Sweet Wicked Thing (Scream for Me Duet #1)

Prologue

One, two, three…

I’m on a boat, it’s storming, and the waves are thrashing the cabin.

It smells like sweat and stale beer, salty and pungent, and I imagine it’s my crew pressed up alongside me as we ride out the storm raging outside these four walls.

We’ve been at sea for days, with nothing but the ocean and a bar of soap to wash ourselves.

It’s hot.

It’s humid.

It’s rank.

The rocking picks up, and reality begins to creep in when a sharp twinge sparks at the base of my spine, hollowing out my belly.

…six, seven, eight…

Eleven point five.

He never makes it past eleven point five, not when he’s drunk like this.

My eyes are squeezed shut, the pillow damp against my cheek. I tell myself it’s just sweat. Or maybe some seawater spraying in from a crack in the window.

It’s so hot…sticky. It smells. I’m—

I’m not here, I’m not here, I’m not here, I chant.

I’m on a boat. I’m a fisherman. No, a pirate.

…nine…

Pirates are strong. They’re deadly and brave. No one messes with pirates.

The mattress squeaks beneath me, and I inhale sharply, my body going rigid.

Squeak, inhale.

Squeak, inhale—

Groan.

I squeeze my eyes shut so tight I feel like my eyeballs might pop. Block it out, just block it out.

My fingers are buried so deep in my pillow, the cotton pushes my nails back into my skin. It burns, so I push them in deeper, counting and inhaling, choking on thin, musty air. Willing my body to relax. It hurts less that way, but sometimes, like right now, it’s hard to remember that.

Eleven…

A noise—a creak.

It halts everything, seizing my lungs with a sharp, high-pitched gasp.

That didn’t come from the bed, I realize, as the rocking comes to a stuttered stop.

My eyes fly open, the fantasy shattering to reveal the brown wood-paneled wall of my bedroom. I know it’s the floorboard by the door I just heard. I just know it.

And so does the man on top of me.

My much smaller body shudders as he pulls away, relieving the pressure, like pulling a stopper from a drain. The bed frame whines. “What th—” he starts to growl.

I roll my head over just in time to catch the short, skinny body flying across the room—shorter and skinnier than even me.

No!

It’s dark, but not so dark that I can’t immediately tell who it is.

My eyes widen as I take in the small pale hands grappling at Rick’s shirt as the older, much taller and wider man stumbles back off the bed. His jeans are tangled around his knees, and he nearly falls on his backside, catching himself at the last possible second.

“You little fuckin’ shit!”

There’s a flash of wide, dark eyes—too big for his gaunt face—just before Rick lunges, hands flexed and aimed for my brother’s throat.

“Vale,” I breathe.

Blink.

Glass shatters. A pained grunt.

Blink.

Squelching sounds.

Blink.

My cheeks hurt…my throat, my hand...

It’s wet.

Blink.

Someone’s screaming. A woman.

But someone is laughing too.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing is making sense.

Why does my arm hurt? Why is everything so wet?

Something tugs on my pajama shirt, and I hear my name whispered. Aston.

Suddenly, the world explodes into color. A mighty gasp hiccups from my lungs.

Red. It’s all red.

I’m surrounded by it. Even the foggy brown eyes vacantly staring up at me look red.

Heavy footsteps thud up the stairs. A woman is crying, and someone is still laughing. The world is still rocking, too, just like it was earlier, but the pressure is gone. The pain is gone.

Well, mostly. My hand hurts. Burns. It’s bunched into a fist, and feels…weird…

Stiff.

Stuck.

“What did you do?” the sobbing female wails from the doorway. Several dark figures push past her, swarming the room. And still she screams, “What did you do?!”

“Jesus,” someone breathes.

More curses, more sobbing, more…giggling.

It seems to be coming from everywhere all at once, all this noise.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I register lights flashing through the window—red and blue, not unlike the Christmas lights on the house across the street.

Sirens ring out into the night—wee-woo, wee-woo!

I try to swallow, but when I do, it doesn’t feel right, doesn’t taste right. It’s sharp and bitter, like I was licking old pennies, and it doesn’t want to go down. It just keeps coming back up.

Oh, I realize. It’s because I’m the one laughing.

Hunching my shoulders, I curl inward, my knees coming up to my chest as I try to bite down on the sounds erupting from my mouth. Something warm and clammy brushes my bare butt, and I tense when I realize what it is, but only for a moment.

Something tells me I won’t have to worry about that anymore.

The thought has me laughing even harder. I can’t stop. Even when I bring my warm, wet, sticky fists to my mouth, I can barely keep it all in.

“Son…” The voice is deep. Warbly and faraway, like it’s coming from underwater.

Someone crouches next to me, and I flinch, my rocking coming to a halt. I snap my gaze to the strange man now staring back at me. His hands are raised, his furrowed eyes darting between my face and my fists.

Cops are here, I realize, finally registering the man’s uniform, and all I can think is, Good, they’ll finally take us from this place. Relief softens some of my irritation, quieting the awful sounds coming from my lips.

Something creaks. The floor. The spot right next to the door. It always creaks when someone steps there. Vale should’ve known better.

Stupid, stupid, brave little—

I gasp. Vale!

My laughter, which was already dimming, breaks off with another sharp, hiccupping gasp as I whip my head to the side. The officer throws himself back, but I pay him no notice. I’m too focused on the boy kneeling a few feet away, trembling like a leaf.

“It’s okay,” I say, cheeks aching with how hard I try to stop smiling.

Dark nearly-black eyes peer blankly back at me from a face so pale, it could belong to a ghost.

Laughter bubbles up once more. My vision blurs as I try to keep it all in, but it’s no use. “It’s okay, Valey.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. I can’t even be sure he’s even breathing. I kind of want to shake him. Slap him, even. If anyone should be freaking out right now, it should be me.

“I got him,” I whisper.

His eyes redden, tightening at the corners.

A sharp laugh erupts out of me, this time through my mouth. I quickly press a fist to my lips, like I can shove it back in. But it’s no use.

“I got him!” This time, my voice carries, loud and high-pitched, threatening to crack, before it breaks off into another round of giggles.

That old penny taste and smell is stronger than ever with my wet fingers mashed up against my mouth. But I don’t really mind.

I got him. It’s all I can think. All that matters.

Everything will be better now, Vale. You’ll see. It’ll all go back to the way it was, but better!

“Son…could you please drop the weapon so we can help?” a gentle male voice is saying from somewhere close by.

My smile starts to slip again as my eyes dart around aimlessly, somehow taking everything in, but not able to focus on just any one thing.

So, I seek out Vale once more, because he’s smart. So much smarter than me. He’ll figure it out. What it is, I don’t know. I just know he’ll make everything okay again.

“V-Vale…”

Why does he seem so far away?

Why do I feel so sad all of a sudden?

What weapon?

All the voices surrounding me seem to tune in and out, making it hard to keep track of who’s speaking. My chest squeezes, strangling the sounds still trying to escape from my throat.

This isn’t so funny anymore.

“How old is he?” someone asks. This one comes from further away. I’m assuming they’re referring to me.

“Nine, I think. Maybe ten now,” a choked female voice responds.

I know that one. Louise. Our foster mom.

What’s left of my smile flattens completely as I think, I’m twelve, you stupid bitch.

“Something’s never been right with that boy. I mean, look at him!” Her voice breaks on a sob. “Look what he did to my Rick!”

“Rick was bad,” I hear myself whisper, still not taking my blurry gaze off Vale’s blank face. “Very, very bad.”

A weird sort of stillness blankets the room in the wake of my softly spoken words.

Vale remains frozen.

I sense a body drawing close, big and looming, not unlike the one under me.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Aston,” I say absently, frowning. I sniff. “Like the car.”

He’s bleeding, a voice whispers in my head as I drop my gaze to Vale’s lap. His hands are bright red, like he’s been finger painting, but he’s way too old for that. Thirteen now, almost a whole year older than me…not that he looks it.

Neither of us look our ages.

“Are you hurt?” I hear myself ask, voice cracking.

No response. It’s like he didn’t even hear me.

“He’s bleeding,” I croak, finally turning to the man crouched over me. A metal plate across his breast pocket reads Ferris, J. My gaze drops to where his hand rests on his belt, just next to a gun and a baton. “My brother’s hurt. Can you help him?”

Thick, unruly brows dip low over his pinched eyes when I meet his gaze. He has a pudgy nose and too-thin lips peeking out under his mustache that makes him look like one of those muppets from TV.

“Yes, we can help him,” he says slowly, carefully. His gaze flits between mine. “But you have to be a good boy and drop the weapon first, okay?”

I frown, following his gaze to where something sharp and pointy, reflecting a blood-streaked face sticks out from my fist.

Oh.

My fist bursts open, and the long shard of mirror I’d been unknowingly gripping clangs to the floor. The cop hurries to sweep it out of reach while I hiss through my teeth and bring my bleeding, aching hand to my chest.

Owww.

“…come with us,” a warbly voice says.