Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
ZIGGY
Apparently, when it comes to Kennedy, I’m a jealous guy. Who knew?
The way Rooney was looking at him, how the two of them were leaning closer, their conversation so fast and excited, I never had a chance to get a word in … I hated it. It made me feel as invisible as I always think I am, and it’s the first time that’s happened around Kennedy.
I’d wanted to smash my glass bottle between them, but luckily, I reined in that urge.
I’m sure Kennedy already thinks I’m weird, and I don’t need to do anything to encourage that image.
My TV is on a low hum, giving me background noise, but not enough to echo off the walls. I take another deep breath, nails digging into my palms, and say, “Kennedy.”
The word almost dies on my lips, and as soon as it’s out, I resist the urge to flinch around and check behind me.
It’s okay. I’m okay.
This is fine and normal and fine.
You’d think that eight years later, it would be easier.
That I’d stop instinctively waiting for the pulse-spiking scream.
Growing up, my parents were … angry. They worked a lot and slept all the time in between, so if I woke them between shifts, the screaming would start.
The shouting and anger and names. Being dragged back to my room.
Locked in there all day or night until they were up and would let me out again with an exhausted, dead-eyed sneer and warnings about showing respect.
Between keeping as silent as possible at home and the way my anxiety would ramp up every time I tried to talk at school, it’s no wonder dread smothers my words so often.
Friends used to ask me why I was so quiet. People I didn’t know would call me weird. Then, when I did talk, it was met with mock surprise or snide comments until I stopped talking altogether.
Is that what your voice sounds like? I wouldn’t talk either if I sounded like that.
I cup my mouth in a silent scream before blowing air out through my fingers. They’re not here anymore. They can’t hurt me again. I’m okay.
I’m a work in progress, but the important part is that I am making progress.
I’m slowly getting more comfortable with the people in town, and while it’s easier not to talk, I can manage conversations when I need to.
With Kennedy? Someone so new and shiny? Who gets me all twisted up inside? It’s near fucking impossible.
I steel myself, nails digging harder this time, and try again. “Kennedy.”
His name comes out weak but is getting familiar the more I do it. I’m determined that one day, we’ll be able to have a real conversation. To laugh and joke and have him as mesmerized as Rooney did. I’m determined.
I’m about to try again when a new noise breaks through the quiet murmur of the TV. A distant thud that I’ve heard a few times before and can place instantly now.
A car has gone off Hobby Straight.
The road winds through the hill above me, but with the tight turns and narrow lanes, it’s not unusual for someone to take a bend too wide.
I switch off the TV, grab the keys to the truck I never drive, and hightail it down to Wilde’s.
He’s always the first point of call before we pick up the doctor and head out, looking for the accident.
Usually, the driver is uninjured and only needs help to tow their car back onto the road, but it never hurts to have Booker on hand, just in case.
I pull up out front of Wilde’s house, and he reaches his door before I can knock on it. I point to his truck.
“Hobby Straight?” he checks.
At my answering nod, he grabs his keys and meets me outside. I climb in with him since he refuses to ride passenger, and then we drive over to the chop shop. When Booker climbs in beside me, he’s rubbing his hands together.
“Wonder what we’ll have today,” he says. “Nothing as fun as what Hudson brought me, I’d guess, but it’s not unreasonable to hope for a broken bone.”
Wilde throws his truck in drive and tosses a concerned look across me. “Let’s hope for nothing so we can pull them out of there and get them on their way.”
Booker tsks. “You’re never any fun.”
“Sorry that I don’t like wishing harm on people.”
“It’s not serious harm. A mild compound fracture is easily managed.”
“And probably hurts like a bitch.”
I swear I hear Booker mutter beside me, “Even better.”
And people think I’m weird.
Someone needs to teach Booker what an inside thought is.
“What about you?” he asks, patting my thigh. “Ready for me to take a look at those vocal cords yet?”
“Ziggy’s voice works fine,” Wilde answers before I can.
As much as I appreciate not having to talk, it would also be nice to have the option to. To practice and be given the time I need to get the words flowing. I know Wilde thinks he’s helping, and out here, we don’t ask, but maybe, maybe if someone had asked, I wouldn’t be as bad as I am now.
So I sit here, feeling more detached than at peace, like I normally would.
We make it up the hill to Hobby Straight, and it takes a few minutes of searching before we spot the car. There are a handful of problem areas, and the one this driver has gone off is a tight bend with low visibility.
Wilde parks, and we climb out of the truck for a closer look.
There’s a sheer fifteen-foot drop before the tree line, and while the car has hit the trees, it doesn’t look badly damaged.
At least from here. Along the back windshield, a line of colorful plushies stares blankly up at me, and I really hope there’s no kid in there.
I climb into the back of Wilde’s truck, next to his winch, and hand him the end that he clips over his belt. We’ve done this enough times that it’s second nature, and I control the winch as he goes over the side.
When Wilde gets to the car, Booker holds up his hand for me to stop.
“How does it look?” he calls.
There’s no answer right away, and I assume he’s searching. “It’s empty.”
Empty? I lean forward, unsure if I heard him right, but when Booker throws me a what the fuck look, it confirms my hearing isn’t the problem.
Whoever it was left their car.
That’s a first.
I help Wilde back up onto the road, and he unclips the makeshift harness.
“How many people do you think were in there?” Booker asks.
“My guess is one. Maybe two.”
“Kids?”
“With all the luggage on the back seat, unlikely.”
Booker glances back down at the car. “Interesting.”
“No point moving the car if there’s no one to drive it away,” he says. “We’ll send Rooney back up to tow it to his place.”
I wave my hand across the trees.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “They’ve probably wandered off.”
I agree that it’s not a smart thing to do, but someone who’s been in an accident isn’t focused on being clever. Survival instincts make us do weird shit.
My gaze roams the blanket of trees below, trying to figure out which way they would have gone. Would they have followed the road? Ventured toward town, which you can’t even see from here, or gone deeper into the wilderness?
Too many options, and if they’re lost and injured, they’re not going to get far.
Wilde sets the winch back in the truck, but before he can turn for the cab, I grab his arm. I give him my best pleading look, and the longer we make eye contact, the warier his gaze gets.
“There’s no guarantee we’d even find them.”
The alternative is definitely not finding them, and I’m not okay with a person or people dying because we didn’t try.
My throat feels tight as I push out one word. “Please.”
Wilde isn’t thrilled that I’m making this our problem, but we know this forest better than anyone. An unspoken rule in this town is that we help people who need it, and whoever this is definitely needs it.
“Fine,” he finally relents. “I’ll talk to Lynx. If anyone is going to be able to hunt down a stray, it’s him.”
The doubt I’m feeling must come through on my face.
“I know, I know. He doesn’t like to play nice, but if it means getting rid of strangers, he’ll be on it. His whole job is to keep the pests away.”
Considering he hasn’t been able to accomplish that with the brothers is part of the reason he hates them so much.
“That’s a good idea,” Booker agrees, and it’s not until he keeps speaking that I follow why he’s so supportive. “And don’t stress. If Lynx takes things too far, you know I’m here to put the stranger back together.”
“So generous of you,” Wilde deadpans.
“I’m always happy to help.”
It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he caused problems so he could fix them again. It’s half of the reason Peril got so popular so quickly. Sure, it brings in good money, but Booker isn’t short on patients to play with after each match. The thing about Booker is that he’s a hard guy to read.
He has a sweet, innocent face, and his tone always feels so happy and warm. He’s friendly and enthusiastic about everything, but sometimes my subconscious picks up on a vibe that’s not quite right, even if I can’t name exactly why.
I have another one of those moments when we climb back into the truck, me in the middle, and Booker turns his focus on me.
His smile is genuine, and he scratches my head like someone would scratch a cat.
“You’re something special,” he says, and everything about it is sincere and warm—but my suspicion kicks in anyway.
“What I wouldn’t give to see inside your brain. ”
There it is. Because I get the feeling when Booker says that, he doesn’t mean figuratively, like he wants to know what makes me tick.
He’s talking literally.
He wants to cut open my brain and see how it compares.
I bat his hand away and give him a grossed-out expression that makes him laugh.
“It’s purely professional curiosity, my dear.”
“It better be,” Wilde says in his growly voice.
“You two are so serious.” The sigh he lets out manages to sound disgruntled. “Since the exciting morning came to nothing, should we do something together? Drive down to Wayward for lunch? Help Lynx on his manhunt?” There’s a brief pause. “Visit those delicious brothers?”
“You’re not going near them.”
“But Hudson and I are such good friends. I’ve seen his insides, after all.”
His what?
Wilde grunts and throws Booker an unimpressed look. “It was a burn. Hardly his insides.”
Booker’s chubby cheeks stretch in an innocent smile. “We’re close, is all. But he’s yours. It’s the other two I’m interested in getting to know because I have a feeling they’d be fun. The happy one sounds boring, but I’ve heard the other one is … my type of man.”
My ears ring over the thought of him finding Kennedy boring. “He’s not.” It doesn’t come out as loud as I want it to.
Booker turns curious eyes on me. “He’s not my type?”
Of course he’s going to make me talk. “Boring.”
“Huh.” His muddy brown gaze slides over me. “Good to know.”
Before I can get the courage to say anything else, Wilde cuts in.
“And that’s all you’ll ever know. I’ve told you to stay away, and I mean it.”
“I’m never allowed to have any fun.”
“Bullshit. You have too much fun.”
We turn back into the trees, headed for Lynx’s place, and I keep my eye out for any unfamiliar faces. Booker and Wilde bicker between themselves, and for maybe the first time ever, I wish I could join them.
I’m sick of living on the outskirts.
Of that constant feeling of being here, but not here.
My confidence is too temporary, and even though I just spoke, I can’t bring myself to do it again. Their conversation is fast and natural, and anything I say will drag it to a close.
I fucking hate this.
And I’m scared I’ll always feel this way.