though, what he does,” I say gently. “He can’t kill people on a whim because he had a bad childhood.”
“No, but he’s my brother, April, and I’ll protect him until the day I die.” She lances me with the kind of intense stare that Dallas keeps permanently. “You get that, right?”
“Not really. I’m an only child.”
She nods. “Well, I hope that one day you do understand. But until then, just believe me when I say that if any harm comes to him, I will make Dallas look like a goddamn puppy.”
“What about the people he hurts, though, Camille?”
“If he goes to prison, he’ll get the chair. I’m not sentencing my brother to death.”
“But you’ll sentence complete strangers to keep him on the outside?”
“We have a deal,” she snaps. “He only takes those who deserve it.”
“And who decides?” I ask. “Who decides they aren’t capable of redemption?”
“Nobody knows evil, like evil itself,” Dallas says.
I jolt, unaware he’d returned to the dining room to eavesdrop. He steps into full-view from where he’d been leaned against the junction of the wall and takes the plate from Camille’s shaky hand. “Go sit down, sis.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” she mutters. “Not you.”
“You won’t.” He pulls her close and places a soft kiss on the top of her head.
Relatives or not, I can’t help but be jealous of that kind of adoration. I want it. I need it.
He tells me I can have it—I just have to be on board with what he is.
Talk about an existential crisis.
“April and I will take care of the dishes,” Dallas says, nudging Camille out of the way. “Go have a fucking joint or something.”
“Yeah, sure,” she mutters before heading for the back door.
It closes with a soft click, the silence between Dallas and I excruciating as he stands beside the counter and stares me down.
“What?” I whisper, unable to find strength in my voice.
“You think what I do is wrong?” He folds his arms, one ankle crossed in front of the other as he waits for me to answer.
“Is it not?” I say. “In what world is taking somebody else’s life ever acceptable?”
“You want Terry alive again?” His eyes narrow as a muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Of course not.”
“I’ll ask you again,” Dallas says. “Is what I do wrong?”
“I guess in some circumstances it may be the last resort,” I cede.
“You guess?” He stalks forward until we’re toe to toe. “Just sometimes?”
“Are you saying you’ve never got it wrong? Misjudged a person?” I challenge.
“Of course I have.” His breath is hot as he looks down at me with raw hunger in his eyes.
I’m his next meal, but whether that will be a pleasant experience for me or not, I can’t be sure.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” I’m genuinely curious how it is he keeps so detached. No matter how disturbed a person’s upbringing, how disconnected they made themselves to survive, underneath it all we’re still human—we all feel.
“No.”
I’d believe him if it weren’t for that flicker of truth behind his eyes, that almost indecipherable twitch of his lips. “Liar.”
“How would you know?” he asks as he threads his fingers gently through my hair.
I keep my silence while he softly arranges the lengths over my shoulder, his gaze almost at peace as he focuses on the task at hand. I’m not done with this argument, not done with his arrogance, but this … it’s nice. I’d almost go as far as to say it’s pleasant, having him dote on me in such a way.
“She was right,” he says quietly, eyes still on his fingers as he traces the shape of my shoulder. “I’ve never said I love her before.”
“I knew you were messing with me at the time,” I admit, keen for him to realize I’m not as stupid as he’d like to think.
“Did it bother you?” His gaze shifts to mine, but instead of the usual challenge, I find curiosity. He really wants to know.
“A little.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liar.”
Touché. I chuckle before answering, “Okay. It bothered me a lot.”
“Why?” Still nothing but curiosity.
My cheeks flame under his scrutiny. “Because … because I want all that attention for myself. I don’t like the thought of sharing.”
“Sharing me,” he says, fleshing out the words I was hesitant to say.
“Yeah.” I drop my chin, needing the respite from his unwavering gaze to find a moment to breathe. “Silly, huh? Considering how we know each other and all.” Considering how all his markers scream for me to run.
“How do we know each other?” His palm slides across my chest to rest below my throat. “Tell me in your own words.”
My breath hitches as his fingertips skim the still sensitive flesh. “You killed my boyfriend,” I state. “It all boils down to that, and yet …”
“Yet?” He tips his chin up; those delicious lips parted as he eyeballs the hand at my throat.
“Yet, I still don’t know why. Your sister said you don’t like men who are abusive to women, but that still doesn’t explain why you killed him, why you’re helping clean up the evidence, why you care.”
The last word jars him from his trance, his hand dropping away as he takes a step back. “I don’t care.”
“Yes you do, Dallas,” I press, stepping forward. “You could have shot him in the leg, dumped me at the nearest hospital. You could have walked away completely and carried on with your night. But you didn’t.” I take the chance and reach for him, taking charge for the first time since we met. “You chose to stop and help me. You chose to protect me.” I loop my arms around his neck and link my fingers at his nape.
“I didn’t choose anything,” he bites with a slight twitch in his eye. “I did what came naturally.”
He can’t look away, and neither can I. I want him to realize on his own, that this man he pretends to be, this cold, closed off monster is a lie.
He’s human. He feels. And he loves.
It’s impossible to have a heartbeat and not do so.
“If I left now,” I ask, stepping away. “What would you do?”
He glances down at my arms, as though he can’t understand why I put the distance between us. “What do you mean?”
“If I left,” I say again. “Would you think of me?”
He snorts a laugh, reluctant to give up the tough guy image. “No.”
I play it cool; lifting both eyebrows as though surprised despite the fact my heart hurts. He can’t do it. He can’t put aside his pride to admit the truth—he cares.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, praying he’ll let me do this. “I guess you made up my mind for me.”
“Made up your mind on what?” He runs a hand through his hair, a deep frown marring his beautiful face.
“Whether I should stay. You had a chance, Dallas, to prove I matter, an
d you pretty bluntly told me that I don’t.”
He opens his mouth to protest, for once lost for words as I turn and head for the front door. My heart thunders in my chest, my pulse fat and heavy in my hands as I will my feet to keep a calm, slow pace while I leave him behind.
I have no money. I have no home.
Fuck, I have nothing. But be damned if I’m going to let Dallas strip me of my dignity.
“April!”
SEVEN
The change clinks as I turn it over in my palm; my fingers tumble the coins over and over. Yet all I can see as I stare down at the metal discs is Dallas’ face as he realized that he hadn’t managed to break me—I still had it in me to walk away.
He followed me to the door and then leaned against the porch rail while Camille sat and smoked in the garage. He didn’t step one foot off that property to even try and stop me as I walked my ass out of suburbia and back into the city.
Three hours is all it took for me to beg for enough change to buy something to eat, but this is only the beginning.
Where do I go to from here? I need a job, but I have no clean clothes to appear respectable if I go door knocking. I need somewhere to sleep, but I haven’t been on the streets for years; I don’t know what turf is claimed, and what is free.
I’ve hit rock fucking bottom. My victory is hollow when there’s no reward for what I’ve done.
But what would staying have achieved? I would have given up the last thing I possess, which is my free will. No matter how poor I am, how destitute, I still have the ability to choose what’s right and what’s wrong.
I have morals, even if they do get set aside from time to time to ensure I survive another day. I mean that’s all it was, right? That’s the only reason why I let Dallas puppet me like he did: I needed to survive.
I wish I could believe my lies.
“You decide what you’re after yet, honey?” The lady behind the counter watches me with a blank expression as I run my eye over the cabinet once more.
I picked this café because it was small, tucked away, and the décor was basic. It had all the signs of a cheap place to eat, but either it’s been that long since I’ve eaten out that I’ve forgotten how much a piece of apple pie can cost, or inflation has been worse than I realized.
“I’ve only got two dollars-fifty,” I admit. “I might need to come back later. I’m sorry.”
She reaches out and places her hand over mine as I make a move to get off the stool. “You wait there.” I look up to find only kindness and quite possibly understanding in her eyes. “We’ve got an hour until closing, and between you and me, most of that there ends up in the skip out back anyways.” She gives a conspiratorial wink. “Stick around, and I might be able to slide a bag your way.”
Seven years have passed since I last cried. I know, because I can remember clear as day how it felt watching my things get thrown in the back of a garbage truck when I’d left my spot for too long my first week on the streets. Seven years since something hit me so hard that I couldn’t hold back, no matter where I was or who I was with.
“Hey. Shush now,” she coos, sliding a paper napkin my way. “You ain’t the first homeless girl we’ve had in here. There’s no shame,” she tells me, “only pride in the fact you’re still fighting.”
“Thank you.” I wipe the tears away best I can when they still leak out with each hiccup of my breath. “I promise it’ll be the first and last time; I won’t make a habit of it.”
“I’d rather it were a habit than you starve,” she says matter-of-factly before sweeping away to serve a suited man who looks at me with nothing short of disgust.
I shift my position to the far end of the counter, jammed up against the wall beside the restrooms. My blood runs cold as I catch the reflection of a familiar vehicle in the window between the counter and kitchen. It’s not him. There have to be a dozen or more cars just like his around here. I’m only noticing because now that make and model means something to me. Possibly.
The café fades away around me as I watch the car creep forward in traffic. I daren’t turn around, but what’s the point of hiding when I wear the same clothes I had on earlier? With my next breath caught in my throat, I slowly swivel on the stool and squint a little to try and make out who’s inside.
The car comes to a grinding halt, and the passenger door flies open. I consider running when Camille’s long legs emerge, but I’ve found food here. Free food.
The things we do …
Dallas obstructs traffic, the car behind honking at him to move as Camille enters the café. The bell over the door chimes, garnering the attention of the kind woman behind the counter as the fox also garners the attention of every red-blooded male in the place.
“Come on,” she calls cheerily, as though I’d been waiting on her for a lift. “He needs to move the car.”
“So let him move it.” My skin tingles with the rush of fear-fuelled adrenalin. How long did I think I could get away with this after the threats Dallas made?
Camille doesn’t flinch, and yet the cool rage that settles over her is as clear as day … well, to me it seems, anyway.
“Hey, there,” the dickhead in the suit says, sidling up to her. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“Yeah,” she snaps, her head turning his way with Exorcist-style flair. “And if you don’t back off you won’t have any eyes to see me again.”
He holds both hands up—takeaway coffee in one—and backs away silently.
Camille snaps her attention back my way, right as Dallas lays on the horn. “Now, April.”
“Is this woman bothering you?” the lady behind the counter asks.
I set my change down on the wooden surface and slide it across to her. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. Thank you so much for your kindness.”
She frowns as I stand, evidently unconvinced. Camille marches to the door with a huff as I walk toward her, holding the exit open so I can make my way out to where Dallas now yells over the car from the open driver’s door.
“Come on, already! What the fuck are you doing? Starting a knitting club?”
I weave through the sidewalk traffic and between parked cars, sliding onto the back seat without so much a quick glance in his eyes. If I look at him, I might reconsider, and I don’t know if I can fight the two of them together.
“Took me all goddamn day to find you,” he grumbles as Camille slips onto the passenger seat and shuts her door. “A day I didn’t have to waste.”
“Then why did you?” I ask petulantly as I cross my arms over my chest.
He punches the gas and tears through a red light, leaving me confident I won’t see another sunrise. “Because you’re mine, April,” he snaps, clearly frustrated he has to spell it out. “I own you, and that means you don’t get to just fucking take off when you want.”
“You hardly stopped me.”
“I thought it might be best if I ditched the fucking problem in the trunk first, don’t you?” His firm gaze connects with mine in the rearview.
“You got rid of Terry?”
“Yeah.” He holds an arm out to Camille as we catch up with the rest of the traffic and curls his fingers in a “give me” gesture.
She reaches between her feet and lifts the fucking plastic box I put in the car yesterday, placing it on Dallas’ flat palm. He twists in his seat, eyes on the road still, as he presents me with the gift.
“April, meet Terry version two point oh.”
I take the box from his hand, more so he can use both to drive again rather than because I want to hold Terry in my hands. I don’t know what to say, how to feel … My nightmare of the past six years now resides in my clutches as a pile of harmless ash.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with him?”
“Flush him, throw him over a fucking lake; I don’t care. He’s yours.”
“Let me out up here,” Camille says, pointing to the approaching corner.
I stare down at the one possession I ha
ve in this world as Dallas slows and then stops to let his sister out. How fucking ironic is that? After everything Terry put me through, he ends up being the one thing I own when I’m finally free from him. Exactly. Free from Terry, but not Dallas.
“Get in the front, April. I’m not a fucking chauffeur.”
He doesn’t stay still long enough for me to get out and use the car doors to switch seats, so I set Terry down and climb over the center console, aware my ass is right in Dallas’ face as I slip my legs into the footwell.
“Where are we going now?”
“Home,” he says, eyes on the road as he maneuvers the old sedan around the corner, the muscles in his arms banded with the strain to turn the wheel without power steering.
“Nothing’s changed, Dallas.” I look behind his seat and eye Terry as he slides around on the vinyl. “You’ve done all you need to for me.”
“Everything’s changed,” he grumbles.
I wait for him to say more, to explain what he means when as far as I can see he still doesn’t give a shit about my welfare … but he doesn’t. The remainder of the drive back to the house is silent, even as he pulls the car up the driveway and switches the engine off. I stay put, hands jammed between my knees as he leans back and extends his arm over the back of my seat with a sigh.
“What were you going to do?” he asks quietly.
“When?”
“If I hadn’t found you. What would you have done tonight? Tomorrow? For the rest of the week?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter, my head hung in shame.
Years have passed since I last had to fend for myself in the concrete jungle, and back then I at least had a purse full of carefully saved dollars.
“You’re an easy target, April. You get that, right?”
I don’t answer, too mad to admit he’s right; I’m weak. I’d make an easy play for the more seasoned hustlers.
“Maybe it sounds like a real jackass thing to say,” he mutters as his fingers brush my hair behind my shoulder, “but you’re a pretty girl, no match for a guy who wants what he can’t get anywhere else.”