41. Indie
Chapter 41
Indie
T he sound of glass shattering jerks me violently awake. I sit up in bed, trying to rub the sleep from my eyes. Beside me, Beau is fast asleep, his hair strewn across his face, his arm slung across my lap. He doesn’t wake up, not even when there’s a loud clattering and the sounds of metal pans clanking together.
“Beau,” I whisper, shaking his shoulder.
“Hmm,” he hums, still very much asleep.
“I think there’s someone in the house,” I say.
He tenses and sits up, suddenly wide awake. “What?” His fist rubs the sleep from his eyes, trying to get rid of the grogginess.
“Listen,” I murmur.
At first, there’s nothing but the howling of the wind outside. I glance out the window to see snow swirling in the lights. I realize when the wind whips against the windows, making them shudder, that the storm must have arrived in the middle of the night. How much snow have we gotten? I can’t tell from just glancing out the window.
Pots and pans clatter again and we both tense, reminded exactly what we’d been listening for. Another glass item shatters, and I touch Beau’s arm, worried.
“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. “Stay here.”
“Like hell I am,” I grunt. “I’m not letting you get murdered.”
He grins at me in the dark. “Aww, you don’t want me to get murdered alone. How sweet.”
At some point, we’d both stumbled into his bedroom, exhausted, and fell fast asleep. Beau’s bed is comfortable, his room set up in a way that reminds me of childhood pleasures. The comforter is a King size, clearly handmade quilt, covered with childhood cartoon squares from our childhood. It’s soft and well-loved, but very well taken care of. The walls are covered with posters of different bands, some of them signed by the bands themselves. The shelves are covered in knickknacks, everything from pretty rocks and crystals to action figures to Funko pops. It’s like Beau Rogers surrounds himself with anything that once made him happy. It’d only taken me a few minutes of being in this room to realize that he’d surrounded himself with things he’d never truly gotten to enjoy as a child.
It's part of his healing.
Beau leans over and reaches into the side table, his hand disappearing for a moment before he pulls a massive revolver from inside.
“Holy shit,” I croak.
He grins. “You know what they say about the size of a man’s gun,” he teases with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“No. What do they say?” I ask, forgetting for a moment there’s some serious shit going down.
He blinks. “Oh, just that he’s probably more insane, I guess.” He springs from the bed and lands on the hardwood floor without a sound. He checks the gun quickly, his fingers moving over it expertly to make sure it’s loaded. Apparently, it is.
I climb from the bed and quickly pull on the pajama shorts and tank top I’d discarded on the floor at some point. I pad after Beau, wincing when my feet aren’t nearly as quiet at the rodeo clown. Clearly, his parkour stunts translate to more than just stunts.
We slip down the hall quietly, both listening to the sound of rattling plates and pans coming from the kitchen. I grab a broom leaning against the wall and hold it in front of me like a weapon, mostly because I don’t want to be empty handed. I’m pretty sure a broom won’t do shit against a burglar. The sudden realization that it might not be a person at all but something worse, like a fucking bear, hits me. Oh fuck. We’re in the mountains. There are all kinds of scary shit out here. Did someone lock the door?
Beau glances at my broom in amusement, leading the way with his gun at the ready.
I follow behind him as we close in on the kitchen. Ram’s door is closed tight. I assume he’s a heavy sleeper if he hasn’t woken up yet. Tripp’s door is also closed, and hell, I’d be surprised if he’s even awake after the amount of alcohol he consumed yesterday. We pass the clock, and I realize it’s barely two in the morning. Fuck, it’s super late for bears, right? Bears don’t just come inside and rattle around in the kitchen.
Beau turns to me as we reach the end of the wall and holds up his finger to his lips. I nod, understanding. Whatever is in the kitchen, it’s right behind this wall. He clicks back the hammer on his revolver slowly, the soft clicks echoing around us. Whatever is searching in the kitchen either doesn’t hear it or doesn’t care.
And then Beau steps around the corner, his gun raised, his shoulders tense. I step out after him, the broom stick held out in front of me at the ready, prepared for a bear, a mountain lion, some nefarious asshole?—
I frown and lower the broom. “Tripp?”
Beau sighs and sets the hammer on his revolver after lowering it. We both watch as Tripp opens the cabinets, searches through the contents, and slams it closed when he doesn’t find what he’s searching for. There’s broken glass all over the floor and I wince when I see that Tripp is barefoot as he clamors around. In fact, all he’s wearing is pajama pants. My eyes trace his back as he stands on his tiptoes and reaches into top shelf, running his hands along the plates, knocking them askew.
I’ve seen Tripp’s chest. I’ve seen the small roman numeral tattoo on his hand and the scars that pepper his skin, small scars that aren’t a reason to worry. But somehow, I’ve never seen his naked back like this. Not in all its glory and not for a prolonged amount of time.
I would have remembered the sheer number of scars littering his back. Long lines criss cross over each other, along his spine, his shoulder blades. These aren’t new scars. They’re definitely older, stretched across muscles and marring his pretty skin. They look like. . . surely they’re not from a whip, right? On the back of his left shoulder, a mottled scar draws my attention, the raised lines bubbled up around what looks like the Fairview Acres logo I’d seen on the gate.
What the?—
“Tripp,” Beau says, trying to get his attention. “It’s the middle of the night. What the hell you doin’, man?”
Tripp turns and looks at Beau over his shoulder. “I can’t find it,” he croaks, his voice cracking. “I can’t find it. I can’t. . . I can’t. . .”
“What can’t you find?” I ask, frowning around the room. Pots and pans are scattered across the floor and the counter. There are at least a few plates and glasses that have shattered, leaving little pieces glittering in the low light. Outside the sliding glass doors, the snow is starting to build up against the glass, the snow swirling as the wind howls. We won’t be going anywhere soon. Clearly. Among the glass are little spots of blood, letting me know that Tripp has stepped in the glass. I don’t know how bad his feet are, but we’ve gotta get him taken care of.
Unfortunately for us, he doesn’t seem aware enough to listen to reason.
Tripp climbs onto the counter on his knees and peers into the cabinets, running his hand along the shelf. “I can’t find it. I can’t find the ring. Where is it? Where is it? I left it right here!”
How many drinks had Tripp had? That bottle of whiskey should have worn off by now.
Beau sighs and points to the stack of bottles on the kitchen table. Three liquor bottles. One whiskey, one vodka, one rum. All empty.
“Fuck,” I groan out. “He’s trashed. How is he still standing?”
Beau shrugs. “He’s built up a tolerance over time. I have no doubt he sat at that table and drank for hours before he got to this point.”
“Any idea what he’s looking for?” I ask him.
Beau frowns. “Yeah.”
“Do you know where it is?” I gesture to the man wildly searching through the cabinets. “That way we can get this put to bed.”
He shakes his head. “He won’t find it.” At my confusion, he sighs. “He’s lookin’ for his mama’s wedding ring. He used to keep it up on the top shelf in a glass, out of sight, but there just in case. About three years ago, he decided that his mama wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered by her marriage to his piece of shit dad, so he took that ring, and he chunked it into the mountains.” He glances at me. “It’s gone. Ain’t no findin’ it.”
I blow out a puff of air. “Okay, so new plan.” I slide my feet into the too-large boots against the wall. I’m not sure which of the men these belong to, but I can’t walk into the kitchen with bare feet, not when there’s glass everywhere. “I’m gonna try and talk to him.”
“Careful,” Beau orders. “He can get volatile when he’s this drunk. He likely won’t even remember this tomorrow.”
I nod, understanding. “I have a bit of experience with this.”
Beau’s curious gaze doesn’t stop me from moving slowly into the kitchen, glass crunching under the heavy boots as I ease inside. I don’t have time to explain the sheer number of times my dad went through something like this. He used to get this drunk and scream for my mom, waking everyone up in the apartment complex as he stood on the balcony and cried for her. The number of times I’d had to talk him down outnumber the times I was able to have a coherent conversation with him. Worse, I found him with a handful of pills a few times. Nothing like being sixteen and having to convince your dad to not kill himself.
“Tripp,” I say softly, holding my hand out in front of me like I’m trying not to spook a wild animal.
He whirls at the sound of my voice and the crunch of the glass, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “I can’t find it,” he tells me, but I’m not sure if he even knows who I am. There’s no telling.
“I know, cowboy,” I say. “I know you can’t find it. How about you let me take care of your feet and we can look for it together?”
“My feet,” he repeats, looking down at the feet in question. He shakes his head. “No, I have to find it first. I need to. . . I need. . .”
I inch closer. “I can help you look,” I offer. “But I’m not sure you’re gonna find it here.”
“It has to be here,” he mumbles, then louder he shouts, “It has to be here!” He grabs a glass from the counter and slams it to the ground. I jump as it shatters, glass pieces exploding around me.
“Indie bird,” Beau says in warning.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, taking another step. “It’s okay. I got him.” I reach for Tripp. “Come with me, cowboy. We’ll get this figured out.”
“No!” he screams, sweeping the pots and pans off the counter, the crash loud in my ears. “No! He took it! I know he took it! He’s taken everything from me! He can’t have this, too!” He sweeps more out of the cabinets, ceramic plates shattering.
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Ram growls, appearing from around the corner in a panic, finally awake.
“Tripp,” Beau explains. “He’s lookin’ for the ring.”
Ram’s shoulders slump. “Fuck,” he grunts, followed by a short burst of Spanish I don’t catch. “I knew it was a bad idea to throw it away.”
Tripp starts to rage at anything he can find, throwing everything off the counters. “You fucking asshole!” he screams. “You fucking bastard! You killed her! You killer her! You stole everything from me!”
I glance back at Beau, worried. “What do I do?”
“We usually just let him wear himself out,” Ram says. “I’ve been hit in the face too many times to step in. In fact, you should probably come back over here so he doesn’t clock you.”
“We can’t just leave him like this,” I reason. “He’s going to destroy the house.”
“All replaceable,” Ram argues. “Come on, Indie.”
I shake my head and take another step toward Tripp. “I’m not leaving him. He needs help.” I jump when another glass shatters and a few of the pieces hit my legs, leaving little cuts behind. I don’t bother looking down at them, knowing that there’s nothing I can do about it right now. It’s hardly an emergency.
“Tripp,” I try. When he doesn’t respond, I go for a sterner tone. “Tripp Earl Savage,” I growl. He pauses. “That’s enough,” I say, using the voice my own mother used to use on me when I’d stolen one too many of her pens. “You’ve made your mess. It’s time to stop.”
“He stole it,” he croaks, his eyes watering. “He stole her! He took everything from me.”
“I know he did,” I reply, nodding my head seriously. “I know that bastard stole from you, but he didn’t take everything.”
“He didn’t?” he whispers.
“He didn’t,” I answer confidently. “You are Tripp Savage. You are a fucking champion bull rider. You are a good man and you’re not alone. He can’t take that from you. He can’t.”
His shoulders slump. “He can’t. . . He can’t. . .” His eyes narrow. “He told you to say that.”
“No, he didn’t,” I growl. “Tripp, you know me. No one told me shit.”
He starts to shake his head, and I know I’m losing him.
“Indie,” Ram warns. “Get away from him.”
“He needs our help,” I say, moving closer.
“He’s not got his senses,” Ram warns, stepping forward, but Tripp tenses when he does, and he pauses. “Indie, it isn’t safe! Get away from him!”
“Tripp,” I rasp. “I need you to look at me. I need you to see me.”
His eyes flick to me, hold, and I think I’m making progress, until hatred fills his eyes. I understand it’s not for me. Not really. I might as well be a stranger right now as lost as he is. He lurches toward me so suddenly, I barely have time to react.
“Indie!” Ram and Beau shout at the same time.
I throw myself backward, but not before Tripp has his hands around my throat, not before he starts to squeeze. I claw at his hands, trying to dislodge him as my air cuts off.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Tripp growls savagely. “You won’t steal anything from me ever again, Dad. Never again.”
Ram and Beau are there, both of them trying to get him off me, their screams at Tripp fading in my ears as my vision starts to blacken.
“Fucking let her go!” Beau screams. “Tripp! It’s Indie! She’s not your father!”
Ram starts hitting him, punching his ribs, anything to get his attention off me, but Tripp’s hatred for his father shines in his glazed eyes. My hands stop clawing at his, growing weaker. Fuck. Is this how I’m going to die after everything?
My hand touches his chest, and his gaze follows my hand. He blinks, and some of the haze clears.
“Let her go!” Ram screams. “You’re killing her! Tripp!”
Horror slams across his expression and his hands loosen and jerk away. I slump against the table, my legs giving out, but Beau catches me before I can collapse onto the glass on the floor. Tripp backs away, his eyes wide as he realizes what he’d been seconds away from doing.
“I’ve got you,” Beau coos, holding me tightly, his eyes hard on Tripp as he looks at him. “Get yourself together, fucker! She could have died!”
Ram stands between us, using his body as a shield in case Tripp lunges again. His eyes are just as hard, and I realize suddenly that Beau’s revolver is in his hand.
“Don’t,” I croak at him, my voice raw. “Ram.”
He glances at me, and I know he won’t kill Tripp. He will shoot him to slow him down if necessary though. “He almost killed you.”
“I’m sorry,” Tripp moans, pressing his hands against his skull like it’s splitting apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He trips backwards, slamming against the counter. And then he starts to scream, the sound agony and anger all mixed in one.
“Jesus Christ,” Beau whispers. “I ain’t ever seen him like this. What the fuck is goin’ on?”
Tripp jerks, his throat rough with the pain of his childhood, with his frustration, with his anger. Fury fills the air, at his father, at himself. He stops screaming just as suddenly and looks at us, his eyes glazed again. “I’ll burn it down,” he whispers. “I’ll burn it fuckin’ down.”
My hand touches my sore neck, knowing it’s going to be bruised tomorrow. “He’s about to run,” I rasp. I’d watched my father have that same expression in his eyes. It’s so familiar that I barely notice I’m moving toward the door. Beau holds me back, supporting me when I prove too weak to do so.
Tripp bolts for the sliding doors. He throws it open, the snow piling up at the glass falling inside. The snow swirls in, letting in the chill as a very drunk Tripp rushes out into the snow. Barefoot. Bleeding.
“He’ll die,” I croak, stumbling after him. Beau moves with me. “Go get him.”
Ram growls. “ Chale ,” he spits followed by a long line of Spanish that sounds a lot like he’s cursing Tripp to hell and back. “I’ve got him. You stay here.”
I watch as Ram rushes into the snow, also barefoot, and tackles a slower than normal Tripp into the piled up drift. They both go down in a tumble, the wind drowning out their shouts. I blink past the pain in my neck, trying to keep my eyes on them as Ram struggles to get his friend under control. He grabs him under the arms and starts to drag him back toward the door.
Beau watches beside me, somber, his lips turned down. “This is a problem,” he murmurs.
Tripp struggles against Ram’s hold, but he’s weak and clumsy. He screams the entire way as Ram shoves him back into the house and slams the door shut.
“I have to. . . I need to. . . I can’t. . . It hurts!” He clutches his head again and drops to his knees. “I can’t! I can’t find it! Burn it!” Tears stream from his eyes as he kneels in the mess of snow that came inside.
Ram stares at him in horror, clearly not knowing what to do. But I do. I know.
I push away from Beau, much to his protest, and stumble over to Tripp. I drop to my knees in the cold fluff and wrap my arms around him.
“It’s okay, cowboy,” I say, my voice like gravel because of my neck. “I’ve got you. Let it out. I’ve got you.”
His sobs start to wrack his body as his arms wrap around me tightly and squeeze. He shatters in my arms, letting out his pain, letting it all out.
“I’ve got you,” I repeat. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Tripp sobs. “Not like this. Not like this.”
Tears spring to my eyes as I stroke his hair, his back, everything I can reach, as I hold him to me. He sinks into my touch, hopeless, wracked with body shaking sobs, and I do my best to hold him together, so he doesn’t shatter entirely.
“It hurts,” he sobs. “It hurts so bad.”
Wetness trails down my cheeks as I stroke his hair. “I know, cowboy,” I whisper. “I know.”
We stay there, on the floor where the snow melts and turns to water, as Ram and Beau look on. I hold Tripp together as he opens his wounds wide, as he bleeds his pain, and I pray to any god willing to listen that I can hold him tight enough.
That he won’t crumble to dust in my arms.