Chapter 9 Kade
Kade
Six days since I killed the son of a bitch who raised me.
Six days and it’s hard to believe the world is still turning. That I open my eyes when I wake up and everything is the way it was when I fell asleep. Not that I’m sleeping well. But eventually, your body has to shut down whether you want it to or not.
It would be fine if my dreams weren’t a replay of those last few minutes in the dining room. The hard and cold and determined look in his eyes haunts me.
He was going to shoot Calder and Saint. He wanted to blow our family even further apart. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Sometimes the dreams are worse, though. Last night, Roman was lying dead on the floor until he wasn’t. He sat up, blood dripping from his mouth, pooling on the floor. And this time, he aimed his gun at me. I pulled the trigger once, twice, but then the gun jammed.
So no, I’m not really trying to sleep. Well, or otherwise.
I drag my hands down my face. I need to pull myself together, but I can’t. So many emotions and feelings are tingling beneath my skin.
How do I get them out?
The sudden buzz of my phone interrupts my thoughts.
It’s somewhere on the bed, where I dropped it once I finally closed my eyes.
By the time I untangle it from the sheets, I wish I hadn’t bothered.
I roll my eyes and tighten my grip on the phone.
It’s just another text from Emma Porter.
She’s been texting me daily since the news broke about Roman’s death.
I haven’t left the house, so I don’t know the extent of what’s been said or even what Sawyer released to the press.
I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth. My brothers are managing well, acting as if nothing happened, while I spiral out of control.
Fuck them. Fuck Emma. Fuck everyone.
If I find out who gave her my number, I’ll snap the fucker’s neck.
I shake my head, hoping the movement will make the anger and resentment disappear, but of course it doesn’t.
Logically, I know none of this has to do with my brothers.
They aren’t to blame, but I’m hurting, and I can’t seem to stop myself from hurting everyone else around me.
I open the text and stare at it.
Unknown: There’s no reason we can’t talk now. Please, Kade. There is so much we need to discuss.
I grit my teeth. It’s always the same message.
Does she know what he told me? How could she?
I drop the phone onto the mattress to stop myself from responding.
I suppose it’s possible that Saint told Allie, but I don’t think she would’ve. It’s not Saint’s story to tell, and while I’m not a fan of what Calder put us through to keep her alive, I can admit she might be the only decent person in this family, so it’s unlikely she said something.
Plus, Allie and her mom haven’t been on super-great terms, according to the surveillance I did before Roman’s death.
I doubt that’s what’s happening here. I haven’t responded to a single message.
As far as Emma knows, she’s reaching out to me, but I have no clue what she wants.
But let’s be real. She knows that I know.
She knows I’m ignoring her and avoiding the subject. Otherwise, she wouldn’t keep texting.
War rages inside me. On the one hand, fuck her.
I don’t owe her anything, and nothing she says can change the past. But on the other hand, everything I know about the situation was told to me by Roman—a man who was a pro at twisting shit up so it could fit inside his warped mind.
Who knows, maybe he lied to me. Maybe this was his last “fuck you.” The thought makes me want to bring him back to life just to kill him again.
The piece of shit might be dead, but he’s still haunting me. His memory. His voice. It’s in my head. Under my skin. Killing him didn’t make him disappear; it made him bigger, louder.
As much as I hate to accept it, I know what he told me was true. I can feel it in every breath I take. I fall back against the pillows and stare up at the ceiling.
I need to talk to Emma and hear her side of the story.
Not that I want to. I’m so bitter and angry over the entire situation, I’m not sure I’d give a shit about anything she says right now.
Dragging a hand over my face, I feel the stubble I haven’t bothered to shave in days.
Now that I think about it, I don’t smell all that great, either.
Time is a blur. I don’t remember the last time I ate. The last time I showered.
Is this rock bottom? As low as I can get?
No, it can’t be, because I still have my freedom. At least, physically.
Inside, though? I don’t think I’ll ever be free.
I force myself into the bathroom, going through the motions of shaving and showering.
Normally, I’d feel better after a shower, but now, there’s nothing.
Just the same pit of despair and rotting anger.
I’m not even surprised. Maybe I don’t deserve to be happy, to find my way back to life again?
This isn’t you. A tiny voice whispers inside. But isn’t it? I mean, was that version of me from before ever really real? Do I even know who I am anymore? This is too much to contemplate without caffeine coursing through my veins.
By the time I’m dressed and ready to go, it’s already early afternoon. Shit needs doing, and the rest of the family is off doing it while I’ve been trying to turn off my brain. Pathetic. I can hear my father’s voice.
“Failure. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
I leave my room and walk to the kitchen for coffee. The house is quiet, and it’s weird. I keep thinking Roman will pop up around the corner. Calder would say it’s just PTSD.
Once I’m in the kitchen, I find a half-full pot of coffee and pour myself a cup.
Bringing the mug to my lips, I take a drink and nearly spit the lukewarm liquid out.
Nasty. If I wanted an iced coffee, I’d go to the coffee shop in town that Allie loves and order her stupid iced white mocha bullshit.
Annoyance ripples through me at how easy it is for her to pop into my mind.
For me to remember the little things about her.
Like how she liked her coffee. Sometimes I wish I could forget how much she means to me, how much our time together means.
I place the cup in the microwave and nuke it for a bit, then pull it out and take a sip to test the temperature.
Perfect. I take another drink, downing half the cup.
The quick hit of caffeine on my empty stomach makes me sharper.
I finish the mug and set it in the sink before walking to the foyer.
The house is a ghost town, and I stop dead in my tracks on my way out.
“What the fuck is all this?” It looks like every florist shop from here to South Dakota sent an arrangement. Flowers and vases of every size and color are jammed into the space. A stack of unopened cards sits on the entryway table.
I guess my mother, Elena, either isn’t interested or doesn’t have it in her to see who sent what.
The outside world probably assumes she’s a grieving widow who can’t handle what happened.
I’m sure part of her is that way, but another part of her has to be relieved.
Maybe? I don’t know. I haven’t been able to set eyes on her since everything happened despite living in the same house.
Roman made everyone’s life a living hell, but shit like this is tricky.
She might hate me or want to thank me. She probably doesn’t know which yet.
I’m still staring at the wall of flowers when my phone buzzes in my pocket. For a second, I consider ignoring it, but when I look at the screen and see it isn’t Emma, I check it.
Calder: My cabin. Now.
No please. No when you get a chance. Just now.
I stare at the text, jaw tight, then shove the phone back into my pocket.
I’ve been dodging my brother for days, and we both know it.
Evading all of them. Calder’s been running the ranch, keeping the hands in line, and dealing with the lawyers and the will and everything else that comes with your father dying violently in his own dining room.
And me? I’ve been rotting in a spare bedroom, feeling sorry for myself.
Failure. That’s all you’ll ever be.
“Shut up,” I mutter, and shove through the front door, stepping around a vase of white lilies that some well-meaning stranger sent to honor a man who deserved none of it.
The drive to Calder’s cabin takes less than five minutes. It sits on the east side of the property, close enough to the main house that you can see it from the upstairs windows but far enough away that it feels like it’s in its own world.
As soon as I pull up, I consider reversing it to go back to the main house.
All three of my brothers are here, and if that isn’t a warning sign, I don’t know what is.
I park the truck and sit there for a minute with my hands on the wheel.
I could leave, but it wouldn’t matter. Calder would find another tactic to corner me and discuss the hard stuff.
He’s relentless. Oldest brother syndrome dialed up to eleven, made worse by the fact that he basically raised us while Roman was too busy being a tyrant.
I kill the engine and go inside without knocking.
The cabin smells like food. Real food. Not the stale coffee, and nothing I’ve been surviving on. A pot of something simmers on the stove—soup or stew, I can’t tell from here—and a plate of cornbread sits on the counter wrapped in a towel.
Saint’s doing, I’m sure. Even when she’s not here, she’s here. The woman is a godsend, and she makes some damn good food.
Under different circumstances, I’d appreciate it more.