Chapter 3 Victor #2
It’s as if now that we’ve stopped moving for more than the time it takes to piss and gas up the car, all the little aches and pains are making themselves known. My head throbs, probably protesting the lack of food and water and the blood loss on top of everything else.
I’ve pushed my body and my mind to the breaking point over the last day or so, and it’s not like we were all that well rested before we got to Mexico.
“Yeah,” I mutter finally. “You might have a point.”
Malice jabs a finger in the direction of the bathroom, and I go without argument, closing the door behind me and standing under the glow of the harsh florescent lighting.
The bathroom is small but relatively clean, and I undress quickly, leaving my dirty, sweat and bloodstained clothes in a heap on the floor. No point in folding them now.
The water hisses from the shower, icy cold at first, but then gradually heating up as it runs. I can hear the pipes clanging a bit as steam starts to fill the little room.
I hiss when the hot water hits my hastily stitched up wound, and I look down at it, examining it more closely. The stitches are uneven but good enough. It’s definitely going to scar, but that was unavoidable, really.
All I can think about as I run my fingers over the bumps of the stitches is how that night went.
How I tried to step in front of Willow, to protect her.
How it was my instinct to keep her from being in the line of fire.
I would have taken more bullets than this one to keep her safe, but in the end, it didn’t even matter.
I got shot, and she still got taken.
I can see it, almost like it’s playing out in slow motion every time I close my eyes. The angle is twisted and wrong from me being on the ground, my head swimming, my vision a little blurry. But I could still see clearly enough in that moment to see Willow being snatched.
I can remember every second of it.
The look on her face of shock and absolute terror.
The way her scream split the night air and echoed even after she was taken.
My eyes snap open, and I realize I’m breathing hard. My heart is racing in my chest, pounding with force against my ribs. I force myself to take a deep breath and then another, trying to focus on what I can control here and now.
I grab a wash cloth from the rack next to the shower and lather it up with the hotel soap, starting from the top and moving down as I clean myself. The water runs murky as grime and blood start to come away, and my eyes zero in on the sight of it.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
I just keep picturing Willow’s face.
I keep hearing her scream.
I keep seeing her being driven farther and farther out of reach, until I can’t see her anymore.
The emotions are like a tidal wave, and once they reach their peak, I don’t have a hope of outrunning them. It all crashes over me, threatening to drown me under the weight, and I gasp for breath.
Willow has always been intense for me. Her emotions mixed with mine, the way I feel about her. It’s not like anything I’ve experienced before, so I have no defenses against it. No defense against the anger and the bone-chilling fear I’m feeling, wondering if she’s okay.
I clench my jaw hard, trying to focus on breathing in through my nose and then out through my mouth. I count each breath in, four seconds. Then hold for another four and exhale for the same. But it’s not really helping.
I add tapping my fingers to the mix, against my thigh, against the tiled wall, managing to do enough that I can finish showering off and then step out of the shower.
It’s all just so much. It’s all too much.
Nothing I’m trying is working the way it usually does, and there’s none of that familiar settling as things start to calm down.
If anything, it just whips my emotions into more of a frenzy, like a hurricane in my head and my chest, everything moving too fast and too chaotically for me to be able to grab ahold and shove it all back down.
The bathroom is suddenly too small. The dingy white walls are closing in, and I whirl around and punch one hard. The pain sends a jolt down my arm, and that cuts through the static in my head a bit, so I do it again.
I start counting, lining up my breathing with each punch. In, out—one. In, out—two. In, out—three.
The world narrows to the pain in my hand and the feeling of the paint from the wall under my skin, sticky with humidity from the shower. The count climbs higher, and I start leaving bloody streaks on the wall from where the skin of my knuckles splits, but I don’t stop.
Not until the door swings open and Malice crowds into the small space, pulling me away from the wall.
“Fuck. Come on.” His voice isn’t gentle, but it is soft.
“Mal—”
“I know,” he says, cutting me off. “I sent you in here to clean up, not get all bloody again. And put some fucking pants on.”
I pull my hand up to look at it. He’s right. The knuckles are a bloody mess. At least patching that up will give me something to do with my hands.
I wash the blood away under the water from the sink and then pull on my old pair of pants, grimacing at the knowledge that they’ve already been worn for too long without a wash.
I forgo a shirt for now, unwilling to put that crusty, bloodstained thing back on my body, and I can feel Malice’s gaze on me as I move around the small room.
“You know,” he murmurs after a long moment. “Usually, I’m the one punching shit. You’re supposed to be the level-headed, put together one.”
I snort at that, but he’s not wrong. “I feel like… I don’t know. I feel like I’m splintering apart. Everything’s wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Yeah. I keep thinking about the night before all this shit popped off, and how we were so…”
“Happy?” I fill in.
Malice shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. We thought we’d bought ourselves some time, at least. That it would be easier from there on out.”
“We got complacent.”
“We thought that fucker was dead.”
“Olivia wanted us to think that. She hid the truth from us on purpose,” I tell him.
It’s something I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating over the past twenty-four hours.
“Probably so she could use him exactly the way she did. They were both hunting for us, and he managed to get the drop on us because we were entirely focused on her.”
Malice mutters a curse under his breath, raking his fingers through his dark hair. “We’ll fix it. We’re gonna find her.”
I swallow hard. I can feel the looming edge of that spiral from minutes ago, right there, ready to consume me again. But I let out a breath and then drag in another one, focusing on Malice instead of the panic.
“We have to find her,” I say, and my voice sounds raw even to my own ears. “We have to. I just. I—”
My voice chokes off. I don’t even know what words I’m trying to find. I don’t know what to say to make it clear how important this is. How badly we need to make sure she’s alright.
“You love her.” Malice’s voice is quiet, but the words feel oddly loud in this small, empty space. It’s not an accusation, just him telling me how I feel.
I drag in another breath and then nod. It’s strange to think about it, strange to acknowledge that it’s true. I certainly never thought I’d feel this way about anyone. After our mother died, I was so certain that the only people I would ever love were my brothers.
And now…
I nod, agreeing with Malice’s words.
That starts up a whole new storm of feelings roiling inside me.
Because I do love her. That’s what this is.
That’s why I feel so strongly for her. Why I’m so desperate to get her back.
Why having her gone feels like I’m missing a piece of myself, and why imagining her being hurt by Troy makes me want to tear down the entire world with my bare fucking hands.
“I never told her,” I rasp, my eyes flicking up to meet my brother’s. “I never even… I couldn’t even touch her for so long, no matter how much I wanted to. Fuck. I wish shit didn’t hold me back so much. With you and Ransom, it’s not like she ever had to doubt how you felt.”
Malice snorts, shooting me a look. “Bullshit. Ransom maybe, but me? Threatening her every other day and getting in her face about shit?”
I shake my head, agitation crawling beneath my skin. “But she still stayed. She still…”
“Yeah, and she stayed for you too. I saw how you two were together, and how she pushed to get that close to you. You think she would’ve done all that if she had doubts?”
My retort dies on my lips, and I shrug, too many emotions choking my throat.
“She knew,” Malice continues, his voice firm. “She knows. And I can tell you that she feels the same way. She never saw you as damaged or fucked up. Not any more than the rest of us, at least. She cares about you just the way you are.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, almost desperate for the answer.
“Just do.” He pauses, then adds, “It was obvious, Vic. I could see it every time she looked at you. Just like she could see it in the way you looked at her.”
I let out another ragged breath and when I breathe in again, my lungs don’t protest quite as much.
“Okay,” I murmur. “We have to find her, Malice.”
“We will,” he says, his expression hardening. “I don’t give a fuck if we have to turn this whole damned state upside down, or this whole damn country. We’re gonna find her.”
He reaches out a hand, and the sight of it plunges me into a memory of a different time, years ago.
Malice was younger then, but no less determined.
His eyes blazed almost exactly the way they are now as he told me and Ransom that we were gonna make sure our dad could never hurt our mom again.
He held his hand out then too, and Ransom and I clasped it in turn, sealing the deal with a handshake that meant so much.
The stakes are just as high now, with the fate of the only person we love as much as each other hanging in the balance.
So I reach out, clasping Malice’s hand the same way I did back then. He squeezes, and I squeeze back. For a moment, I’m wrapped up in the knowledge that whatever comes, at least we’re all in this together. At least we’re not grappling with any of this shit alone.
We hold that for a second, and then we let go, the moment broken. But the impact is still there.
I feel more steady as we leave the bathroom, and I apply some ointment to my wound before sitting down at the desk. My hands don’t shake as I pull up my programs, ready to resume the search.
A few minutes later, there’s a muffled curse from outside the door, and then Ransom comes in, balancing a drink carrier and several massive bags, as well as the room key.
“Thanks for getting the door,” he grumbles, tossing the plastic key onto one of the beds.
“You didn’t knock,” Malice says, shrugging.
Ransom rolls his eyes and tosses the bags of clothes down on the bed before he starts distributing the food.
It’s just fast food, greasy burgers and fries that have already started to cool, and I barely taste it as I eat and sip at the soda Ransom brought for me.
Malice and Ransom give each other shit, but once again, it starts to fade to background noise as I narrow my focus. I tap my fingers on the desk—one, two, three, four, five. I inhale deeply, the scent of grease and salt rushing through my nose.
Re-centered, I get back to work for real.
Once they’re done eating and have showered as well, I’ll get Malice and Ransom to help me, maybe by turning my digital map into something physical that we can see on the wall. We’ll keep working as long as we have to, until Willow is back and safe.
Because I can’t live without her. I spent so long fighting it, trying to deny my feelings. But it’s not a question. Not anymore.
I need her more than I need air.
And I’ll destroy anyone who hurts her or tries to keep me away.