Chapter 26
Koby
It’s Wednesday. The week’s slowly chewing itself away and yet I’m still immersed in Leilani’s story from Sunday.
I take care with the speed limits, obeying each and every one while everything inside me twists and rages. If I let those feelings surface, if I let her sadness overwhelm me, I’ll floor the gas pedal and end up wrapped around a tree.
She’s still nineteen for fuck’s sake, and went through hell already.
A hell I can’t erase. It’ll always be a part of her.
The memories will fade, they’ll blur at the edges, but they’ll never completely go away.
Those three years she spent with Anton, the loss she experienced.
.. it shaped her into the woman she is now.
And while I love every part of her. The good, the bad, the unhinged, and the sad, I wonder who she’d be if she wasn’t taken.
I pull in underneath my building, the roar of the engine echoing all around the parking lot until I press the button and quiet takes over.
Not for long, unfortunately. The hands-free system wakes up, Carter’s name flashing on the dashboard. It’s almost nine in the evening, but I answer the call, venting my frustration before I think it through.
“I just got home,” I say.
“And now you’ll come back.”
I press my teeth together and swear under my breath. Every instinct I have wants to exit the car, take the elevator upstairs, then fold Leilani into my arms while a movie neither of us cares about plays in the background, but Carter’s the boss.
He says jump and I fucking jump. I’m expected to know how high already.
“You need to see this, Koby,” he adds, a little less bite in his tone, a little more empathy. “Trust me.”
“Fine. I’m on my way.”
The engine springs to life and I dial Leilani. She’s expecting me home any minute. I don’t want her worrying.
“Hey,” she answers with a heavy sigh that conjures up her face, that little crease in her brow. “Let me guess... you’ll be late.”
“I’m sorry, hellcat. Something came up. Carter needs me.”
“It’s okay. I get it. Should I wait or—”
“Yes, wait for me. I’m fucking that disappointment right out of you the minute I get home.”
She chuckles, probably rolls her eyes, but I hear the smile in her voice. It loosens the knots in my chest.
“You’re a menace, Mr. Maddox.”
“So you keep saying.” Mrs. Maddox. “I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up before I get all pathetic and needy and ask her to tell me she misses me.
The city blurs outside the car windows, though I’m obeying all the traffic laws... and the slow pace gives me time to think.
By the time I park outside Carter’s house I’m wound up so tight every muscle in my body fucking screams. You need to see this loops in my ears like a broken record.
I head inside, finding Ryder hunched over his laptop, Broadway leaning against the wall with a glass of Bourbon in hand, and Carter in the armchair, arms folded, jaw ticking.
“Ryder’s been working on Grey’s servers,” he tells me. “He found video clips of Anton with Leilani. They won’t help us with Octavius, but they might help you understand her better.”
Ryder doesn’t look up. His fingers flicker across the keyboard, dragging files into a playlist. He transfers the feed onto the big TV and the screen comes alive with an image of the living room I know from Leilani’s stories.
She sits on the far end of the couch, hands folded in her lap, knees pressed together, back straight. Her face is blank, so placid she looks like a mannequin. No light in her gorgeous eyes. No expression on her gorgeous face.
Anton steps into the frame, moving with a steady rhythm that churns my stomach. He sets a glass of water on the table, then crouches low until his eyes meet hers.
“Drink, sweet girl,” he croons and she obeys, lifting the glass with both hands.
My skin breaks out in fucking hives.
The girl on the screen is... just a shape. A shell. She should be out partying, making mistakes, laughing, but instead she’s locked in a twisted Wonderland. Her lips touch the rim, her throat works, but nothing else moves. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile, not a shadow of an expression.
Anton brushes her hair back when she puts the glass down and his knuckles graze her cheek. She places her hands back on her lap, expectant eyes on him.
She’s waiting. For what, I don’t know. For another command? Approval? Praise?
The atmosphere in Carter’s living room grows even heavier once Ryder cues the next clip.
The nanny cam catches the couch from a steeper angle. Leilani sits in Anton’s lap, her back ramrod straight while his arm snakes her waist, hand balancing a small plate. He forks half a grape and lifts it to her mouth.
“Last one. Open up, petal.”
Her lips part, then close around the fruit, and she chews slowly while Anton sets the empty plate aside. He scrutinizes every movement of her jaw until she swallows.
“That’s it. All done. You’re always so good for me.”
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t make a single move when both his hands lift, combing fingers through her hair.
“Messy again,” he murmurs. “Can’t have that, can we?” He starts twisting the dark strands into a braid, then ties it off with a small band and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “There. My perfect pretty girl.”
“That’s fucked up,” Broadway chimes, throwing the last of his Bourbon at the back of his throat.
I stand there, so fucking uncomfortable I’d love to prove Ryder right and shed my skin like a snake. My mind’s racing, those fucked-up clips playing on repeat before my eyes, each like a punch to the gut because Leilani looks dead inside.
The screen cuts to black and the next file loads. The bathroom fills the frame, tub full, steam clouding the lens. Anton has his sleeves rolled as he leans over it, testing the water temperature with his elbow.
“Perfect,” he says, turning to Leilani.
She’s motionless in the doorway, hands hanging loose at her sides, eyes cast downward. My heart fucking twists.
“Bath time, sweet girl. Let’s clean you up before bed.”
She shuffles closer, a puppet on strings.
“Good. Now, arms up, petal.”
I watch her obey as if in slow motion, her eyes dead, her face dead, not an ounce of the girl I know visible, and I realize I’m shaking.
The hot and sticky rage inside me demands an outlet. I wish I could jump in my car, head for Florida, and drag Anton through a hell of my own devising.
“That’s my sweetheart,” he whispers, approval leaking from every word. He brushes her hair back, drags his knuckles down her cheeks, arms, then reaches for the hem of her pink, frilly dress. “Always so good for me.”
That’s as far as it goes.
I snatch the remote, switching off the TV before Carter, Ryder, and Broadway get an eyeful of Leilani’s naked body.
My hands ball into tight fists, knuckles whitening, breath stuttering in my chest as fury coils and writhes. Images of that fucker smiling, cooing, grooming my girl while she sits vacantly on the couch keep punching through my head.
They won’t go away and I can’t fucking take it.
I spin on my heel.
“Koby—fuck.” Ryder calls after me but I don’t stop.
The thwacks of my boot heels fill the corridor, then the stairs down to Carter’s private gym in the basement.
He has everything here, every piece of equipment you’d expect to find at a professional gym, along with a boxing ring. There’s also a row of different-sized bags hanging from the ceiling. I unhook my holster, take off my pullover and toss them onto the bench by the wall.
There’ve been many times in my life when I felt unhinged. When I lost my cool and killed someone with my bare hands, but this right now is a whole new level. I have no idea how to let an ounce of it go. How to wipe Leilani’s blank look from my hard drive.
She’s told me about all this. I listened for hours. I saw her morph into that obedient, mindless little thing when they FaceTimed, but it’s nothing in comparison to what I just witnessed.
Stepping in front of the heaviest bag, I imagine it’s Anton and throw the first punch. It lands with a dull thud. The bag swings, then comes back at me, and I hit it again. Then again, and again. My shoulder twists with the motion, chest heaves, muscles burn, but the rage simmers.
I ram my fists into the leather faster, the bag becoming a blur. Sweat runs down my temples. My knuckles sting, splitting at the contact, but I don’t stop. I need this pain. I need to feel like I’m getting revenge, and revenge in my world is visceral and bloodstained.
“Fuck!” I spit out. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
Someone grabs my shoulders. I’m spun around, registering briefly that it’s Carter interrupting my moment.
He doesn’t ask me to stop.
No, he drags me into the ring and lands a fist on my jaw before I can figure out why.
Pain blossoms white-hot across my face. “What the—?”
Another blow cuts me off. I spit red, rearing back.
“You’re just gonna stand there?” Broadway muses, leaning against the wall. “It’s getting old, you know? Watching you get your ass handed to you.”
Carter winds his elbow back, but I dodge, my mind reeling.
“Are you fucking insane?”
He must be.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t grab me by the collar and bounce me off his fist. My lip split, the metallic taste exploding on my tongue.
“Go on. Come at me,” he goads.
I close my eyes for a beat, summon the memory of Anton’s hands on my girl, and I move, driving a blow into Carter’s ribs. He grunts, coming back with a right hook that clips my jaw with so much force my teeth rattle.
We trade punches, one after another, both heaving, both sweaty, both bloody. Hailey’s going to rip my head clean off my shoulders when she sees him.
My knuckles throb, dulling the anger, but not enough to calm me down. It still chokes me and I’m so fucking grateful for the pain. Carter’s fist connects with the side of my face, my head snaps left, and there’s ringing in my ears.
He steps back, looking me over. “You done?”
“Fuck no. Don’t stop.”
Broadway chuckles, pushing away from the wall, his empty glass forgotten on the bench. “Let me.”
He climbs into the ring, smug as hell, and Carter shoots me a warning look before leaving us to it. We both know Broadway’s brand of crazy is way different from ours.
He comes at me without warning, driving his shoulder into my sternum. It lands like a sledgehammer, and that psycho grins when I stagger.
Figures. He doesn’t play games, and he doesn’t pull punches, always aiming to break something important.
I dodge the next one, land a clumsy fist on his cheek, then take a blow to my jaw. He keeps the pace brutal but simple, always the same combination. Two rights, one left. I know what’s coming, but I’m too sloppy to defend myself.
And he keeps the punches coming until I fold onto the canvas.
The room spins. My head’s ready to explode, but I’m grateful because that mindless fury that would’ve sent me all the way down to Florida, guns blazing, is gone.
Broadway catches a bottle of water Ryder tosses, downs half of it, and pours the rest over his face.
“There’s more where that came from,” he says, holding out his hand to help me up. “Find me when you’re feeling murderous.”
Oh, I will. No doubt about it.