Combative Trilogy

by McLean, Jay

  She giggles into my chest, her breath warming my skin. “You think we can have a taco night when you get back?”

  “If you want to, sure.”

  “You can invite Tiny, and I’ll invite a few girls from the salon. Make a thing of it.”

  “It sounds perfect,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head. And in a way, it kind of does.

  Too bad I won’t be around to witness it.

  Chapter 42

  The door to the booth clicks open, and an older woman walks out, her coat held tightly in her grasp. She’s whispering words, words I’m familiar with, but could never recall off the top of my head.

  I look around me, noting that I’m the only one left. I’d been holding off, knowing that what I need is going to take time. Getting to my feet, I pull the cuffs past my wrists and stretch out my neck. Then I go to the booth, inhaling one last, long breath before opening the door. The space is small, meant only for one. Or two, if you include the person on the other side. I wait, unsure of what to do, and then a small window opens, the divider enough to hear, but not clearly see the person on the other side. I wait for him to speak first, but seconds pass, almost a minute, and so I break, clear my throat. “I’ve never done this before,” I mumble, my voice rough from lack of use. “What is it I’m supposed to say? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned?”

  The priest laughs once. “For I, the Lord, your God, am a jealous God, inflicting punishment for their ancestors’ wickedness on the children of those who hate me, down to the third and fourth generation; but showing love down to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.”

  My eyes narrow, my mind spinning. What? “I’m sorry. I have no idea what that means.”

  “The passage is from Exodus. Maybe you should study your faith a little closer, Nathaniel.”

  I smile to one side. “Aren’t these booth things supposed to be anonymous?”

  Father Gallo laughs under his breath. “You finally moved back to New York?” he asks.

  “Nah.” I look down at my hands. “I’m just visiting.”

  “Ah. So, it looks like I’ll be taking a few more trips to Philadelphia before I die.”

  “You got a hell of a lot more life left in you, Uncle Ezio.”

  When I hear his door open, I do the same. He meets me on the other side, greets me with a hug reserved only for family.

  When he pulls back, he scolds, “Don’t say ‘hell’ in my church.”

  “Shit.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t fucking curse either.”

  I laugh as he leads me toward the church doors, throwing a coat on before stepping outside.

  Uncle Ezio’s the only surviving family I have, but I didn’t know about him until a couple of years ago. He’s my nonno’s brother, which technically would make him my great uncle, I think. When Ezio chose the church over the life of crime, he became estranged from the rest of the family, as well as The Family. As a kid, I don’t recall anyone ever mentioning him, so when he found me in Philly, I was suspicious. I had every right to be. He approached me on the street, blasting my name as if I were God himself, and then he started cursing, telling me he’s been looking all over for me. That’s when I noticed the white collar around his neck. I thought he was crazy. Swear, Tiny was two seconds away from punching him straight in the jaw. He sure as hell wasn’t like any priest I’d ever met. And that made me curious... so I let him buy me a drink. He drank too much. Smoked too much. Swore too much. He was everyone’s favorite uncle at the tail end of Christmas Day. I liked him, but I didn’t believe him.

  And then he showed me a picture of my parents on their wedding day.

  Uncle Ezio knew things about my life, about my mom and dad. Even though he wasn’t around, he kept a heavy watch on us from a distance. It didn’t matter that he was a priest; he was still a Gallo, and that name was infamous. Especially on the streets of New York. People still feared and respected him the way they did my nonno, and that—that gave him the best of both worlds.

  He said he and my mother kept in contact after her dad passed, but it was kept quiet, just between them, just how they wanted it. He had possession of photographs of me she’d sent him, along with many, many handwritten letters. I recognized her writing right away. A lot of the letters spoke about me, and he let me read every single one. Then he offered me the same thing he’d offered my mother when she was alive. He offered an out, a way to escape. Because even though he had an entire congregation beneath him, he didn’t have a family. We were it for him. And he swore he’d do whatever he could to help us. Whatever we wanted. Whenever we needed it. That’s when I knew that I could trust him.

  “So, tell me,” he says, smiling and nodding at the people we pass on the busy Brooklyn streets. “What gives me the pleasure of your company, my nephew?” he asks, lighting up a cigar.

  “I need you to come back to Philly with me.” I hesitate to add, “That’s part one of four.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  I half turn to him. “Isn’t that considered cursing for you?”

  “Hey, don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  I chuckle. “Sorry.”

  “Besides, I don’t go to your place of business and knock the cocks outta your mouth, you little whore.” I bust out a laugh when he gets me in a headlock. “Come on. You better feed me a feast with all your illegally earned money before you tell me the rest.”

  Chapter 43

  “Here,” Brent says, handing me a mug of fresh coffee. It’s the least he could do considering he forced me out of the comfort of a nice, warm bed (and a nice, warm Ky) at the crack of dawn to bring me to his house. Perceval’s here, too, looking as disheveled as I feel.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Brent answers, sitting on the couch opposite me. He rubs at his eyes as he says, “DeLuca wanted to meet us all. Says it’s important.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t expected to see Nate. I’d been keeping my distance, not responding to his calls or messages, doing everything I could so that we didn’t cause any more hurt to the people we care about with our actions. Even at the club the other night, I tried not to make eye contact with him. It was better this way. Safer.

  Perceval shuts the screen of his laptop and carries it under his arm as he stands up. “I’ll be in the evidence room. May as well get some work done since I’m up.”

  I sip on my coffee, my eyes catching on a book on the coffee table. “Is this yours?” I ask Brent.

  “Uh-huh,” he says. “It’s an interesting read.”

  I pick it up, inspect it. “Stockholm syndrome?”

  Nodding, he asks, “Have you heard of it?”

  “No.” I flip the book, look at the back. “What’s it about?”

  Brent places his coffee on the table between us and leans back on the couch. “In 1973, a man named Jan-Erik Olssen walked into a bank in Stockholm, Sweden, and took four employees hostage.”

  At the last word, I drop the book back on the table. I already know where this is going, and I don’t like it.

  “There were three women and one man,” he adds. “He kept them there for six days, and nobody really knows what happened during those six days besides the people in that building, but by the end, those hostages were on his side. The women were charmed by him and the man—he wanted to be him.”

  “Sounds… interesting,” I mutter, staring down at my coffee.

  “It’s this rare and bizarre psychological phenomenon that professionals have spent years trying to pull apart—hostages somehow forming an alliance with their kidnappers, some of them even falling in love with them.”

  I lift my gaze, lock my eyes on his. “You think I’m a rare and bizarre psychological phenomenon?” Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s the simplest explanation for what Nate and I were.

  “I’m just trying to understand you, Bailey,” he says with a sigh. “I’m trying to get inside your head.”

  “There’s n
othing to understand,” I defend. “And if you wanted to know, you could’ve asked.”

  “I didn’t even know who he was to you until recently. You kept that a secret from us. From me, Bailey. I thought…”

  I look up at him through my lashes, my chest aching at his admission. “You thought what?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought we were more than that.”

  We were. We are. “You’ve been my pillar throughout all of this, Brent. You know that, right?”

  His smile is sad. “I’ve tried.”

  “You found me at my weakest and you—you gave me the strength to move forward, to be here right now. But… I’ve been in that situation before—”

  “With him?”

  I nod.

  “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”

  I swallow my nerves. “Yes,” I whisper.

  “And now?”

  “Now what?”

  “Are you still in love with him.”

  “He’s married.”

  Brent shakes his head. “That’s not what I asked.”

  I feel the panic rise inside me. Luckily, a knock on the door saves me from responding. But then Brent opens the door, and Nate appears, dressed in dark jeans and a gray long-sleeve tee, his cap pulled low on his brow, and that panic returns twofold. So do all the emotions and feelings I’m harboring.

  I don’t want to feel this way when I see him.

  I don’t want to have my mind race or my heart ache or my fingers twitch to touch him. And I don’t want to have my entire body remember what it felt like to have him near me, his arms around me, keeping me safe.

  Nate’s eyes meet mine before he even says a word, and he nods once, his features void of emotion. “Madison.”

  It’s as if we’re strangers now, and that… that stings. Heart heavy, I return his gesture, “DeLuca.”

  Stepping inside, he waits for Brent to close the door after him before saying, “We had to take separate cars. Tiny and Ashton are on their way.” He doesn’t look at me when he says this, and I don’t care that he doesn’t. What I do care about is—

  “Ashton’s coming?” It’s Brent who asks because I’m too busy dealing with my impending fear.

  I don’t want to see her, don’t want to be trapped in the same room as her. Once was enough, and now they’re going to be here together, and I stand up. “Can I talk to you?”

  Nate’s eyebrows shoot up. “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  He shrugs, adjusts his cap. “I don’t know. The last few conversations we’ve had haven’t exactly been pleasant.”

  I stomp over to him, grab his arm, and drag him down the hallway toward a bedroom. Then I slam the door shut. “You’re feisty,” he mutters, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He looks around. “What is this room?”

  “It’s my old bedroom.”

  One eyebrow lifts. “Huh. So, this is your old bed?”

  “I slept on the floor. The bed wasn’t—” I shake my head, try to regain my composure. “Why is Ashton coming here?”

  He shrugs, so nonchalant. “Because I asked her to.”

  “And she does everything you ask her to?”

  “Does Parker?”

  I cross my arms, let my growl die in my throat. “Speaking of Ky… you hurt him pretty bad, you know.”

  He gets to his feet, starts looking through the room. There’s nothing here for him to find. “That was Gunner. I didn’t touch your boyfriend.”

  “You made Gunner do that!”

  Nate’s brow pinches when he picks up a greeting card with a drawing of a phoenix. “What is this?”

  “It’s a phoenix,” I tell him, losing my steam.

  He blinks. “What does it mean?”

  “Brent got it for me. It’s a joke. You know… phoenix rising from the ashes equals me… because I’m technically dead.”

  Nate runs his thumb across his bottom lip. “Rise of the phoenix,” he murmurs. “Got it.”

  I bring us back to the point. “He can’t fight anymore.”

  “Who?” he asks, placing the card back down. “The phoenix?”

  This time I let the growl burst from my chest. “Kyler!” I ignore his smirk. “He’s hurt so bad he can’t fight. What was the point of that? Are you trying to prolong this?”

  He scoffs, his tone solemn when he says, “That’s the last fuckin’ thing I want, Bailey.” Then he sits back on the bed, flips his cap backward so he can look up at me. “I didn’t know Gunner was going to mess him up that bad. I’ll call your boyfriend and apologize if that’s what you want.”

  My shoulders drop; so does my facade. “I just want to know why Ashton’s going to be here.”

  “Because we need her to be.”

  “We or you?

  His lashes lower. “What’s it to you, Bailey?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur, pressing one bare foot on top of the other so I don’t run. “It’s just… she’s innocent in all of this, and I don’t want to drag her down.”

  His eyes snap to mine. “What? Like I did with you?” Why is he being so damn combative? “Besides,” he adds, “you were with her all of ten minutes, and now you think you know her?”

  “Fuck you.” I start to leave, but as soon as my hand touches the doorknob, he grabs my arm, spinning me to him. He closes the distance, pins me up against the door.

  I should scream.

  I should fight.

  I do neither.

  Because I’m not afraid of him.

  I never have been.

  “I’m just doing what I was asked,” he states, staring me down. “Not as well as you, though. You’re doing a fine good job of distracting Parker.” He leans in closer, his mouth to my ear. “But I don’t recall the part where you were asked to sleep with him.”

  Anger burns in my gut…

  While lust burns in my soul.

  “I’m not sleeping with him,” I whisper.

  “No?” he almost laughs.

  “No.” I lift my chin. “It hasn’t come up. Maybe because he doesn’t have me locked in a basement so he can fuck me whenever he wants.”

  His jaw tenses at my words, the muscles in his neck cording as his eyes darken on mine. Then with a single blink, he slips the mask back on. He takes a step back, his gaze dropping when he reaches around me, starts to open the door. It’s me who stops him this time. “Wait.”

  His hand drops. “For what?”

  I move around him, giving myself space to breathe. “Just… wait.” I start pacing, trying to gather my thoughts. “Have you heard of Stockholm syndrome?”

  “Jesus,” he murmurs, running a hand down his face.

  “Have you?”

  He leans against the door. “Yes.”

  “Do you—” I choke on an unexpected sob and clear my throat. “Do you think that’s what I had?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Is that what you think?”

  Shrugging, I chew my thumb, my mind racing as I sit on the edge of the bed. No one can open me up the way Nate does. No one. Not even Kyler. And that—that’s the crux of all my dilemmas. “I like to think that we fell in love like any two normal people do.”

  He pushes off the door and sits down next to me, his leg brushing mine when he drops his head in his hands.

  I release my unspoken thoughts. “I think it started with an attraction, and it led to this need for each other. And that need turned to love. And that love was all-consuming. That’s normal, right?”

  He glances at me through thick lashes. “Yeah, Bailey. It is.”

  “It was the most normal I’d ever felt—those moments with you.”

  He sniffs once—the sound of heartbreak. Then he presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, holding them there a moment before looking up at me. “Why are you doing this?” he mutters. “Why now?”

  “Because I need to know if you felt the same.”

  “You know I did.”

  “Then why…” It’s impossibl
e to fight back my heartache, and I release it in a sob, in a single tear. “Why did you want to get rid of me?”

  “Bailey…” I’m in his arms before I can protest. “Goddammit.”

  I push him away. “You knew, Nate. I told you everything about me. You knew how I’d been treated my entire life. I was discarded by everyone, ignored and thrown away like a piece of trash, and then you do the same, and somehow, I’m supposed to go on with the rest of my life feeling as though there’s nothing wrong with me!”

  He’s on his feet, his hands balled at his sides. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Bailey. Fuck.”

  “Then, why?” I shout. “Why would you—”

  “Because I was killing you! Because that love you felt for me was destroying you! Do you even remember what happened that last day?”

  My heart stops, fresh tears falling from my eyes, and I shake my head.

  “I came home that day, and you were naked, sitting in the goddamn bathroom, counting those fucking tiles. You didn’t even hear me coming, didn’t even notice me standing next to you. You may have been there physically, but in here”—he taps at his temple—“you were so fucking gone, Bailey. So lost. Being in there, being with me, it was killing you!” He curses when he wipes away his liquid pain. “I picked you up off the floor and held you in my arms, and I looked at you, right into your eyes, and you know what I fucking saw?” He takes a breath. “I saw my mother.”

  Another cry bursts from my throat.

  “I was ten years old again, and I’d just killed her. And she stared back at me, her eyes open while she took her last fuckin’ breath… and they stayed that way, dead and lifeless, just like yours!”

  “Nathaniel…”

  He presses his hands to his ears. “Don’t call me that right now!”

  I wait, watching as he closes his eyes, takes a few calming breaths to try to pull himself together. When he opens them again, they find mine, like magnets lost in a sea of carnage. “Bailey.” He sits down beside me, his entire body turned toward me. “I’ve fucked up a lot in my lifetime. I’ve done a lot of irreparable damage to the people I care about the most, and I have a lot of regrets. Too fuckin’ many to count. But that time with you, this love I have for you—it isn’t one of them.” He pauses a beat, licks his lips. “I know that I can’t give you what you want, what you deserve, but I can give you a promise that I want you to take with you for the rest of your life.” He reaches up, wipes the tears from my eyes while letting his fall. “I promise you there is nothing wrong with you. If anything, you’re too fuckin’ good for this world. And I envy the man who’s going to spend every day feeling the way I did for that short time you gifted me.” He holds my head in his palms, my heart in his hands. “Ti amo, mia bella regazza.” And then he kisses me. But it’s not the type of kiss I’d been expecting, one I’d been pining for. It’s not one created by a heated moment or one caused by the passion that’s been burning between us. It’s not even an attempt to find a cure for our longing.