Motherfucker.
The rough rumble of Parker’s voice is loud enough that I’m now an unwilling audience to all the things he wants to do to my sister.
I exaggerate a gag. They don’t quit. Ever. Morning, noon, and night. They’re at it. I’m exhausted and I’m not even involved. Not actively anyway. But, Jesus, the things I’ve heard...
Making myself scarce, I move back toward my bedroom cursing the need to reenter the space only minutes ago I was scurrying to escape. Settled onto my bed, I sip my coffee in silence, focusing on the heavy throb of pain gifted by the cut along my thigh.
It’s not deep. Not enough to need stitches. I’ve perfected the art. Small scratch-like scars that decorate my upper thighs. Invisible to everyone but me. A flashing neon sign for my own self-worth. I’m tainted inside. My soul blackened and broken.
Cutting. I see it all the time working in A and E. Mostly teenage girls, the odd teenage boy. Never a woman in her thirties. I’m sure other adult men and women partake in the trauma of self-harm. It’s just not as common.
Emotional trauma is severe enough to cause excruciating pain. I’ve learned that over my years. It’s a harrowing lesson to have shoved down your throat. There are days I’m certain it’ll kill me. It halts my breath. It tightens my chest. My entire body tenses. I sweat. I shake. Rationally, I know it’s my anxiety. Panic attacks convincing me I’m about to die. Irrationally, I see no light at the end of the tunnel. The small slice into my skin helps me manage all that. The physical pain numbs my emotional pain when it’s too heavy a burden to carry.
Today, I blame Rocco. The unwelcome necessity of coming face-to-face with him a few nights ago. Alone, I can admit that I have something fundamentally deep in common with a psychopath. He welcomed the pain of my needle piercing his skin and in that messed up moment, I understood him. It offered him a reprieve to the distorted thoughts twisting him up inside.
Rocco Shay is guarded. Painstakingly cautious. His face nothing but a hollow void. You’d be stupid to even attempt to read him. But in that singular juncture, he wasn’t strong enough to hold on to his mask. It slipped, because for a split second, he was free. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone.
How fucking stupid is that? I felt a kinship with Rocco fucking Shay. The man who, blinded by his need for revenge, aimed his murderous sights on Codi. If that’s not a clear outcry at the bleakness of my existence, I don’t what would be. The man who had wanted to kill my baby sister is the first person in forever that I feel would understand me.
Good God.
I shake my head, ridding myself of the hideous thought.
Sustenance. I’m shaky after a too-hot shower and blood loss. I shift off my bed with purpose, hoping like fuck Parker and Codi have finished my morning ruiner.
“Mornin’,” Parker greets roughly as I move into the kitchen, the sound of Codi’s shower echoing through our apartment.
“Hey. D’you make more coffee?” I glance around at the mess he’s made, my forehead creasing in irritation.
Hands lifted in surrender, he smirks. “I’ll clean it up. Promise. Refill?”
I nod skeptically, moving my mug toward him.
I watch him fill my mug, his inked skin on display. “I find it hard to look at you after I hear the shit you say to my sister when you’re fucking.”
He raises an eyebrow in my direction, adding cream and sugar without needing prompting. Who would’ve thought? Parker Shay, domesticated by my sunshine and rainbows sister.
“Was gonna talk to you actually”—he slides my mug over—“that comment probably ain’t gonna help my cause, but was wonderin’ if you’d have issue with me movin’ in?”
I can’t hide my shock. “Codi didn’t mention you guys were discussing shacking up.”
Parker lifts a single shoulder, sipping his coffee. “We’re engaged,” he tells me unnecessarily. “We spend every night together. I just wanna make our living arrangements official.”
I nod gently, my mouth chasing my coffee.
“I haven’t spoken to Codi about it yet. Didn’t want her to be excited by the prospect if you weren’t on board. Would cause unnecessary drama.”
This guy went from being stuffed full of hate and violence, raging a misguided war for revenge with his brother... to this. A man standing in my kitchen, knowing how I take my coffee and checking in on my feelings before telling my sister he’d be moving in.
“It always shocks me when you’re all considerate. Seems out of place when judging you by the way you look.”
He laughs. “Make a habit of judgin’ people by the way they look?”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Anyone that says they don’t have assumptions about someone based on their appearance, is lying.”
“So?” he prompts. “All honesty, Ryn, I’m fucking exhausted. Ruin is hectic at the moment, your sister is insatiable—”
“Please don’t.” I hold up my hand, cutting him off.
He grins, the gesture saying too many things I don’t need to hear. “Add the fact that I have to keep ducking into the loft to grab more of my shit each day is wearing thin,” he continues. “Codi’ll come to the loft, but hates it. The memories are too much for her, so we always leave soon after.”
His thoughts drift into a place of darkness. He’s placed the need to be away from his loft on Codi, but in truth, I know it’d haunt him too.
“As long as you keep the volume of your fucking down,” I concede to this request. “It’s disgusting.”
He offers nothing but a nod, the gesture full of appreciation.
“I’ll clean this in a bit.” He turns, walking backward out of the kitchen. “I’m gonna go tell Codi.”
I grimace. “I’m already regretting my decision,” I call after him.
Chapter Four
Rocco
Unknown: Open your front door.
I frown at the screen of my cell, body heaving with the air my lungs are attempting to catch.
I feel alive; body dripping, muscles aching, blood pumping through my veins readying my body to fight.
Rocco: Whatever you’re selling... I’m good
I wipe at the sweat on my face with a towel, watching three reply dots dance on my screen.
Unknown: I’d be happy to let your stitches stay in your face, grow an infection and give you septicemia, but Codi would give me grief, and drama isn’t my jam.
Camryn Rein is a pain in my ass.
Case in point, she just fucked with my workout.
More than that, it’s just her. Judgmental and angry eyes always watching me in scorn. It’s, at a minimum, annoying. At its worst and most common, it reinforces the hate I hold for myself. I can confirm, without an iota of doubt, I need little encouragement there.
It shames me to admit, and I’d never do it aloud, but Camryn Rein holds a power over me very few others do. Not that she’d know it, and I plan to keep it that way until I’m buried six feet under. But she does. It dangles in front of my face in a nightmare come to life.
I remember her pretty blue eyes watching me in pity as I begged her to save my aunt. The tenderness in the way she handled me—knowing it was all my fault—when she told me she couldn’t.