11. I cant handle the truth
Chapter 11
I can't handle the truth
LETTIE
I suppose I don’t need to know which video it is.
Perhaps it’s both of them. Then again, who’s to say they only recorded two?
Not that it matters.
James’s face says it all.
Heartbreak weaves into his features, painting a vivid picture of what he just watched.
More than any other moment in my life, I wish I could rewind time to change things I’ve done. Prevent klutzy accidents. Stop and think instead of making impulsive decisions.
If I could, I’d go back to five minutes ago, throw that fucking jump drive into the disposal, and obliterate it into thousands of pieces so James never had a chance to watch it.
No better place for that trash to end up.
Moving with a singular purpose, my feet propel me across the room toward him. I pay no mind to the twinge of pain lancing my midsection. All I care about is comforting him. And it starts by getting rid of that cursed thing. Better late than never.
He stands there, looking like he was frozen in carbonite.
The poor man is so traumatized by what he saw I don’t think he even sees me approach.
As soon as it’s within reach, I swipe the laptop from his grip. The corded headphones come flying out of his ears and whip around me.
He snaps out of his trance, his eyes searching for mine. “Sugar bear, you don’t wanna see that.”
“You’re damn right I don’t,” I snap, raising my chin assertively.
My pointed response leaves him dumbstruck.
Before he can react, I slam the laptop shut and stomp into the kitchen. In a rush, I set it on the counter, yank out the jump drive, throw the damn thing into the disposal, and turn on the faucet. With a shaky hand, I flip the power switch.
The sound of the drive grinding to bits fills the room, giving me a blooming feeling of satisfaction.
Moving at a snail’s pace, James finally enters the kitchen. The horror of what he saw still lingers around him in a metaphorical storm cloud.
Aching for him, my heart splinters in a million pieces. Much like the tiny scraps of plastic and metal swirling around the under-the-sink hog.
By the time it’s chewed up beyond recognition, James is at my side, bracing himself with a death grip on the counter. He turns off the disposal and peers down the drain. “Lettie, what have you done? That was a digital trail.”
“I did what I should have done as soon as I saw the damn thing. I never should’ve let you watch that.”
He forks his fingers through his hair, veins bulging in his temples. After taking three rigid steps, he spins on his heel and starts pacing. Eyes fastened to the floor, he mumbles unintelligibly.
I experience a similar physical response to the tension pulsating through the room. Heat rushes through my veins. I hear and feel my pulse rapidly pounding behind my ears.
My mind replays how I handled the situation. Same as always, I just reacted.
Only this time, I don’t regret my knee-jerk response. I only regret not doing it sooner.
Why did I let him watch that? Once I saw it was something that could hold a digital recording, a part of me knew what it would be. Viktor told me he’d give it to James since he likes to watch .
I was a fool.
Again.
A delusional one. Na?ve enough to hope it was something other than a video.
But there’s nothing else they’d send him except that filth.
They want to destroy him. Because that’s what monsters do.
Right now, James is physically in the kitchen. Mentally, he’s somewhere else. I’m unsure how to soothe him or where to redirect his focus. After he saw that horror, how can I bring him back to himself?
And to me.
James never lets his emotions control him the way I do. We’ve practically switched bodies. Rage, confusion, and panic surround him. Whereas I’m mostly composed.
Perhaps because I lived through what he just saw. I already knew the horror.
They can’t hurt me anymore.
Before today, James only thought he knew what I endured. It was easier for him to pretend it didn’t happen. That’s not to imply he tried to avoid it or ignore my suffering because he certainly hasn’t.
Yet knowing something happened and witnessing it are two different things.
I never wanted him to see that. Lord knows I suffered enough for us both. Now, he’ll have to carry that image around in his mind for the rest of his life.
Gradually, a layer of tension fades. His movements become methodical and controlled. He stops pacing and surveys the kitchen. Wordlessly, he launches himself toward the laptop, powers it down, closes the lid, and tucks it under his arm.
Still unwilling to meet my eyes, he marches toward the living room.
I trail behind him, partly because I don’t want to be alone, but also to ensure he doesn’t do something reckless.
Let’s be real. The reckless one in this relationship is me. The position has been filled.
When I get three steps out of the kitchen, the front door creeks open, sending me into a tizzy. My knees quiver, steps falter, and hand flies to my chest.
Fortunately, it’s only Josh, our bodyguard. But his sudden appearance heightens my already spiking anxiety.
Butter my biscuits.
This day is rapidly spiraling toward being the most fucked-up-est of them all.
Unaware he sent me into fits, Josh scans the room. His eyes land on James, who halted his speedy trek across the house when he saw Josh enter.
“Tomer, my phone is acting up. The tablet too. I rebooted it three times with no luck. Do you have service? Should I be alarmed?”
Wait. What?
There it is again. That word.
No, not a word.
A name.
Why the fuck did he just call James that?
Speaking of James, he literally growls at Josh. That poor man’s head rears back like he’s been clocked in the jaw.
James sidesteps toward a small device in the center of the room. He snatches it while grumbling, “I was using a signal jammer. I’m turning it off now. Everything should be working again in a few seconds.” He yanks the plug from the wall outlet.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Josh snips, rolling his eyes.
Not the time for sass, Josh.
My mind and heart engage in a battle of wills to see which will bring me to my knees first.
It was bad enough that a semi-strange man barged into the house without warning in the midst of a shitastrophe . Yet it’s what he said that rocked my world. Now, I’m left replaying conversations from the past few days where James has interacted with his Redleg peers.
I can’t remember a single time that someone referred to him by his name.
No James. No Jimmy, Jim, or J. Not even his last name, Harris.
It’s been T or Tomer.
On the night of my rescue, I was out of it and couldn’t be sure what I heard. The man in the weapons room called him T. His boss called him Tomer when we were racing out of there. A few other people I can’t pinpoint did too. Each time it’s popped back into my mind since then, I dismissed it, chalking it up to my trauma.
Then I heard it again the other day.
That giant guy... What’s his name? Leo. When he got into the SUV, he hollered Tomer.
Now, Josh has done it too.
James answers to it every damn time.
Unfortunately, I can’t process the implications of this revelation because he’s bolting down the hallway at full speed.
Away from me.
As I run past the foyer, attempting to catch up to James—or should I call him T — Josh offers a half wave before slinking out and closing the door behind him.
I linger in the hall, peering into the office while James returns the items to the drawers where he got them. Once done, he shuts off the light and brushes past me.
As much as I want to scream at him to calm down and talk to me, I won’t do it.
Every woman has been told to calm down in a moment of justifiable rage. It’s probably worked a whopping zero times.
But at this moment, I sort of get it because I desperately need him to chill the fuck out.
Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards. He’s incapable of speaking, let alone bottling up the confusing emotions pulsing through his body. It’s relatable, even if I’m not in the same head space for once.
The hollow ache in my chest has nothing to do with the bruised ribs. It’s solid anguish for this man and what he witnessed.
For a moment, I imagine the feelings I’m having now—pain for his suffering and not mine—must be what he’s been dealing with these last days.
Like he’s done for me, I’ll attempt to pull it together. Shelter and comfort him. Protect him from darkness.
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for whatever’s about to happen as I follow him down the hall.
As soon as he gets into the open expanse of the living room, his pace slows to an abrupt halt. He turns to face me to make sure I’m coming. Of course I am . I might as well start wearing a collar for as much as I follow him like a puppy.
As he watches me approach, he extends his hand toward me, palm facing upward. Without hesitation, I lace our fingers together and let his familiar skin infuse me with strength.
For a second, I pretend my mind isn’t barreling down a one-way street in the wrong direction. During rush hour. With a tire blown out. The check engine light flashing. Smoke billowing from under the hood.
It’s taking everything in me to avoid confronting him about his name, but I know it’s not the right time. I’m trying to be rational about this.
You know? Anti-Lettie Holt.
He tugs on my hand, pulling my body toward his. I go willingly into his embrace. Despite his stone face, he vibrates with tension. When I rest my cheek on his chest, his speeding heartbeat thumps against it ferociously.
I attempt to lend him some of my composure, squeezing my arms around his waist with extra oomph.
His forceful exhale flutters my hair. “Lettie, would you be comfortable staying with Josh for a few hours?”
Wuuuut?
I could’ve used a trigger warning before a certified jump scare like that.
Afraid to say too much when we’re both already on edge, my answer is succinct and to the point.
“No.”
Am I comfortable with Josh? Maybe.
James trusts him. Apparently, so do Big Al and Leo. It stands to reason that I probably should too.
However, my trust is presently in short supply.
But all that is entirely irrelevant because James said he wouldn’t leave me.
And yes, before you ask, I am pretending I don’t have a strong suspicion that his name isn’t James. Let me be delulu on this.
His hands move from my lower back to my shoulders. “Fine. No Josh. Hmm. Who else?” Eyes unfocusing, he quirks his neck and worries his lip. “ Oh. Do you remember the blond female who was there when we rescued you the other night?” He whooshes one hand over his ear toward the back of his head. “Her hair is shaved on one side. Do you remember her?”
“Yes, I do. But?—”
“That’s Kri. How about her? She can stay inside with you while Josh guards the exterior. You can trust her. She was Delta Force.” He perks up with renewed vigor as if he’s about to close the deal of the century.
Does anyone else find this crazier than a fish with tits? Just me?
Oblivious to why I’m not answering, he keeps attempting to sell me on whatever bullshit he’s peddling. “Kri’s a perfect choice. She’s tough, smart, and was an officer in the Army. Since she’s not on full duty yet, I’ll get another female guard to accompany her. Then you’ll have two women inside with you. That’s even more protection. Plus, if she comes, Shep will come too. In fact, the Russians know we’re here since they mailed me the drive, so we need more protection anyhow. I’ll round up as many guards as I can.”
Too befuddled to speak, I stare at him with my jaw to my chest.
Head bobbing and still muttering, he pays no mind to my reaction. “Yeah. I’ll get as many guards as possible on the outside and at least two females on the inside with you. Sound good?”
I jerk out of his hold, my confusion giving way to frustration. “No, no, no, oh and also noooo . It don’t sound good. Am I hosting a fucking tea party or somethin’?”
Other than an eye twitch, he’s perfectly still. “I need to leave for a little while.”
Removing the distance between us, I press my palms on his chest and lower my volume. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me. Remember? Why are you trying to pass me off? How did what you saw on that video make being with me less important to you?”
He bunches his lips, runs his palm down his face vigorously, then encircles my wrists. While holding my hands to his chest, he tries a few times to speak, ultimately failing.
It’s like looking in the mirror. He’s a frazzled fucking mess.
That deplorable video has broken my sweet man.
“Babe, listen to me.” I cup his cheeks, applying a little more pressure than I normally would. I need his complete focus on me for this. “The only person I want to stay with, who I am comfortable with, who I need by my side, is you. Do not leave me tonight.”
I let my order—not a request—sit heavy between us.
With his hands gripping my shoulders, his features turn pleading. “I need to do this, Lettie. I’ll be back. I promise. You’ll be protected. But I must end this.”
“End this?” My voice warbles. “Where do you think you’re going? Why now? What do you mean you’re going to end this?”
Exhaling turbulently, he lets me go. Pacing again, he rattles a paltry explanation at a frenzied speed, his tone flat and lifeless. But his eyes are wild. “I was going to wait a few more days until you were feeling better before I went after them. But I can’t wait anymore. Not after this. I can’t wait. We can’t wait.”
He slices his open palms back and forth, emphasizing his words. “No more waiting. So I’ll call Mia. Convince her. Go to her and get their locations. Vanessa. Davidov. Savin. All of them. Mia knows where they are. I’ll make her talk. Then I’ll make them talk. I’ll find Yev. And?—”
On his next pass, I jump in his path. “Stop. Please . You’re scaring me.”
His face pinches, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth grow more pronounced. “I’m sorry, sugar bear.” He cups my upper arms and bends to bring his face in close. “Don’t be frightened. You never have to be scared of me. I’m gonna fix this. I’ll fix everything. I’ll protect you.”
“I’m not scared of you, but I’m terrified of losing you. Whatever you’re talking about could get you hurt or...” My breath hitches, and I continue in a whisper, “I don’t know.”
“ Oh, sweet Lettie,” he rasps, his voice pained like his throat is coated in broken glass.
“Just stay with me.”
Unable to beg anymore, I fling my arms around his waist and squeeze him tightly. His returning hold is too forceful, inflaming my ribs. But I don’t fucking care.
I’ve earned the pain.
The seconds pass as I stay safe in his embrace. The things he said keep rattling around my head, and it becomes clear we didn’t solve anything. I bet he still intends to do... well, whatever he was going on about.
I pull out of the hug, keeping only inches between us. After wiping my tears, I steel my spine. “Stay with me. Okay?”
He shakes his head, an air of sorrow surrounding him. “I’ll be back, Lettie. I can’t let them get away with this. They need to pay for what they did to you.”
My hands curve in front of my face. “That’s why I agreed to talk to the cops tomorrow. Detective what’s his face is coming to interview me, right?”
“That’s not the... I mean, it’s not good enough for me. Not anymore. I need to end them.”
Earlier, he said end this .
Now it’s end . . . them .
Extricating myself from his hold, I recoil a few steps away from him. For the first time since he saved me from that hell, I want distance.
It’s jarring, but I let myself have it.
Not too much, though.
Only a few feet.
As he watches me retreat, his mask slips quickly into place, shoring up his emotions. “Talk to me, Lettie.”
He’s flat. Unfeeling.
Once again, he’s merely a husk of the man I love.
Any semblance of my response—be it verbal or non-verbal—is trapped inside me. Restrained. Caged. Bound.
Like a captive.
Just like I was.
Or am I still? Because even if I wanted to leave right now, I couldn’t.
He must misinterpret my silence for acceptance, taking a tentative step toward me. “So you see that I need to do this.”
Holding my palm out, I stop his approach. “That is not what I see.”
Halting his movements, he waits for me to explain. His forehead crumples but the rest of him is as straight as a rod. Planting his fists on his hips, he stares me down.
For a brief moment, he reminds me of Peter Pan.
And if that isn’t the Lettiest thought I’ve ever had, then I’ll be a monkey’s fucking uncle.
Blinking away the cartoon comparison, I eye him more carefully, trying to swim through the sea of confusion that’s quickly pulling me under.
One thing is clear. He aims to take matters into his own hands.
Violently.
I feel the color drain from my cheeks. Is he saying he’s capable of killing them? In cold blood?
This uptight, slightly dorky computer programmer is primed to commit murder.
Hundreds of times, I dreamed of hurting those savages. But there’s a difference between fantasy and reality.
James is making it seem like a possibility.
He is dangerous.
Lethal.
A sense of déjà vu slices through me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had that thought.
I struggle to pinpoint the memory, reaching for it in the recesses of my mind.
Then it hits me.
In the shower on the night of my rescue.
I remember thinking he was dangerous. But so much of that night has been blocked from my psyche. Like it was hidden behind a steel door. My brain was shielding me from the realization that’s currently slamming into me full force.
I do not know this man.
Not all of him.
And I fear the mystery surrounding his name and background only scratches the surface of what he’s been hiding from me.
My head spins, and memories play like a movie reel.
The weapons room at his job.
The way he and his ... friends or coworkers raided the nightmare house.
The secrecy about his past.
His military background and time in Special Ops.
The hacking things he said he would do to anyone who hurt me.
Little comments he’s made.
Phrases he’s used.
Phone calls taken in private.
Late nights and missed dates for work obligations.
I see him standing over the men in that house on the night he saved me, wearing his rage like a second skin. And he asked me, “Which one hurt you?” I had to pull him off one of them.
He was going to kill them that night.
And isn’t that what I wanted him to do?
Don’t I still want that?
If I do, at what cost? James in prison or worse?
No.
I can’t live with any of this on my conscience.
My thoughts skitter to a stop when he groans. Not out of frustration, but in anguish.
After taking one step in my direction, he freezes and balls his hands in front of his chest. His eyes reach for me, though.
Begging for me to come to him.
“Lettie.”
Within those two syllables is a desperate plea.
He needs my comfort and reassurance. But more than that, he’s seeking permission to hold me. To care for me. Like he’s always done.
Yet he’s giving me the choice.
Although it took him a while to connect the dots, he knows I see another side of him. He’s terrified it’ll change my feelings.
Why am I scared of him? Especially when he’s staring at me as if I’m the one who could hurt him ?
Almost instantly, my fear of him evaporates.
He’d never hurt me.
All he wants is to stop those monsters from terrorizing innocent women.
Another memory crystallizes. Of the night he said the exact words his expression telegraphs now... If I’m dangerous, I wouldn’t be a danger to you.
I hesitate for another fraction of a second before I erase those fears.
Not with words.
I open my arms, hoping he’ll remove the space between us. A second later, he’s wrapped around me.
For a long time, we stay there, clinging tightly to one another.
The tension surrounding us splits my thoughts about him into divergent categories—I’m accepting him for the danger he poses while questioning everything I thought I knew about him.
I should let this go for now. Sweep it under the rug until we’re in a place to examine it. To talk it out rationally.
That’s what I should do.
Like always, I lack the ability to hold my tongue.
Lifting my head off his chest, I twist my neck to find his eyes. “You plan to hurt them.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. I know it. He does too.
The turquoise hue of his irises flashes with something darker. Menacing.
“What are you going to do? And how? I’m still confused. Before Monday, I thought you were a software geek. And now you’re what... a vigilante? Who are you ?”
This time, he’s the one backing out of our embrace. He hangs his head, closes his eyes, and takes a long series of deep, deliberate breaths.
A single question—who are you—hits him harder than any other I’ve asked. And that speaks volumes.
Let it go for now, Lettie.
Unfortunately, my impulsiveness wins again. “You can’t answer me, can you? Not truthfully. Not without triggering an avalanche of lies that’ll bury us alive.”
With a sharp inhale, he snaps his head upward, locking our gazes. Aside from making a muffled choking sound, he doesn’t speak.
So I do.
“I know you’re hiding things from me. Your name, for starters. And now this side of you who is capable of... hell , I don’t even know what.” I take a steadying breath. “But your body language tells me those things only scratch the surface. All your secrets are intertwined, aren’t they? And there’s probably more.”
Miraculously, I manage not to cry or yell.
Seconds pass, his face giving me nothing. There’s a subtle flare of his nostrils with each inhale. A slight twitch under one eye.
That’s all.
The tick of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. If I strain, I could likely hear our heartbeats too.
When he meets my eyes, I barely recognize him.
Wait. That’s not true.
I do recognize him. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen this version of him. The one who holds his emotions deep inside, never revealing them.
Or even feeling them.
And I get it. If there was ever a time to cut off what makes you human, it would be now, minutes after watching that horrible recording. I did it myself once or twice inside the nightmare house.
Except I don’t want that version of him. I want the real him with me. Whoever that may be. Secrets be damned.
If we’re happy, we’re happy together.
If we hurt, we hurt together.
What he’s hiding doesn’t matter right now. It’ll matter later.
When I move closer, I realize his mask is surface level. There’s a tumultuous ocean of darkness behind his eyes.
He’s trying so damn hard to conceal his pain. Just like when he watched that fucking video that sent him into this rage.
Suddenly, his entire facade collapses. One moment, he’s stoic, and the next, he’s crumpling in on himself. His face falls, shoulders slump, and chest caves in.
But the sound he makes nearly brings me to my knees.
It’s only a breath. How can it convey so much? Simply air leaving the lungs. That’s all it is.
Only this exhale is fraught with stifling emotions.
Whatever he’s lied about has hurt him. If that’s the case, what will it do to me?
I’m about to speak—to tell him not to answer—when he hesitantly creeps close and looks deep into my eyes. “Do you want to know who I am or what I’m going to do, Lettie? Or do you just want me to take care of it? Tell me what you think you can handle because I’m not good at this. At reading you. Not tonight. This interpersonal shit is above my fucking pay grade.”
I open my mouth to scream no , but nothing comes out. The only thing I can do is put my hands on his shoulders and squeeze, silently begging him to stop talking.
I can’t handle his truth right now.
He misunderstands my nonverbal cues, assuming I’m still fighting for an explanation he doesn’t want to give. “If you continue demanding answers, I’ll have no choice but to give them to you. And I don’t fucking know if you can handle it. Not now. Be careful what you ask. Lettie baby, there’s a high possibility that you won’t like the answers.”
Finally finding my voice, I grit out, “Stop.”
And he does.
I’ve never been more grateful for silence.
Is it wise to avoid this conflict? Is that a rash decision? Or is demanding answers the poor choice?
I can’t trust my instincts. They’re shot, and they weren’t any good when I wasn’t healing from a fucking trauma.
I’m left with one question.
After a weighted pause, I ask, “How bad is it?”
“Depends on how much you want to know right now.”
He’s giving me an out. Leaving it to me to decide how much his secrets matter.
“Will the answers change... us? Not what you do out there.” I point toward the front door, then drop my hand. “Do your secrets—whatever they are—change what we have? How you feel about me? How you care for me?” After a choppy inhale, I whisper, “Is what we have real?”
He swallows and nods his head subtly. Moisture pools in his eyes, matching my own.
With the earnestness of a man on his deathbed, which is something I’ve seen firsthand, he gives me the words I seek so desperately.
He gives me his truth.
Well, part of it.
“Violet, there is nothing in the entire world that could change how I feel about you. Nothing. You and I are the realist thing I’ve ever known.”
Blessed relief floods my soul, sealing all the fissures that were threatening to shatter our lives.
“Then I don’t care. Make them pay. Make them all pay.”
“I will.”
His lips find mine, searing his declaration on my soul like a branding. Or a vow. Twinges of pain from his tight grip on me barely register.
I’d take all the agony in the world for more of this feeling. For more moments with this man.
Because my love for him is the realist thing I’ve ever known too.
There’s a lot I don’t understand. Endless questions still plague me. But there’s one thing I know for certain—I will not lose him.
And that means I can’t let him walk out that door tonight. Not until he has help.
He needs a plan. To do this with a calm head and backup.
Somehow, I’ll need to get a message to the people he works with. The ones who helped him rescue me.
I can’t let him do this alone. Because when he leaves, he damn sure better come back to me.