by W Winters
I’ve been to The Red Room enough to imagine someone bolting from the doors. The forest is close; the highway is even closer. It wouldn’t take much to get away if only you got past the parking lot.
“After helping us take care of the body, he told me, ‘If you change your mind, I’m good at taking direction,’ or something like that.”
“And that convinced you?” I ask him.
“We would have been done if that asshole had gotten out and told the feds what he saw; it turned out that he was undercover. We didn’t have the police back then on our payroll. We didn’t have much protection. Things were harder then and we needed the help. That’s really what it comes down to.”
“So you aren’t friends then. Simply coworkers who rely on each other?”
“He’s more of a friend to Declan. They’re closer than we are.”
It’s quiet as we come to the stairwell and he tells me the upstairs is mostly unfinished. He’s never had a reason to complete it.
Taking my hand, he lets his middle finger trail down the lines in my palm. There’s a hint of charm and flirtation I’m not expecting. One that breaks the tension, scattering it in any and all directions until it’s gone.
“I like touching you,” he says faintly.
Something about the ease he feels around me makes me want to stay by him forever. I’m so aware of it in this moment.
So aware, that it’s frightening. With every breadcrumb of information Jase gives me, I fall deeper in love with him. Even if the pieces are perverse and disturbing… maybe more so because of it. Even if I wake up tonight like I have the past few nights, breathless and covered with a cold sweat, dreaming about the darkness I know is inside of him… even then. The fear is still there, but love is stronger. Which is why I’d fall back asleep next to him, willing my eyelids to shut and show me something sweeter.
“Ask me something,” Jase offers.
The memories of everything that’s happened flicker through my mind as I search for a question, and one is most apparent. A detail I’ve yet to tell him.
“Do you know anyone who wears white sneakers with a red stripe down the sides?”
His brow pulls together as he turns to look at me. “Why?” he asks.
I have to pull my hand away, feeling too hot, yet cold at the same time to tell him.
“When my house was broken into, that’s all I saw from where I was hiding in the cabinet.”
“White sneakers with a red stripe?” he clarifies.
“Right down the center, from front to back on the sides.”
“Why haven’t you told me this sooner? Is it all you saw? You’re sure?” The questions hold an edge to them. Not anger, not resentment, more like an edge of failure and I hate it.
“I’m sorry… I just didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know if you could trust me.” He completes the statement for me and I nod. “I’m sorry,” is all I can say, feeling like I’ve failed him.
With his hand brushing against my jaw, I lean into his touch and close my eyes, reveling in it.
“If I could start our story over and start it differently, I would. I want you to know that.”
There’s so much I’d change if I could. But then I wonder what our story would look like if it hadn’t started so intensely.
“How many women have you done this to?”
“Done what?” he asks.
“Brought back here. Showed off this place to… told your deepest, darkest secrets?”
“None. You’re the only one, cailín tine.” His nickname for me still makes my stomach do little flips in a way that excites me.
“You’ve never called anyone else that?” I tease him and he nips my neck in admonishment while wrapping his hands around my waist and letting them slip lower.
“Never. You’re my only fiery girl.”
He’s so consumed with lust in the moment, but there’s something nagging at me, something that feels off.
“Why don’t I believe you?” My question pulls him out of the moment.
“Because you see my sins, however many of them, and you’ve judged me guilty of them all.” The honesty of it stares back at me from the depths of his dark eyes. “If you’ll lie, you’ll cheat… if you’ll cheat…” He doesn’t continue and I bring my lips to his even though pain etches its way between us. “Even a saint has to start somewhere… I’ll never be a saint though. If I could change for you, change this life, this world, our pasts, I would. But it’s not going to happen. I can’t start our story over.”
I kiss him again, feeling the heat between us, feeling his hard lips soften as I press mine against his. I finally answer him, “I know.” And then remind him, “I’m not asking you to.”
When Jase tries to take me back to his bedroom, I tell him no. Instead I lead him to the plush rug in his office that’s not an office. I ask him to light the fire and I slowly undress, watching both hunger and flames in his eyes once the fire’s ignited.
I pick the knife I want him to use on me and I lie down without a weighted blanket at my feet, without cuffs, without rope this time, although I tell him I miss the rough feeling when it’s all over.
We’re both moths to each other’s flames, ignited by our touch. We’re drawn together, destroyed together. It used to scare me, but there’s no fighting it. Isn’t that what love is?
You can say chemistry was never our problem. Take away the drugs, his brothers, the feeling of loss and betrayal, and all that’s left is the simple truth that’s he’s mine and I’m his. In the most primitive way, we make perfect sense. We’re drawn to one another in a way where nothing else matters. It all fades to a blur when I stare into his eyes.
But that’s where the problem truly lies. He wasn’t meant for my world and I wasn’t meant for his. Everything else matters with him in a world where every step is dangerous, and we should have accounted for that. I’ll never be able to escape Jase Cross or his merciless world.
This attraction will never allow it.
Jase
The light of the fire dances across her skin in the darkness, and the shadows from the flame beckon me to touch her. The sight of the dip in her waist is an image that would start wars. Her breathing is steady in her deep sleep and part of me wants to leave her here, resting on her side on the luxurious rug with the only covers being the warmth of the raging fire. The other part wants to have her again in my bed.
The low hum of a vibration steals my attention. My muscles stretch with a beautiful pain as I pull myself away from Bethany and get my phone. Still naked and still hungry for more of her and the promise of keeping her here, I check my messages.
It’s a text from Seth, just the person I need to speak with.
Anger has a way of destroying the calm, even when Bethany stirs with a feminine sigh in her sleep. Her hand reaches right where I just was and it seals her fate.
I text Seth back. Meet me first thing tomorrow. We have things to discuss.
Bethany
It only takes one deep breath in the massive kitchen and a long stretch of my back to release the tension from last night. Things are better. It feels like a huge step forward, but something’s still holding me back. The nightmares haven’t stopped; they’ve only changed.
Last night, my mother reminded me that everyone I loved would die before me and that it was okay. It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed about being back at the home, with my mother looking me directly in the eyes and telling me what felt like a message from death. The terror gripped me the same way she did all those years ago. It was like I was back there, but not really. We were on my porch and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak either. My sister came to help me, ripping our mother away and yelling at her, screaming at her. It was so unlike her, but somehow I believed it.
When they were done fighting with each other, my sister turned to me and looked me in the eyes. She said my mother was right. They would all die before me.
That’s when I woke up. At 5:00 a.m.
in the morning, in an empty bed that held the faint, masculine scent of Jase Cross.
I can walk around pretending I’m not uneasy, but I’ve never been good with pretending.
As my gaze falls to the slick counters and I hear the thump of footsteps getting louder, cuing someone’s incoming arrival, I put away my thoughts of my family, or what used to be family.
Carter’s deep voice reverberates in the expansive space. “Bethany.”
His gaze is narrowed and even harsh. Even the air around him warns me not to mess with the man. Some men are just like that; the feel of danger comes with their strong posture and chiseled jaw.
“Cross,” I answer him tersely with a cocked brow.
I find myself comparing him to Jase, but even though they look alike, Jase is nothing like him. He’s charming and approachable in a way I don’t think I’ll ever find Carter to be.
An asymmetric grin pulls at his lips. “Funny you should call me Cross when you’re with my brother and he’s also a Cross.”
“Suits you though.”
He huffs a short chuckle and lets the smile grow as I pull the fridge door open, searching for a can of Coke or something with caffeine in it. “Something funny?” I ask him.
There’s a case of Dr. Pepper and the hint of a smile appears on my face too. It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these and they’re in glass bottles… that makes it even better.
“You aren’t the only one who thinks that.”
“Thinks what?” I ask him genuinely, already forgetting what I’d said before as I’m too distracted by my beverage.
“Nothing.” He shrugs it off and goes to the cabinet, pulling out a box of tea bags and a pretty mug with owls on it. I nearly tease him, taunt him for the girly mug, even though I know it must be for his wife. I bite my tongue and stifle the playful thoughts as I prepare to go somewhere else and stay out of Carter’s way. This isn’t my house and he isn’t my family. I’m more than aware of that.
I only get one step away though before Carter speaks with his back to me, putting a mug of water in the microwave. “Spring will be here soon,” he tells me.
Stopping in my tracks, I turn rather than look over my shoulder and wait for him to turn as well. He does slowly, awkwardly even with his broad shoulders.
“Why does your face look like that?” he asks me when he takes in what must be a confused expression.
“Is that your attempt at small talk?”
“People like to talk about the weather, Miss Fawn.”
It’s my turn to let out a huff of a laugh, small and insignificant, but it breaks the tension, one chisel at a time.
“Spring’s my favorite season.”
“It’s Aria’s too. Well,” he continues talking as he retrieves the mug from the now beeping microwave and sets a bag of tea into the cup. “Spring and fall. She said she can’t pick just one.”
It doesn’t pass my notice that his expression softens when he talks about Aria. The recollection softens something inside of me too.
“How long have you and Aria been together?”
“Just a little while.” His answer is… less than informative. Maybe it’s a Cross brothers thing.
“I heard she’s expecting?”
“That’s right.” His grin turns cocky and I half expect him to brag about how it happened on the first try or how his swimmers are so strong. Some macho bullshit like that, but it doesn’t come.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I’ll let you get to it,” I tell him, but he doesn’t let the conversation end.
“Jase really likes you.” The statement surprises me, holding me where I am.
Warmth flows through me, from my chest all the way to my cheeks. I don’t know what to say other than, “I really like him too.”
“He’s turning back to his emotional… hotheaded younger self.”
“Hotheaded?” I pry. Carter doesn’t seem to take the bait though.
“When we were younger, he used to be a real troublemaker,” Carter says as he leans against the counter, staring into the cup of tea and lifting the bag of leaves. We both watch the steam billow into a swirl of dissipating clouds although I’m across the room.
“Really?” The shock is evident.
“Not because he was… like me. Not that kind of trouble.”
If Carter’s going to talk, I’m damn well going to listen. Taking a step closer to the counter, I ask him, “What kind of trouble?”
He peers at me, but not for long. “He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It should have gotten him into more trouble than it did really. I know if I’d done it… My father never hit Jase. I can’t remember a single time. He liked the belt and took it out on us mostly, me and Daniel.”
A sadness creeps inside of me at the ease with which Carter speaks of his father beating him and his brother. He was the oldest. I’m the youngest, but I remember the way my mother used to yell at my sister for things that I didn’t even think were wrong. With parted lips, I grip the edge of the counter, cold and unmoving as he continues. “I remember so many times my father would say to Jase, your mouth is going to get you in trouble.”
“Parents sometimes take it out on the eldest.”
“If I’d talked like Jase did when we were younger, I’d have been punched in the mouth.” Carter’s statement doesn’t come with emotion. It’s merely the way things were for them back then.
“He used to say it like it was. He never had a filter, and couldn’t just be quiet. There were so many times he said shit to my father that made my back arch expecting to be hit there. He had the balls to call everyone out on their shit and never stopped for a moment to question what he was saying.”
“Honesty without compassion is brutality.” I say the quote and then add when Carter looks back at me, “I don’t know who said it. It’s just a saying.”
Standing up straighter, he holds the tea with both hands and tells me, “He was compassionate, too much. That’s why he never let a moment pass him where he thought he could change what was happening if he only made people aware of how wrong it was.”
It’s hard to keep my expression straight. I can only imagine Jase as a young boy, watching everything that happened and speaking up, expecting it to help, when there was never any help coming.
“He used to have hope.” My first statement is quiet and I think it goes unheard so I raise my voice. “It sounds like he was a good kid,” I comment and Carter’s forehead wrinkles with amusement.
“Sure, as good as the Cross boys could ever be.”
“You know,” I start to say, and that stops him from walking off while I tap the glass base of my Dr. Pepper on the counter. “My sister was like that. When I was growing up and she was in high school and even part of college, she was a lot like that.”
“Is that right?” he asks, leaning against one of the stools and listening to my story.
“When our mom got sick, she had Alzheimer’s.” I have to take a quick sip as the visions of my sister, a younger, healthier version, flood into my mind. Jenny would stand outside the university before every football game and every council meeting with flyers she’d printed from the library. “My sister wanted to educate people. She said it might help them because if you can diagnose it early, it can lessen the symptoms.”
I’ll never forget how often Jenny stood there after mom was diagnosed. I met her outside the stadium one chilly October night. She had a handful of flyers and tearstained cheeks. She’d been there every night that week, and I wanted her to come home. I needed help. Mom needed help.
When I told her to come home, she broke down and cried. She didn’t want to go home to a mother who didn’t know who she was. She said she blamed herself, because she knew something was wrong and she hadn’t said anything. She did nothing when she could have at least spoken up like she would have before she was busy with classes.
All the while she spent her nights standing there, I did what
was practical. I listened to Nurse Judy, I figured out the bills and how to pay them all with what we had. I took care of the house and learned how to help any way I could.
My sister looked backward, while I tried to look forward. I think that’s where the difference really lay.
“That doesn’t sound like mouthing off,” Carter comments.
“Maybe that wasn’t the best example,” I answer under my breath, not seeing the similarity so clearly like I did a moment ago. I find myself lacking, not unlike the way I felt back then. The visions of her that night she cried on the broken sidewalk don’t leave me.
“She blames herself then?” Carter asks and I have to blink away the memories.
“Yeah, she did. Blamed,” I correct him. “She passed away this past month.”
Something strange happens then. The air in the room turns cold and distant as Carter looks away from me.
Some people deal with death differently, but it’s odd the way he reacts. He doesn’t look back at me. He stares off down the hall and past the kitchen toward his wing of the estate, avoiding my prying gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he finally speaks, although he pays close attention to the mug in his hand. His lips part but only to inhale slightly; I think he’s going to say more but he doesn’t. And then it’s silent again.
I don’t like it. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention and the uneasiness I felt when I walked into the kitchen greets me again.
“When she died, I inherited her debt and met your brother, so if nothing else…” My voice trails off. What the fuck am I even saying?
It’s hard to swallow, but I force down a sip of the cold drink and let the taste settle on the back of my tongue where the words all hide. At least her death led me to Jase.
Was I really thinking that?
Was I really drawing a positive out of my sister’s murder?
“A debt? Did Jase help you out of something?” Carter’s dark eyes seek mine and I reach them instantly. Suddenly he’s interested.