Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six)

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Love is like liquor,” he explained. “Some people can handle it, use it to make a bad day good or a boring party fun. They can take it or leave it. Let it loosen ’em up and give them a rosy glow. And then there are the others. The ones who can’t handle it, because when they try, it finds all the bad in ’em and makes it worse. They can’t take it or leave it because it consumes them from the inside out. It doesn’t loosen ’em up; it winds them tight. It doesn’t give ’em a rosy glow; it wakes up the darkness inside. I’ve seen the latter. I am the latter.”

  “But—”

  “And like an alcoholic”—he kept on like she hadn’t tried to interrupt—“the only way I know to stay true, stay sober, stay me, is to make sure I avoid the thing that temps me the most.”

  She searched his face for a long time, trying to find a weakness in him, a crack that she could exploit, a way to try to convince him he was wrong. But eventually her expression fell, her eyes dulling with sadness. “Well…then I’m sorry for you,” she said haltingly. “Because I’ve always thought of life as a treasure hunt, and if in the end you have someone to share your life with, then you’ve found wealth beyond—”

  “But I have people to share my life with,” he cut her off. He didn’t want her pity. “That’s been my point all along. I have friends. And I have real treasure to hunt. LT and Olivia found the hilt of a cutlass today.”

  “All hail the king of the really bad sequiturs.” She twisted her lips, and he ignored what the gesture did to the top one, making it plump and pucker. Or at least he tried to ignore it. The pulse in his pants told him he was only marginally successful. Of course, his arousal withered like a grape left too long on the vine when she blurted, “Will you at least tell me how long it lasted before we change the subject?”

  He knew to what it she was referring. “’Til I was fifteen and big enough to stand up to him,” he said. “Or at least until I thought I was big enough to stand up to him.”

  She blinked rapidly. Her little chin trembled. “That’s the ‘except for the once’ you were talking about.” And there it was. The pity he didn’t want. “So, what…” She stopped and swallowed. “What happened when you were fifteen?”

  He inhaled deeply, rolling in his lips. The memory of that day was sharp and painful, like a box covered in switchblades that cut his fingers when he opened it. And he hated talking about his childhood. Never did, in fact. But he’d started this so she’d understand what he was, who he was. And he couldn’t do her the disservice of not finishing it.

  “It was a half day at school. Parent-teacher conferences, I think.” He frowned. “Or maybe it was a professional day for the teachers? Anyway, it was a half day.” And he could still remember it clearly. The crunch of the hard-packed snow under his boots on the walk home. The sweet promise of spring in the cloudless blue sky even though the winter wind still nipped at his nose. The barbecue place on the corner had been winding down after the afternoon rush, but the smoldering smell of its smokers still perfumed the air.

  “After lunch, I walked home and climbed the steps to my front porch. And that’s when I heard ’em. Those sounds that were the soundtrack of my childhood.” He shuddered even now, even after almost twenty years. “It’d been a while because my father had stopped beating on Mom when I was home.”

  “Why?”

  He made a face and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, staring out at the silvery stars dotting the black blanket of the sky. “Probably ’cause when I was twelve I stole Joey Santorini’s father’s shotgun off their mantel and hid it in the coat closet where my mom stashed me when Dad whaled on her. So the next time he started in, I popped out, shoved both barrels in his face, and swore if I ever saw him lay a hand on Mom again, I’d blow his fuckin’ brains out.”

  “Oh, Bran.” Maddy blinked rapidly, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly.

  Bran had to look away. “Yeah, well, he wrestled the gun from me and took it back to Joey’s dad, but I think the warning stuck. I think he believed me when I said if I ever saw”—he stressed the word—“him lay a finger on Mom again, I’d kill him. After that, he was careful to only give her a beating when I wasn’t around. Not that I wouldn’t have killed him even without seeing”—again with the emphasis—“but Mom was always there to stop me after the fact.”

  “Jesus,” Maddy said.

  Yeah. Not even close, babe. There’s a special corner of hell where the devil keeps my father.

  He shrugged. “Anyway, I came home from school early and heard Dad going at her…”

  “Donny, please!” Bran’s mother screamed as he climbed the steps of the porch. The bright winter afternoon was ruined by the crash of something inside the house. “It’s not what you think! I love you!”

  Bran dropped his backpack on the porch, his hands clenched into fists, blood on fire.

  I warned him! I warned him!

  He wasn’t thinking when he wrenched open the screen door and ran inside to see his mother cringing on the floor by the coffee table, a fresh black eye swelling on her pretty face, a cut near her left temple oozing blood over her ear and shoulder. His father stood above her, face contorted in an evil sneer, ham hock of a fist raised and ready to fly.

  “No!” Bran screamed, dismayed when his vocal cords cracked. “You bastard! I told you I’d kill you!” He flew at his father with all the rage inside him.

  “Bran, no!” his mother yelled. “Oh, please, God! No, Bran!”

  Bran barely heard her over the roar of his fury. He landed the first punch and, to his delight, it whipped his father’s head back.

  “How does that feel?” he screeched, his mind numb and at the same time bubbling over with hatred. “How does your own medicine taste?”

  Pow! He hit the sonofabitch again, this time in the stomach, and watched with vicious glee as his father wheezed and doubled over.

  Finally! His old man was getting his due! And Bran was giving it to him! The ache in his knuckles felt wonderful when he landed another blow on his father’s ear. Blood exploded near his dad’s temple from the keys Bran hadn’t realized he’d still been holding. He reveled in the sight, wished he could drink it in and spit it back into his father’s face.

  Red had eased into Bran’s vision upon hearing his mother’s scream. And now he was seeing the world through a crimson film. His heart beat with a terrible rhythm. His lungs burned with vengeance until every breath he took was a hot wind that whipped the fire of his wrath ever higher.

  He lost himself. Stopped being Bran and became a thing that punched and kicked, that bit and clawed, that rejoiced in every drop of blood and every grunt of agony. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to maim. He wanted to kill.

  His father caught him with a punch below his left eye, and it felt like his entire face exploded. Pain radiated up into his head and scrambled his brains. Another blow landed on his jaw, knocking him off his feet. He fell onto the wood floor with enough force to make his tailbone cry out in misery.

  “You little bastard!” his father yelled, spittle flying from his sneering mouth. Bran saw it then. The monster that was wearing his father’s flesh like a skin suit. The ugly, evil thing whose eyes glowed with fury and the ravenous need to hurt.

  Bran recognized it because the same thing was inside him, staring out, wanting to smash his father’s face over and over and over again until there was nothing left.

  “Fuck you!” he yelled, kicking his father’s knee and grinning when his father howled. The grin slipped from his face when his dad booted him in the mouth. His lips split. Blood gushed over his tongue and down his throat.

  “No, Donny! Don’t you dare!” his mother yelled, and Bran looked up to see her launch herself onto his father’s back, clawing at his face.

  Through the haze of misery, Bran’s macabre grin returned. It was the first time his mother had fought back. The first time she’d dared raise a hand
to big Donny Pallidino.

  He wanted to yell, “Good for you, Mom! Good for you!” But his mouth was a mess. And then his father reared back with one of his steel-toed kickers and booted Bran in the head near his right temple.

  That was it.

  Lights out.

  Bran emerged from the memory like he always did. The anger boiling inside him until his skin bubbled. But when he looked at Maddy, at the wetness making her big eyes appear even larger, the monster immediately pulled back until it left no trace of its passing. Not even a shadow.

  “So there you have it.” He shuddered, not surprised to hear his voice had gone hoarse. He’d relived that day a million times in his mind. But speaking the words aloud… That was different. “That’s my wreckage.”

  “Oh, Bran.” Maddy choked on his name, her nose red and shiny. She seemed to hesitate, unsure of what to do or say next. Then she leapt at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and going up on tiptoe to press her head against his shoulder.

  His initial reaction was to shove her away. Shove away the temptation she represented. But for the first time in their history together, her touch didn’t awaken his libido. Instead, it awakened the boy in him. The boy who hadn’t been held in a woman’s arms for any reason other than sex since the last time his mother had hugged him. The boy who, until this very moment, hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the affection, the soothing feel of a sympathetic touch, the sweet peace that came from caring for someone and knowing they cared for him too.

  This was why he couldn’t ruin their friendship. Because this was sweet and innocent. This was good. And he hadn’t had much of that in his life.

  His arms went around her. He buried his nose in her short hair, squeezing his eyes shut. When he breathed deep, he took her scent into him. Maddy. Wonderful Maddy. His friend. His…confidante.

  “I w-wish there w-was somethin’ I could say to make it b-better.” A hot tear escaped her eye and seared his bare skin, but he welcomed the burn. Maybe because he had no more tears to shed himself, and it felt good she was sharing hers in some small way.

  “Just having you here”—his breath ruffled her hair until it tickled his lips—“just having you listen and understand is enough.”

  Her arms tightened around his neck and he suddenly thought, Yeah. We can really do this. We can really be friends. And it was a precious gift. He would cherish it, protect it, treasure it.

  “And that was the only time it happened?” Maddy pushed back to look at him. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks splotchy. At some point she’d shoved her finger in an electrical socket because her hair was standing out in a million directions in chunky platinum tufts.

  And she’s never looked lovelier.

  “When I got outta the hospital,” he told her, his hands around her slim waist, the ring finger on his left hand touching her warm flesh where her T-shirt rode above the hem of her shorts, “she moved us into a shelter for victims of domestic violence.”

  “Brave woman,” Maddy said.

  Bran cocked his head. “Huh,” he mused. “Yeah, I guess… I guess she was. In a way. But she was sick too. They both were. His sickness was his unrelieved jealousy and his ability to hurt the only person who meant anything in his life. And hers was her unfaltering love for him, her inability to see that all the bad things in him outweighed the good.”

  “But she loved you more.” One lone tear clung to Maddy’s lower lashes. It caught a shaft of starlight and shimmered like a tiny, liquid diamond. Cupping her face, he used his thumb to tenderly brush it away.

  “You think?” he asked.

  “I know.” Her little chin jutted out. “Because she stayed for all those years. But the minute he hurt you, she got out.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded slowly. And that ultimately proved to be her undoing. Maybe if I had—

  But no. If he’d learned anything, it was that maybe if thoughts were a waste of energy. He couldn’t change what had happened then any more than he could change who he was now. Some things just were, no matter how hard he might wish they weren’t.

  “Is she…” Maddy bit her top lip and his eyes focused on the gesture so quickly and so directly that he felt like a dog on point. The libido that hadn’t woken upon her touch opened its eyes and stretched. He willed it back to sleep, not wanting to lose the sweet, innocent intimacy of their embrace.

  “Is she still alive?” Maddy finally finished, releasing her lip. But it was too late. The damage was done. All his nerve endings were tingling. His muscles clenched with interest at her nearness. Her femaleness.

  He could have curbed his burgeoning desire, he supposed, by giving her the whole sordid answer to her question. But he wasn’t ready to go that far. Wasn’t ready to share with her just how bad it had really been. So he gave her the Cliff’s Notes version and ignored the voice in his head that accused him of being a coward.

  “No,” he told her.

  “Oh, Bran.” Maddy reached up and cupped his face with both hands. Her fingers were cool and gentle. He was insanely aware of just how vulnerable her mouth looked. How ripe and succulent and ready to be ravaged. “I’m so sorry.”

  He should have felt the same sorrow. But his hurts were old, callused over, and though they still plagued him, the pain had dulled. Besides, want of her was on him now. Need of her. And all he could think about was claiming her lips in a kiss that would blow everything he’d just asked her for, their truce, their friendship, clean out of the water.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, trying to decide if there was a way to extricate himself without making it obvious that he’d once again fallen victim to the passion between them.

  “And him?” she asked tentatively, catching her top lip between her teeth again. His dick flexed hungrily at the sight.

  “Dead too,” he said, dismayed that even thoughts of his father couldn’t dampen his burgeoning lust.

  “Oh, Bran!” she said—it seemed to be a running theme tonight—and threw her arms around his neck. That seemed to be a running theme too.

  Unlike the last time, it wasn’t the boy in him who exalted in her embrace. Oh, no. It was the man. The man who couldn’t deny the feel of her small, soft breasts smashed against his chest. The man who was eagle-eye focused on the warmth of her soft thighs pressed next to his.

  And then it hit him. Her thighs. His thigh. It was the perfect excuse!

  He hissed in a breath.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “My leg,” he said, shuddering in relief when she immediately stepped back. “Adrenaline is an awesome painkiller. But mine has worn off.”

  “Oh.” She glanced down at the dressing peeking from beneath the bloodstained leg of his cargo shorts. It was looking a little worse for wear, the Ace bandage damp and smeared with grime. And he’d probably go straight to hell for lying to her. It didn’t hurt any more now than it had all night. But in a life filled with transgressions, what’s one more?

  “Did I…” She wrung her hands. “Did I bump into it when I—”

  “No,” he assured her. “It wasn’t you.” It’s me. It’s all me. Everything that’s wrong, everything that can never be, that’s all me.

  “I should’ve brought the first aid kit.” She shook her head at herself. “We could go back to the ranger’s station and—”

  “No.” The idea of going back to the ranger’s station where there was an empty bed was as terrifying as it was tempting. “The pain will subside in a second.”

  “Well, at least let me check it.” And then, before he could stop her, she was down on her knees in front of him.

  Chapter 17

  9:22 p.m.…

  Maddy reached for the little metal cleats holding Bran’s Ace bandage in place. But she dropped her hands when she saw her fingers were shaking so badly that she reckoned if she tried to perform her Florence Nightinga
le routine, she’d bumble the whole gosh-darned thing.

  The story he’d told… Sweet heavens…

  She didn’t know what to ask, what to say, what to do. And she was completely overwhelmed by a whole host of emotions. There was sorrow for all he’d endured. Anger at the savagery of a world that had forced him to withstand it all. Helplessness that there was nothing she could do to change what had happened. And sadness that because of his past, she would never get the chance to find out if he was…the one.

  And there it was. She’d been avoiding putting a name to it. The one. Her one.

  Except…he wasn’t. He didn’t want to be. He wouldn’t let himself be. Because of all he’d endured. Because of all this savage world had forced him to withstand. Because there was nothing she could do to change what had happened.

  And around and around it goes…

  She screwed her eyes closed and mourned the loss of him. Which was silly. She’d never had him to begin with.

  But I had the hope of him.

  Opening her eyes, she reached for the soiled Ace bandage, but Bran’s voice, so soft and low, stopped her. “Please leave it.”

  She glanced up and their gazes collided. Just…wham! It was a blow that nearly knocked her on her ass. She flung out a hand to steady herself against the side of the lighthouse. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see in his face, but it certainly wasn’t bone-deep, soul-deep hunger. The kind of hunger that started wars, toppled kingdoms, and changed the history of the world. The kind of hunger that was saved for women like Cleopatra and Helen of Troy, not for Madison Powers.

  All her pain and sorrow and regret were momentarily scorched away by the fire burning in his dark eyes. Every hair on her head stood up as if she’d grabbed hold of a live wire. And her skin felt ten degrees too hot, so hot she wondered if she was feverish, delirious, imagining things.

  “Bran?” Was that her voice? She’d never heard it so husky.

  “Sorry,” he gritted, his jaw sawing back and forth. “It’s just that you were…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You were pressed up against me a second ago. And you’re so soft. And so sweet. And so…everything.” Her heart grew wings and flew right out of her chest. “And now you’re down on your knees in front of me. And we might be friends, but I’m also a red-blooded man, babe.”