Chapter 5 #2
"I won't have to." The smile was back. "You'll come. Because you're a good man. Better than me. And good men protect the people they love. Even from family. Especially from family."
The line went dead.
I kept driving. Hands steady on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Breathing controlled.
My whole body was coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around. Go to Alena. Get her somewhere safe. Hunt him down. Break him the way I'd broken men in the pit.
But I couldn't.
Because he was right.
He had leverage. And leverage was everything.
I forced my jaw to unclench. Rolled my shoulders. Made my face go blank—the same mask I wore in the pit, the same one I wore when investors talked numbers and I pretended to give a shit.
By the time I pulled into the paintball field parking lot, I looked fine. Calm. Normal.
Nobody would know my father had just threatened to burn down everyone I loved.
· · ·
Why the hell did I agree to this?
The paintball field was chaos—exactly what I didn't need right now. But Marcus had been texting me for a week straight, and Lucy joined in with threats involving my kneecaps if I bailed again.
The door to the central area swung open and there they were—Marcus already geared up like he was going to actual war, Lucy rolling her eyes at him.
"Dude!" Marcus grabbed me in a headlock. "Thought you'd bail."
"Thought about it," I admitted.
Lucy gave me a once-over, sharp eyes narrowing. "You look like shit. Alena keep you up?"
My jaw tightened. "She had a nightmare."
"And you held her all night like the lovesick puppy you are," Marcus finished, grinning. "Yeah, we know the drill."
I didn't dignify that with a response.
The match started. I tried to focus—run, shoot, duck—but my mind kept circling back. The phone call. My father. Alena's address on his lips like a threat.
We lost the game. Not heroically. Not even close. We were in need for a beer to drown our loss of dignity Marcus said. I couldn't agree more. Alcohol would help maybe softening my heart rate after that call in the car.
The conversation at the pub spun on—Lucy talking about her outfit for tomorrow night's burlesque show, a charity fundraiser for women embracing their sexuality and challenging the perception of being sexualized objects, Marcus placing bets on who'd get the loudest applause—but my headache only got worse.
I needed fresh air. I dragged Marcus outside.
The sky was clear, bright, peaceful. Silence.
"Why are you not with her, man?" Marcus asked, no filter.
"Dude..."
"Why? Because you're too much of a pussy?"
My eyes snapped open. My heart stopped.
"Alena is my friend."
"Yeah, right. I shower with my friends all the time. Cut the crap."
"It's a seventeen-year friendship, man. Normal for us."
"Is it now?"
"It's not an everyday thing."
A beat of silence.
"So... how is Alena in the shower? Does the water run against her skin softly? Does it touch her nipp—"
"Shut it."
My hand was at his throat before I could think. I wanted to punch him dead. His smirk was a death wish. No one talked about Alena like that. No one thought about her like that. How dare he? Did he think about her at night? When he was alone? When he held her back?
I'd kill him.
"Relax, man."
"Don't you ever, Marcus," I warned, voice deadly quiet.
Another silence while I fought to calm down. I removed my hand from his throat. My pulse was still hammering, knuckles white. One more word and I'd have put him through the wall. Not because he was wrong.
Because he was right.
"Man, you sleep in the same bed. You share a shower. You watch movies with her almost naked on your lap."
"So?"
"Man, are you stupid or just fucking entitled?"
"Look, Marcus, physical intimacy is easy for us and you know it. Do you remember when you met us?"
"Oh, yeah, the glorious starving days."
No glory about it. We met Marcus after six months of being homeless.
Me and Alena on a piece of cardboard under a bridge where the only warmth came from each other.
Her body curled into mine, small shivers I couldn't stop with just my arms. I held her through her period cramps, hand pressed low on her belly like I could take the pain if I tried hard enough.
So yeah, sleeping tight with someone for six months, holding her through the cold when her period struck and I had to find money for pads while she was in so much pain she couldn't even stand—yes, physical touch was easy. Natural.
I still remember my first steal. It was to buy her painkillers. And she did rest as I held her all night on my chest. I was her mattress, pillow, and protector, and I'll stay like that for the rest of my days.
Marcus was the man who offered us a couch. It was a shitty couch—he barely made a living from fighting pits also—but he did take us in. Best night of my life when I could see Alena sleep on something soft.
And then, that's how we continued. In a house, small and dirty, three seventeen-year-olds trying to survive. Later, came Lucy to our small home. Some months after, when she was running away from her abusive foster home. I remember she didn't speak for weeks.
"That was survival," Marcus said quietly. "This is different. You're not homeless kids anymore. You're successful. Rich. You don't need to share a bed for warmth. You don't need to shower together to save water. So why do you still do it?"
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was too close to the surface.
Because this morning I woke up with my hand on her breast and she told me to keep it there.
Because I jerked off in the shower thinking about her skin.
Because I've been in love with her for seventeen years and I'm too fucking terrified to do anything about it.
"You're going to lose her," Marcus said. "One of these days, she's going to find someone who isn't afraid. And you're going to have to watch her walk away."
"She won't."
"She will. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
He walked back inside, leaving me alone in the cold.
I stood there, fists clenched, trying not to think about day after tomorrow. About the private jet. About my father's leverage.
About how Marcus was right.
He was right. I'd lose her. To someone braver. Or to my own father. Or to the ghosts that took her at night.
And I still couldn't say the words.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
I didn't answer. Not yet.
But I knew who it was.
And I knew what I had to do.