Chapter 21 – Damian
Chapter Twenty-One
DAMIAN
The second I see the empty box, heat rises through my chest, crawling up my throat, and I see red.
I grip the table, the metal pressing into my palm. I can feel the anger pulse through me, sharp and vicious, rattling through every bone in my body. I grab the box and shove it toward her. “Where is it?”
She doesn’t answer.
Her eyes stay fixed on the deck of cards in her hands, her fingers pressing into the edges as if she can pull something from them, as if the money might still be there, buried beneath the useless game left behind.
I let out a breath, rough and jagged. “You knew.”
Her shoulders tense. She shakes her head, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t. He wouldn’t do this.”
The words set something off inside me. I move toward her, the distance between us shrinking, everything around us fading into the heat building in my chest, pressing at my ribs. “Your father is a liar. And so are you.”
Her face cracks.
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t fight back. She just stares down at the cards, her hands trembling, her body swaying like she can’t find solid ground beneath her feet.
I swallow back the fire in my throat. “I should’ve let Joel kill you.”
Her breath stutters, catches, like something inside her has broken.
Then she moves.
She pushes past me, toward the cabinets, toward the couch, tearing through drawers and cupboards, tossing aside old newspapers, pulling down stacks of junk.
Her hands shake as she shoves them into the recliner cushions, reaching for something that isn’t there.
“It has to be here.” The words spill from her lips, over and over, the pitch rising, cracking, shattering.
“He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do this to me. ”
She pulls open the fridge. Nothing. The drawers. Nothing. The sink cabinet. Nothing. Her breath catches in her throat, and suddenly, she’s moving faster. She storms down the narrow hallway toward the back of the trailer, where the sleeping area is cramped between peeling walls.
The mattress is the first thing to go. She grabs the edges, flips it over, sending dust and crumpled sheets spilling onto the floor. Her hands shove beneath the bed frame, feeling for something hidden, something tucked away. She comes up with nothing.
She jerks open the cabinets, yanking out old shirts, shoving aside jackets, her movements turning reckless. A bottle crashes to the floor, glass shattering around her feet. She doesn’t flinch.
Another cabinet, more clothes, more empty promises.
She rips a lamp from the nightstand and hurls it at the wall.
The crash splinters through the tight space.
Her hands clutch the edge of the dresser, her head bowing, her shoulders heaving with uneven breaths.
Her fingers press into the wood, white-knuckled, like she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart.
But she already is.
Her hands shake harder, her breathing quick and shallow.
I take a step toward her. “Marlowe.”
She turns fast. And then she crashes into me. Hard. It knocks the breath out of me, but I catch her. My arms wrap around her without thinking. Her fists land once, maybe twice, against my chest, but it’s not meant to hurt. She’s coming undone.
And fuck me, I feel it. Every bit of her rage, her panic, her grief. It spills out and shoves straight into mine.
“I can’t,” she gasps. Her voice is wrecked. “He lied.”
I press my hand to the back of her head, pull her in tighter. My fingers grip her hair, my other hand holding the small of her back. I want to crush something. I want to burn this whole place to the ground.
Her face buries into my shirt, her hands clenching my sides like I’m the only solid thing she has left. And fuck if that doesn’t crack something deep inside me.
“I thought this time…” Her voice shakes. “I really thought he was telling the truth.”
I hold her tighter. “He wasn’t.”
“I fucking hate him.” She chokes on the words and stumbles toward the sink, gripping the counter as her stomach heaves. Her body convulses, her breath snagging as she vomits, her fingers slipping against the metal of the sink.
I stand there, watching her fall apart, the sharp scent of sweat and sickness filling the air.
Her shoulders shake. Her knees buckle. She presses her forehead against the counter, the deck of cards bent and crushed in her fist.
She really thought the money would be here.
She thought her father wouldn’t send her to die.
And I don’t know if that makes me angrier. Or if it makes me sick.
Her hair clings to her face, her lips parted like she can’t pull in enough air, like her body is fighting against her own disbelief.
“Go wash your face,” I say, my voice rough, too sharp.
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move right away. Then, slowly, she pushes off the counter and drags herself toward the small bathroom at the end of the trailer. The door creaks closed behind her.
I brace my hands against the counter, my pulse heavy, pounding in my ears. A thousand thoughts slam into each other, breaking apart before I can grab hold of them.
I’m screwed if I don’t find that money.
Marlowe knew. She had to.
Fuck. Unless she didn’t.
I shake my head, forcing the thought out. Doesn’t matter. She’s as deep in this as I am now.
The faucet runs, water hitting porcelain and filling the quiet.
I press my fingers into my temples, breathing in slowly, trying to shove the anger back into something manageable.
The water shuts off, and the door creaks open.
I look up. She stands there, pale, hollowed out in a way I haven’t seen a person look before.
The fight is gone. Whatever held her together before is slipping.
“Get back in the truck,” I say.
She nods, a small, lifeless movement, and walks past me. She steps out of the trailer and climbs into the SUV without a word.
I follow close. Just in case she tries to run.
Her fingers rest in her lap, trembling with a slight, involuntary shake. A tear slips down her cheek, then another. She doesn’t wipe them away. Hell, this makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know if I should say anything at all, so I keep quiet and drive back.
She stares straight ahead, silent, hands clasped together like she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart.
The second I pull in front of Mom’s house, Bridger steps outside, his eyes narrowing as he takes us in.
His gaze flicks from me to Marlowe, who still hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, her hands still trembling against her lap.
“The money wasn’t there,” I say, climbing out of the driver’s seat.
Bridger exhales hard, his face going blank for a moment before he moves to the steps and sinks heavily onto the porch.
Marlowe finally moves, unbuckling her seatbelt, stepping out of the car slowly, as if her body isn’t fully connected to the moment.
The front door creaks open. Cody steps out, frowning. His eyes flick between the three of us.
Bridger runs a hand over his face and looks up at me. “So now what?”
I don’t have an answer. I don’t know what the hell to do.
Marlowe stares down at the deck of cards in her hands.
She doesn’t blink, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t look at anyone.
When she speaks, her voice is quiet, flat, like something inside her has been cut out and there’s nothing left to fill the space.
“Call Joel,” she says. “Tell him. Let him kill the fucking bastard.” She turns and walks into the house, the door creaking open, her steps dragging over the worn floorboards before it clicks shut behind her.
Cody lets out a sharp breath. “What the hell?” He pushes off the porch railing and follows her inside, his boots thudding against the wood.
I stay where I am, staring at the ground, sweat slick on my back. Then I sit down hard next to Bridger.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps looking at the door, his knee bouncing slightly, fingers rubbing at the stubble on his chin. His face is tight, drawn in a way that tells me he’s working something through, trying to make sense of it.
Finally, he speaks. “I really don’t think she was in on this.”
I stare ahead, my muscles wound too tight to move. The anger is still there, but it isn’t clean anymore. It isn’t simple. “So her father wanted her dead?” My voice comes out sharp, bitter.
Bridger exhales through his nose, shakes his head. “Come on, bro. We both know how shitty fathers can be.”
The thought hits like a slow, deep ache.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. I can’t sit here and do nothing.
I push myself up, my legs feeling heavy, my mind sharp with too many questions.
I need answers. I need to know if she was telling the truth, if she really thought her father had the money, if she really believed she was bringing that money back to save them.
I step inside the house. Cody is on the couch, sprawled out next to Delilah, who is watching something low on the television, her eyes distant. A cup of tea sits beside her, untouched. A cookie rests on a napkin, whole, like she forgot it was there.
I scan the room once, twice, looking for Marlowe, but she isn’t here. Rage spikes through me, hot and fast. My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “Where the fuck is she? Did she run?”
Cody lifts his head, his expression heavy with exhaustion. “Relax. I told her she looked like something out of a slow cooker and to take a shower.”
I storm down the hallway toward the back of the house, my footsteps loud against the old floorboards. The closer I get, the more I can hear it, the rush of water. I stop at the bathroom door and try the knob. It isn’t locked. I push it open.
Steam fills the small space, curling against the mirror, softening everything except the sound.
She’s crying.
I step forward, the sound pulling something deep inside me.
The shower runs hot, streaming down over her as she sits in the tub, her back hunched and bright red, her body rocking slightly, her shoulders shaking.
She doesn’t notice I’m here.
She is breaking apart, and she doesn’t even know she has an audience.
I don’t make a move. I should walk away, but of course I don’t. I can’t. The steam thickens, curling against my skin, dampening my shirt, filling the space between us. The sound of the water hitting the porcelain is steady, unbroken, but beneath it, her. The soft, uneven hitch of her sobs.
She shifts, her body slowing, the rocking stopping.
Then, after a long pause, she pushes herself up.
She stands under the stream, her head tilted forward, water rolling down the curve of her back, over the dip of her waist. Her hands rise, slow and fluid, pushing through her soaked hair, her arms stretching, her body arching just enough to make it impossible to look away.
Heat flits through my spine, twisting lower.
Her fingers slide over her skin, down the slope of her neck, across her collarbone, tracing the lines of her own body like she’s washing something off that isn’t just dirt.
I should turn around and give her privacy. I don’t, though. I watch.
I watch the slow drag of her hands over her arms, the curve of her breasts, the way the water glides down her skin in rivulets.
She runs her fingers lower, down her thighs, across her hips, each movement measured, deliberate.
My breath comes heavier.
My body hardens.
Every inch of her is too much and not enough. I shift forward, just a fraction, and then she pauses. Her head tilts slightly, like she feels it. My need.
The steam thickens between us, hot, electric, charged.
Slowly, she turns her head, her chin lifting just enough to glance over her shoulder.
Her eyes meet mine.
And neither of us move.