by A. Marie
My eyebrows lift as he disappears back into his room, taking a bag of cookies with him.
Resting my elbows against the island, I watch Paige sleep. She’s facing the back of the couch, hiding her face from the world—from me—and not for the first time, I wonder what else she’s hiding.
Her back is hanging over the edge, just barely, and I have the urge to catch her before she falls. That thought alone should make me retreat to my room. Let her ass hit the floor. It’d be good for her, dropping without a safety net in place, learning she’s not infallible. Maybe take her down a few notches.
Just then Paige shifts and I’m there instantly with my hands out and ready. Instead of tumbling to the floor though, she rolls to the other side exposing her face and I’m the one that almost collapses.
What in the actual fuck?
My knees actually do buckle and my fingers ghost across her forehead, too scared to touch the wounds. What happened to her? She explained away the split lip as an accident, but this? This is more. This is something else entirely. This is fucked.
My hands shake as they hover over her puckered eyebrows. What if she is in trouble? What if someone did this to her and I’ve just been talking shit to her this whole time adding to the stress she’s dealing with? I thought I made it known that if someone hurt her, I’d handle it, handle them—the piece of shit—but what if our banter pushed her too far the other way?
Regardless, she has to know I’d take care of my roommate.
My roommate.
Marc’s door bounces off the wall in the next instant as I throw it open, then I do something I’ve never done, ever—step up to my brother.
“What the fuck? We done with knocking?”
Marc sits up and I smack the open bag out of his hands. I try not to use my height advantage over my friends, always try to slump a little lower, sit a little sloppier so they won’t feel intimidated, but not this time. This time I stand to my fullest height and let him bathe in my shadow. Make him feel the weight my presence actually carries. Let him fold from the pressure alone.
He pushes off the bed though, not backing down, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough.
“Her face. Talk. Now.”
“Ask. Her. Your. Self,” he grits out each syllable, even breaking ‘yourself’ into two words but, uh, fuck you. It’s one.
“I’m asking you. You sat across the fucking table from her, eating fucking rice and tiny pieces of meat-”
“Vegetables.”
“What?”
“There wasn’t any meat. It was all vegetables.”
I blink twice in rapid succession. What the hell? Don’t tell me the girl’s a vegan, too.
“What-the-fuck-ever,” I say, getting us back on track. One crisis at a time. “You sat there looking at her and you’re telling me you didn’t notice her fucking face? It’s mangled to shit!” I press, my chest as twisted as a pretzel. “What happened?”
“Chill the fuck out.” Dude shakes his head before bending to pick up the now empty bag. “She wouldn’t say exactly,” he sighs. “And I did ask, so fuck you. I’d never let that shit go and you know it.” His hand thumps my heaving stomach and I fight not to rip the goddamn thing off his arm. He is my brother but there’s only so much I can take. “She said it was work related but wouldn’t go into any real detail. I couldn’t tell if she was lying or not. Growing up the way she did though, she can take care of herself, so whatever did happen, I bet she already handled it.”
My eyebrows collide. “What do you mean by that? How’d she grow up?”
“Fuck, you’re stupid sometimes. Pay attention to someone other than yourself for once. Please.”
“Like how you’ve been going over to Kary’s more often? You want me paying attention to that?”
He just levels me with a look that I’d give anything to bottle just so I could unleash it on unsuspecting victims. Under any other circumstance, it’d be funny as shit. Right now though, he can fuck off with that look. Like all the way off, with a saddlebag stuffed full of his bullshit. I’ll even pack it for him.
Instead of picking up the cookies scattered across his bed, he folds the entire comforter inward, catching everything in the middle, before tossing it over his shoulder and walking out of the room like a ripped, tattooed Santa Claus that smokes like the chimney he’s supposed to go down.
He passes by a ton of maps, making them flutter. They’re from literally everywhere and they cover an entire wall of his room, all decorated with differently colored pins. I know some of them are places he’s been, most are places he wants to go, and the others…I have no clue. There are several colors up there but only Marc knows what they mean.
I trail him out to the living room and ask the question I can’t seem to find the right answer to. “What am I supposed to do?”
Marc pauses at the front door, glancing at Paige. “What do you want to do?”
I follow his gaze. Another good fucking question. What do I want to do?
I know what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to be that guy. The one that steamrolls over everyone and everything in his path without stopping to consider what others might be going through, too.
I know I don’t want to be the reason why Paige feels like she has to leave. Not anymore.
“Sorry about that.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, feeling some of my earlier fight leave me.
He nods slowly, working his jaw. “I should’ve warned you. You two have your own shit going on. I didn’t know what to think.”
Wait…
“You didn’t think I did that to her face, did you?”
A humorless laugh fills the room. “If I did, you’d be dead,” he says straight-faced, before closing the door behind him.
Well, ho, ho, fucking ho.
I let the threat go and stare at the cracked doll fast asleep on the brown leather couch. I know what he means. I would slay for what was done to her. I was ready to kill a relationship with my best friend without hesitation.
That realization hits me like a Mack truck. It also reminds me of how Coty used to be when Angela first moved in across the hall. Dude got pissed if we even breathed near her. He was wound up all the time and broody as all hell whenever she’d duck him. It was like living with a pissed off Rottweiler for a while there.
This isn’t the same though. Coty was in love with Angela. He was sick with jealousy. This is different. This is just being a concerned roommate. Marc said it himself—he’d kill me if he thought I hurt her. He has a mother and a sister he loves. It’s only natural he’d want to protect Paige.
But, if that’s true, what’s my excuse? I have neither and yet I feel more protective over Paige than I do my own boys. Why is that?
Paige moans softly then covers her face, making me lurch forward. She winces, dropping her hand but otherwise remains asleep, so I shove my hands in my pockets, rocking from side to side.
“Who did this to you, girl?” I whisper, watching her.
One of the bigger scratches starts bleeding through the goop on her forehead.
“Shit,” I mutter and sprint into her room in search of more ointment. I’m careful not to disturb too much of her stuff but honestly her room is pretty bare. I’ve been in her room before, of course, but my eyes were only for her. I didn’t bother looking around when she was all I saw anyway. There are no decorations, no pictures of family or friends, nothing to explain who she is or where she came from other than her work clothes and moto-gear.
Marc mentioned her childhood and the way she grew up but I’m not seeing any of that. Not here at least.
What am I missing?
Coming up empty, I check the bathroom with the same results. Nothing. Isn’t she some kind of nurse? She should have something, anything, damn it.
In that moment I know exactly what I want to do.
CHAPTER 15
Paige
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a new nightlight plugged into the wall on the opposite s
ide of the living room. I may not spend many nights here but I do know that light wasn’t there before. It reflects off the metal bat next to the alcohol cart which I never really got the story about.
The second thing I notice is an entire pharmacy laid out across the coffee table. Someone went a little crazy at the drug store. My mind jumps to Beckett and I suppress a grin.
Sitting next to a year’s supply worth of gauze is a glass of ice water and a bottle of pain reliever.
I squint in the newly lit room.
Two bottles. One of each kind.
The smile shoves its way through this time.
I slowly sit up on the couch I passed out on, killing the smile almost instantly. Damn, that hurts. Note to self: do not ram your head into a wall. Seems like solid life advice for everybody. Maybe I should write a book. Go on tour. Make a cool mil.
I snort. So stupid.
I guzzle the water, thankful for the cold snap to wake me up, and pop a couple of capsules. Whoever bought all of this put in a lot of thought. Again, my mind conjures up an image of Beckett. I try to wave it away because it’s Beckett. The guy wouldn’t go through this much trouble for anyone let alone me, his…enemy?
On the other hand, I can’t see Marc doing it either. He was concerned during our friendly dinner together but in an impersonal let me know if you need anything way.
Not like Beckett who insists on being in my personal life any chance he gets. Shithead.
My sleep-filled eyes browse the supplies in front of me as I reach up to touch my forehead. Expecting to come away with dry fingers, I’m surprised to find a fresh coat of medicated gel covering the area.
He took care of me. While I was asleep. There’s no way it was Marc. I just know. He would’ve made a bigger deal if he cared that much. Cared enough to not only buy all this stuff but to apply the ointment himself without waking me. No, I can’t see Marc doing that.
But the thought of big, bad Beckett leaning over me, gingerly spreading medicine across my face fills me with a deep longing. A yearning to be seen, to be fawned over, to matter.
Fuck.
Another glance at the nightlight across the room and my gaze gets stuck there until my vision blurs all over again.
Grabbing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the drink cart—I’ve had a craving since the first time I washed my hands here—I rip the front door open and walk outside, bare feet and all.
The pool is empty, as it should be in the middle of the night, so I cop a squat at the edge, not bothering with discretion. The cap is unscrewed and tossed over my shoulder in the next breath. The burn is swift. The flavor is shit. What was I thinking? Jack is never a good idea. I learned that the hard way on my eighteenth birthday.
I take another pull off the bottle, barely managing it without needing to plug my nose. It’s nasty, but a couple more swigs and I can’t even taste it anymore.
Unfolding my legs, I dip my feet into the water. First the toes, followed by the soles, then both feet. My jeans skim the surface and I watch, mesmerized, as the water climbs up the material. The rapid progression is almost overwhelming. How does one drop spread so quickly in such a short amount of time? And so blindly, too? There’s nothing the water won’t reach once it has an opening.
Another gulp of Jack and I dunk my ankles. The wetness climbs higher and higher as my legs sag lower and lower. Soon the water will swallow me whole.
Soon the water will swallow me whole.
Mouth on the bottle, scooting to the lip of the pool, I drop my calves into the biting water. The balmy night air isn’t enough to stave off the cold sensation and my soon-to-be saturated jeans aren’t helping either. Luckily, the alcohol makes everything warm so I tip the bottle to my lips again, dropping my head between my shoulders to get a good amount down my throat in one go.
An outdoor lamp flickers above my head and I can’t help but think it might be its last night in this world, struggling to shine at half power. In fact, it could blink out right now. The bulb could just fade into darkness, never to be seen again, and how many people would care? How long until someone would even notice? Until they realize it was struggling to continue on this whole time? That it tried its best to glow bright for everybody else until it just couldn’t anymore?
I place the bottle beside me and close my eyes against the sudden rush of tears.
It wouldn’t even matter. Not really. Things get taken for granted every day. People get taken for granted every day. In the end, it’d just be one more loss in an infinite sea of loss. A single drop.
Opening my eyes, I blow out a stream of air then press both hands on either side of me, lifting my ass off the concrete, but just as I prepare to slide into the water, a second light catches my eye. This one from my apartment.
It was pitch black when I left.
Except for that nightlight Beckett plugged in…for me.
I release myself back onto the concrete with a humph and feel for the bottle next to me, still gazing up at the sliding door of my back balcony.
Who’s up? And what are they looking for?
Another nip from my illusive friend, Jack, before I slowly tug my legs up one-by-one. I haul both water-logged limbs out of the pool before attempting to stand. The first couple tries end in sloshing. Copious amounts of sloshing. Everywhere.
I finally get it and can stand somewhat straight—the pants really are heavy—while I eye the pool one last time before returning upstairs.
The stairs prove to be another challenge but the handrail helps. A lot. I probably won’t even need a workout for at least two or three months after this.
By the time I reach the top, I’ve lost all feeling in them but I’m almost positive they look amazing—all veiny lumps of muscle.
Eww.
Standing in front of apartment B-26’s door, I blow at a stray hair that escaped my messy bun, only remembering my lubricated forehead when the piece doesn’t move.
Discovering the bottle in my hold is completely empty only worsens finding Marc’s scowling face on the other side of the door once I push it open with more force than necessary.
See? Muscles.
“You’re getting water everywhere,” he points out matter-of-factly.
“What’s you doing?” That’s not right. “I mean, what are you doing?” Better.
His frown dips lower like the emoji and I cover my mouth to keep from laughing.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He’s so pretty it hurts, then he speaks and it hurts even worse.
I whisper, “everything,” without meaning to but when his eyes narrow at my slip, I hurry to ask, “What’s going on?”
He’s standing outside his bedroom door with his shirt off and hello abs.
Oh, but he’s angry. Why?
Then I hear it. I hear him.
“Another nightmare?”
Using my hands, I carefully try to squeeze out my pants legs onto the welcome mat. It’s absorbent, right? Hopefully, because the water just keeps coming. Like ants at a goddamn picnic.
“What do you know about that?” Marc’s tone is razor sharp, like a ruthless wolf.
“Enough.” I shrug, then stumble reaching for the bottoms of my jeans. I manage to catch myself before I face-plant though. Now that would be bad.
“Christ. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
It takes me a while before I can lift my eyes from the empty bottle by my feet.
“Last time he got a nosebleed,” I say finally, breaking the quiet.
“No shit. He does that every time.”
My head whips to him as I straighten, forgetting the pants entirely. “He does? How often is he having these…episodes?” The question comes naturally, like breathing. Once a nurse, always a nurse.
“Enough.” He throws my answer back in my face and my fists ball at my sides. I’m pretty sure they do anyway. There’s still not a lot of feeling in my limbs. It’s all just fuzzy naiveté—like happiness.
“Whatever. I’m
going back to bed. Try not to make a mess.”
Bigger than I already have? The question sits on my tongue long after Marc disappears back into his room.
Since I didn’t actually fix Beckett’s door yet, I’m forced to position my ear near the wood without applying any real pressure while trying to hear inside. Deep breathing resonates through his room so I back away to my own.
“Please! Come back!”
One minute I’m almost to my door, the next I’m on the other side of his. Alcohol’s fun like that. It just transports you without consulting with you first.
Hesitating, I watch Beckett through the dark, wondering what exactly I’m supposed to do. Then I see his hand angrily swipe at his face and I dive across the room and onto his bed without any thought at all. With his hand firmly clutched in mine, I try to lower it but he’s strong—stronger than my alcohol-laden muscles—and makes another swipe at his face. After struggling, and failing, to stop his assault, I stretch my entire body across his arm, wanting to keep him from causing any more damage to himself. His nose looks angry but it’s not bleeding—yet.
His arm finally goes still beneath my torso and I take full advantage of this new vantage point. My eyes roam his handsome face, taking in the blond hair that almost reaches his closed eyes. Long lashes are draped across his sharp cheekbones as his breathing begins to slow.
My breath, however, hitches.
Full lips, that mine remember all too well, purse and I mash my own between my teeth as I continue my perusal.
What’s haunting Beckett to the point of self-mutilation? What has him so worked up that he’d willingly hurt himself, even in his subconscious?
A voice in the back of my mind nags at me but now that all movement has stopped, my head starts to sway like a rowboat in a hurricane, losing sight of anything tangible as I fight to keep my stomach inside my body. It wants out.
I slam my eyes shut against the rocking.
For Caleb’s twenty-first, Jesse booked the family a fishing trip and I got so seasick I almost fainted. The captain had me lie down on one of the bench seats and I accidentally dozed off sometime later. While it sucked missing out on the festivities, the relief my little nap provided was downright euphoric.