Chapter 7 Cross
CROSS
“I’ve never seen that,” Tyler says. “Like, fuck. Did someone drug you?”
I grunt and grip the edge of the car, hauling myself up and out. It doesn’t help that Tyler’s car is so low to the ground that it’s like sitting on the pavement. He grabs my forearm and supports some of my weight, but everything hurts. I may as well have gone through a meat grinder.
Definitely not my finest moment.
Why couldn’t I have gotten someone who could punch hard enough to knock me out? That would’ve been better than the shitshow I just endured.
There’s an unread text from one of the Webber brothers on my phone and another few from Stanley, but I haven’t been able to look at them yet. The shame and anger swirling in my gut are too much to take, and I might snap at them.
I never want to do that again.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say to Tyler. “An ice bath will fix it.”
He laughs under his breath. “Yeah, right. Who’s gonna haul the ice bags up the stairs?”
“Me. Just call me, uh…” Ah, hell. Maybe I do need tutoring if I can’t remember the name of the guy that pushes a boulder up a mountain over and over again. It was punishment for tricking the gods. And here I am, tricking literally everyone.
“Maybe you have a concussion.”
I snap my fingers. “Sisyphus.”
“Sissy-who?”
I groan. “Jesus, man, read a freaking book.”
“You’re the one who needs tutoring. Did your stepsister teach you that one?”
“Fuck off. I like mythology.”
Tyler laughs in my face, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just helps me get inside and up the tight staircase. We move agonizingly slow. My ribs scream with every step, and his grip on my waist isn’t helping matters.
“That ice bath is sounding better and better,” I mutter.
I’m extra-glad I stocked up on bags of ice earlier today. Unless Scarlett decided to fuck with me and get rid of all of them…in which case, Tyler might need to make a trip to the gas station.
“Straight for the tub, or…?”
I shake my head and move toward my room. Tyler reaches forward and shoves my door open, and light floods into the hall, which is weird because it wasn’t on when I left.
“Who are you?” Tyler blurts out.
I focus, and my blood drains away from my face.
Scarlett is crouched by my desk with the box of cash open on it and loose bills scattered across the floor. There are even some in her grasp.
Caught red-handed.
The fuck?
My mouth opens and closes, but I don’t know what question to go with first. What the hell are you doing? Or, Who the fuck do you think you are? Snooping. Stealing. Invading my privacy.
The rage that flutters through me is spurred on by my shitty night, by my pain, and I shake off Tyler to lunge across the room.
I haul her up by her hair and shove her against the desk.
The old cigar box–an antique I got from my grandfather before he passed years ago–slides. I reach around her and slam the lid.
I use her hair to tilt her head back, forcing her gaze to meet mine. Her green eyes are so wide I can make out the edges of her contact lenses.
“Cross,” Tyler calls. “Dude.”
I ignore him and lean over Scarlett. She grasps my wrist, but she’s trembling. Her nails dig into my skin, and it’s the least pain I’ve felt all night. But her fear is intoxicating, and I want more.
And, at the same time, I want absolutely nothing to do with her.
“Get out,” I say softly. I loosen my grip, and her silky hair slides through my fingers.
She inches away, seeming to test if I’m serious, then bolts. Tyler scoots aside to let her pass, and her door slams a moment later.
I brace myself on the desk and let out a long, slow exhale.
“What the fuck?” Tyler closes my door softly and approaches. “I’ve never seen you act like that. And what the hell is all this cash?” He crouches down and gathers the fallen bills, dropping the pile to the desk beside my hand.
“Savings,” I bite out. “Certainly none of her business.”
“Try a bank next time, man,” Tyler says. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.” I force a laugh and straighten. My body aches, but there’s an underlying shame at having a witness to my outburst. “You can go. I’m gonna use carrying the ice upstairs as punishment.”
“Just like your Sisyphus,” he agrees. “I’m not gonna argue with you. Think about a bank…or at the very least, a safe.”
I wave him off. “Night, man.”
He leaves, and I sit heavily on the edge of my bed. I take a few deep, slow breaths.
Tonight was an epic shitshow. Mentally, I warred with my desire to crush my opponent, and I had to stem my anger every time I let him hit me. Not to mention, I had to make it look like I wasn’t letting it happen.
I don’t know where this anger comes from, but fighting has become the perfect outlet. Better than lacrosse–although I can’t deny I enjoy the camaraderie that comes with a team sport–and, hell, it’s better than sex.
At least, the sort of sex I’ve been having in recent months.
Unbidden, the image of a naked Scarlett flashes in front of me.
No, no, and no.
The distraction I need is awaiting me. I hobble downstairs and load a bag of ice on each shoulder then slowly make my way back up. I set them in the bathroom and retrace my path. When I’ve got all four bags stacked together, I start the water in the tub, turn it to cold, and dump in the ice.
This is gonna suck.
But perhaps less so than realizing Scarlett has uncovered one of my secrets–even if she doesn’t know the context. There was no paper trail of the Webber brothers’ ask. Just the money I carted home in my duffel bag then warily transferred to the cigar box.
Tyler was right. I need to get a safe. Or put it in a safety deposit box in the bank. Something. Having it where anyone can find it is dangerous, security system or not.
I shut off the water and strip. Getting into the ice bath is always the worst part, and now is no different. The tub isn’t super deep, which means I’ll need to slide down to get my chest in the water.
“Oh, fuck me.” It takes work to loosen my clenched jaw, but every inch has my muscles tensing. My knees come out of the water, but they don’t hurt as much as my upper body. When it sloshes over my shoulders, I blow out a breath.
Then submerge myself.
The freezing water rushes over my face. The burn of not breathing is almost comparable to the stabbing pain in my ribs caused by breathing. I’m hoping they’re just deeply bruised, not cracked.
I open my eyes. The world above–the drop ceiling tiles–is blurry.
And so is the face that suddenly swims over me.
I grasp the edges of the tub and haul myself up. Scarlett jumps back, her fists clenched, and her gaze drops to my torso then back up to my face. I slick the water out of my eyes, pushing my hair back, and stare back.
She’s in pajamas. Not cute ones, either. Her baggy shirt does nothing for her figure, and her sweatpants, while seemingly thin material, fall straight from her hips to the floor. Her hair is pulled back, her glasses perched on her nose.
Fascinating.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Icing myself.” I raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“I have to brush my teeth.” Her tone is hot. “I didn’t realize you were in here, drowning yourself.”
She’s fun to piss off. And clearly my existence does just that.
Mission accomplished.
Well, one of my missions. The other mission is to find dirt on her to put her even more under my thumb.
“What happened to you?” she asks.
I roll my eyes, but it’s probably lost within the swelling. “Nothing. This is how I always look.”
She scoffs. “Yeah, right. Fine, don’t tell me.”
The fact that she’s still standing at the edge of the tub, a red tint to her cheeks, says a lot. She could’ve immediately left the bathroom or, I don’t know, brushed her teeth and left me to my underwater meditation.
“You done ogling me, Wallace?”
She cringes and spins away. She tucks an invisible strand of hair behind her ear and plucks her toothbrush from its cup. Her movements are jerky, and it doesn’t seem like she’s fully focused on the task.
I smile to myself. The water doesn’t even feel cold anymore, although cubes bump my skin. So maybe I’m just crazy.
When she’s nearly done brushing her teeth, I say, “By the way, I thought that was an extra toothbrush. I used it to clean soap scum in the tub this morning.”
The toothbrush falls from her mouth, and she gags and spits then grabs the cup and frantically flushes out her mouth. When she shoves herself back upright, she glares at me.
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
I lift my shoulder, masking the stab of pain, and mime zipping my lips.
Without another word, I sink back under the water. Hopefully she gets the message and leaves me the fuck alone—until I can find something to hold over her, anyway.