Chapter 11
ELEVEN
CARMEN
Ihear the ambulance drive away, the sound thinning until it disappears, but the police lights still bleed through the garage in red and blue. Over and over. I stand there, trapped inside my own body, unable to move.
Judas was right. If they had found me there, they would have twisted my words. They would have found a way to make it all my fault.
I start pacing. Too fast. My thumb slips between my lips. My nail presses against my teeth. I don’t notice when the lights finally fade, only when the slow footsteps come closer.
My heart beats faster.
The door opens.
And Judas stands there. His white shirt is no longer white. It is soaked with blood. The smell of iron reaches me before he does. I rush forward and wrap my arms around him.
But he is standing stiff, staring past me at the wall, then down at his hands. Blood coats his fingers. It sits in the lines of his skin.
I tighten my grip, my cheek pressed to his chest, my voice barely there when I whisper, “I am here.”
But he doesn’t answer, nor does he pull away.
I can see it in him. The way he is not fully in this room.
The way his body is here, but his mind is still somewhere else.
I search for the right words and find nothing.
I have been through this. He has been through this, too.
And still, it never gets easier. The pain never gets easier. It just finds new places to settle.
Something in him finally snaps.
He moves me back, guiding me into the garage. Every step he takes, I take one too until my back hits the wall.
His hand slams into the space beside my head. The other lifts my jaw.
He leans in until his forehead rests against mine. His eyes close.
I feel the weight of it. The way the pain pours out of him without a single word.
No matter how bad the judge Harrington is, this doesn’t hit any softer. He is still his dad. He is the man who raised him. Blood or not, family doesn’t disappear just because things break.
“Hey,” I whisper, my palms cupping his tight jaw. “Judas, it will be okay.”
He nods, eyes still closed. Then he steps back, pulls out his phone, types, and lifts the screen to my face.
We have to go to the hospital.
I nod.
He types again.
Catherine told the police you were not at home, and that Dad slipped.
He slides the phone back into his pocket and moves toward me. His hands come to my cheeks, guiding my face closer to his.
“C c c… aa,” he tries.
The sound tangles in his throat. He shakes his head and drops his forehead to mine.
A tear slips down my cheek as I look at him. I don’t cry because it is beautiful. I cry because it costs him so much just to try to say my name.
“It is okay,” I whisper, brushing my lips against his. “I hear you.”
His hands tremble on my cheeks, like if he lets go, whatever is holding him together will fall apart.
He swallows. Hard.
His jaw tightens, then loosens. His throat works like he is forcing something through that refuses to move.
“C c c… aa…”
The sound breaks before it can become a word.
His eyes squeeze shut. Frustration flashes across his face. He leans his forehead into mine again, heavier this time, like he needs the pressure to stay standing. His shoulders rise and fall. Once. Twice.
I don’t move away.
My hands slide to his chest, gripping his blood-stained shirt, pulling him closer.
“I know,” I whisper.
Slowly, he opens his eyes and looks at me, like he is checking to see if I am still here. Like he is afraid I might disappear if he fails again.
I press my forehead to his and breathe with him.
“I am right here,” I murmur. “Kiss me. You broke that promise before. Break it again.”
He nods and presses his lips to mine.
His hands move to my hips, guiding me back toward his bike. He lifts me just enough to settle me against the seat.
His face drifts down from my collarbone to my stomach, leaving the faint trace of his breath along my skin.
I catch on a breath.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please.”
No one is around us, only the sound of our breathing and the way he holds me like I am the only thing keeping him upright.
As his fingers catch the edge of my jeans and start to ease them down, my hand flies to my mouth. I bite into my knuckles, a sharp breath trapped behind my teeth.
This is the line.
Catherine’s words come to my mind. That he will get bored with me once he has me. The thought comes again and burns out just as fast. Right now, every warning loses its shape.
I want this. There is no one here to stop it.
My body leans toward him while my mind pulls back, shouting that we have crossed every line that exists.
I hate myself for it. And still, my heart keeps moving forward.
I trust a boy without words.
For the first time in my life, someone shows me instead of promising.
His phone rings. But he doesn’t look at it.
He draws me closer, his forehead dropping to my chest. My shirt slides up under his hands.
His fingers slip beneath my bra and free my breast. His mouth follows, his tongue circles my nipple before he draws it into his mouth, while his fingers tighten on my skin just enough to make my breath catch.
The phone rings again.
This time, he stills.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out. The name on the screen makes him pause. He turns the phone toward me.
It’s Catherine.
I swallow and swipe to answer, putting her on speaker.
“Hello,” I say.
“Carmen,” she cries. “Is Judas with you?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice catching.
There is a second of silence. I hear her sniff.
“William lost a lot of blood,” she says. “They are trying to find his blood type, but it might be too late. Can you both come to the hospital for a transfusion test? I know Judas is not his blood type.”
Judas nods at me.
“Yes,” I say. “We are coming.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” she sobs. “They… they don’t know if he will survive.”
“It will be okay,” I say, even though the words feel thin in my mouth. “We are on our way.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Bye.”
The call ends.
Judas takes the phone from my hand. He pulls my jeans back up, zips them, then takes my hand and guides me off the bike.
“Judas,” I whisper. “He will be okay. Right?”
His brows draw together. He looks at me, then looks away. He nods once.
He turns and walks to the shelf, lifts the helmets, and comes back. He settles one over my head, his hands tighten the strap under my chin. Our eyes hold for a second through the visor.
He puts his own helmet on, steps closer, and guides me back onto the bike. He climbs in front of me.
The engine turns. The vibration runs through the frame and into my bones as he eases us out of the garage and down the driveway.
My arms slide around his chest, holding tighter as he picks up the speed.
The wind catches his shirt, makes it flutter against my fingers.
I press closer, the night and the road rushing past us.
His one hand stays on the throttle. The other leaves the handlebar and comes back to his chest, finding my hand and pulling it there, like holding me against him is the only way he can keep the road steady.
I rest my head against his back and close my eyes.
For so long, I told myself the world is an ugly place.
A place where I keep my feet planted because dreaming too far means losing people when I fall.
With him, the world is less ugly. It’s still dangerous.
I’m still afraid of losing him. But he makes me lean into the risk instead of away from it, like we both know how big it is and choose it anyway.
I hold myself down my whole life, afraid to reach too high, afraid of the drop that always follows. He makes it feel like I am already in the air. Like I am not falling. Like I am flying instead.
I live in his silence, and it’s enough. My words mean so little when he fights for just one. He makes me feel like I am worth the entire story.
I know this is wrong. I know what this is.
But it feels even more wrong to pretend it is not there.
I’m falling for him. For my adoptive brother.
The thought hits harder than the wind.
I close my eyes and whisper a prayer I don’t believe in, hoping he will never break my heart because I know I wouldn’t survive it.
His hand returns to the handlebar as the curve comes. He leans into the road. I feel the shift in his body before I feel it in the bike.
My hands stay on his chest. I hold him tighter, as if I let go, something in me will come loose with it.
The road straightens. His hand finds mine again, pressing it back where it was, holding both of us.
My heart beats faster than the speed of the bike. But my head goes quiet.
The hospital lights rise ahead of us. He pulls in and parks, swinging off first, then turning to help me down.
I lift my helmet, my hair falling loose around my face.
“Judas,” I whisper. “If something happens, will you come after me?”
He nods, then signs. Little sister.
I nod back.
He holds out his hand. When I take it, he pulls me forward, and we walk toward the hospital entrance together.
He stops just outside. He turns to face me. One hand hangs at his thigh, holding his helmet. The other cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin.
My heart stutters at the thought that this might be harder for him than it is for me. I don’t hate Judge Harrington. I haven’t been here long enough to love him either. But Judas has. Long enough to carry both at the same time.
We walk inside.
As we approach the waiting room, Catherine is not here.
Someone else is.
Simona stands by the window, her hair twisted into a messy bun. Her black coat hangs open, its shape reflected in the glass as we approach.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She only tilts her head so I can see her red face, wet with tears.
I know now. She’s the one Harrington was seeing.
Before I can say anything, a nurse steps out and calls, “Carmen Harrington?”
Harrington.
The name hits my chest.
It’s official.
I swallow and turn, my fingers closing around the medallion at my throat.