Chapter Fifteen
Abbott
Just as Rian pulls his right hand back, I watch as the tower of wood blocks goes tumbling to the coffee table.
I laugh. “You suck at this game.”
“Fuck off,” he replies.
“Jesus, you really hate to lose, don’t you?”
He leans back against the couch, looking as though he’s trying not to pout but not doing a very good job of it. “Who the hell likes losing?”
“No one, but not everyone looks like they want to set the house on fire after losing two games in a row of Jenga.”
He scowls, and for the second time in just a couple of minutes, I’m chuckling.
It’s been like this for three days now. After he’d turned away from me on our walk that first day, I’d just caught up with him, changed the subject, and Rian had let me.
We came back to the house after that, and he’d handcuffed me to the bed again so he could take a nap.
I have to admit, that part wasn’t fun. It’s a reminder of the fact that I’m a prisoner, which shouldn’t be something I need to be reminded of.
I can’t figure out why I do, so most of the time, I try not to think of it at all.
After our nap, we’d watched a movie, hung out, cooked dinner, played cards, and then gone to bed.
And we’ve been doing the same stuff every day since—walks, cooking, eating together, sitting on the porch, talking…
just random things. Things one doesn’t typically do with a murderer—at least, I don’t.
Things I didn’t really imagine a murderer doing with other people, especially one he’s kidnapped.
We’ve even repeated a shower routine, only Rian handcuffed me in the bathroom with him while he took one.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few days, though, it’s that Rian is mostly like a normal guy.
Sure, he’s moody, bossy, and…sad. It’s not something I noticed right away, but Rian is incredibly fucking sad, but then, how many of us aren’t?
If I hadn’t been there when he killed someone, if I hadn’t been taken by him and threatened by him, I would never know the darkness he hides.
He would just be a guy who lost his wife, the person he is obviously still in love with, and one who has close friends and a son he would take on the world for.
Those are the things I try to focus on.
Well, that and how funny it is that he pouts when he loses at Jenga.
“I have a bad arm. That’s why I’m not good at this game,” he finally says as though he’s been trying to come up with a reason he’s not good at keeping a tower of wood from falling.
“It’s okay to lose,” I say as I begin packing the game away.
“Says you,” he counters.
“How does your arm feel?”
“Ugh,” he groans. “Stop asking me that.”
He’s healing remarkably well. I’ve been watching for signs of infection or necrosis, and with none in sight, I felt comfortable closing his wound a couple of days back.
I’d seen them left open for up to two weeks.
Gunshot wounds often leave a lot of bacteria in the body, so we’re always extra careful.
The whole process hadn’t been fun for either of us because he hadn’t allowed me to give him much pain medication—afraid he would pass out, and I’d escape, I guess—and hurting people is one of my least favorite things to do. But it’s done now, and we don’t have to worry about it again.
“You’re in a mood,” I tell him. He gets like that sometimes. One minute he’ll be okay—talking to me, laughing with me—and the next, it’s like he shuts down. Which I guess is how we should both be—shut down. I mean, at least with each other. It’s not as though Rian and I are friends.
He rubs his good hand over his face. “Sorry. I’ve just…got a lot on my mind.”
“Same,” I reply before our eyes meet, his going soft around the edges, an almost gentle, apologetic look on his face, likely thinking the same thing I am.
I have a lot on my mind because of him.
I’m on his, but I know that’s not all there is. He takes phone calls from who I assume is his asshole friend, the two of them speaking in hushed voices. Sometimes he handcuffs me so he can go outside or into a different room for them to talk.
They’re trying to find someone, though I’m not sure who, but I can’t figure out what else is going on.
“Your boyfriend has been trying to get a hold of you,” Rian says, out of nowhere.
“What? I don’t have a boyfriend, and how do you know someone has been trying to get a hold of me?”
“That’s important information for us to know, right?” he asks, and I shift uncomfortably where I’m sitting on the floor, on the opposite side of the coffee table from him.
“Are you talking about Hector?” I ask.
He nods.
“We broke up.”
“Then why did he go to your house? And why did he inquire about your leave of absence with the hospital?”
I stare at him for a moment, stunned that they can find out this kind of information. I’m sure they’re watching my place, interested in seeing if anyone is looking for me, I would guess, but how can they find out who has been asking for me at the hospital? “How deep do your connections go?”
“You don’t want to know,” he answers.
I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t answer me, but I hadn’t expected Rian to talk to me about a lot of the things he’s spoken to me about, so there had been a possibility. Still, it shouldn’t sting the way it does, shouldn’t be this strange burning pain beneath my skin.
“I’m sure he’s asking about me because he knows I’m not the type to take a random leave of absence.
” I’m surprised they believed me and approved it at all, but for all I know, Rian and his friends had a hand in that as well.
And on the other hand, why would they expect something else when it had been my voice on the call?
“Do the two of you still meet up? Still fuck?”
“What the hell does that have to do with you?” I push to my feet, taking the game back to the games closet where he’d pulled it from. Why does a criminal hangout have so many board games, anyway?
“Answer the question, Abbott.”
“Fuck off, Rian.” It strikes me how easy it is for me to say that to him. I know this man is dangerous, but somehow, I’m not afraid of him the way I was in the beginning. Maybe because I know he plans to kill me regardless?
He stands, still wearing the sling, and walks over, not stopping until he’s right in front of me.
I can smell the woodsy scent of his skin, see the different shades of green in his eyes, which are currently locked down tight.
They’re so expressive, but Rian has learned to mask what they’re saying, to keep others from knowing what he’s thinking…
other than the sadness, of course. I always see that now. “Do you still fuck him?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Why?” I ask again, needing an answer I shouldn’t need.
“To know if he’s going to be a problem. If he still wants you, then he likely won’t give up as easily, and he’ll continue to ask around, and we’ll have to deal with him.”
Deal with him. We both know what that means. It’s much easier to focus on that thought than on why I’ve been holding my breath waiting to see how he would answer. Than wondering why this man almost feels like a friend to me sometimes, until he reminds me of who he is.
“No. We don’t fuck. I want nothing to do with him. He cheated on me for six months, and now he wants to pretend I matter to him, that I ever mattered to him. Didn’t Conan tell you that?”
He flinches, just slightly, before schooling his features. If I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I would have missed it.
“No,” Rian says. “He didn’t tell me that part. Do you want me to kill him?” He turns and moves toward the kitchen.
“What? No, I don’t want you to kill him. You’re joking, right?”
“I’m not. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Well, you plan to kill me.” I follow along behind him. “That’s slightly worse than cheating on someone if you ask me.”
“You don’t deserve that either, but it can’t be helped.
I take no joy in this, Abbott. I usually don’t care when I take a life…
not anymore, but I don’t want to do this.
” Rian opens the fridge. “What should we have for dinner?” he asks, as though he didn’t just drop that bomb on me, as though I’m expected to understand where he’s coming from, or hell, not feel some kind of way about what he said.
“Don’t kill Hector.”
He closes the fridge again. “That’s what you’re focusing on? Not telling me I don’t have to kill you?”
“What he did to me was wrong, and I’ll never be able to forgive him for that, but I couldn’t handle it if you killed him for me.”
He closes his eyes as though he doesn’t know what to do with me.
“I know I shouldn’t care about him, and I don’t, and I know you think I’m weak for giving a shit about what happens to him, but—”
He opens his eyes again. “That’s not what I’m thinking.”
I still when he reaches out, holding my chin, so I have no choice but to look at him.
The thing is, I wouldn’t have turned away regardless.
Everything about him fascinates me, and this is no different.
I don’t know what to do when his thumb brushes across my cheek.
“You’re too good for this world. How do you not lose that? ”
My breath catches. Rian doesn’t let go of my face, just continues standing here, holding me, watching me, looking into me like he expects to find answers there—like no one has ever looked at me before.
I want to see answers in him, too. Want to see more than he shows me, which is what I think he’s doing with me.
“No, I’m not,” I say. “I’m not perfect. I’ve hurt people. I’ve had bad thoughts about them. I wouldn’t care if I never see Hector again, just don’t kill him for me. I don’t want to add another body count to that eight-year-old boy who should have been protected rather than turned into a killer.”
Maybe that’s wrong of me, this having more to do with Rian than it does Hector—because it does, now that I think about it.
The man standing in front of me has done unimaginable things, but he was turned into this man as a child, even before he pulled that trigger.
And I can’t imagine Rian hurting someone he’s supposed to love the way Hector did with me.
It’s a stupid thing to think. My brain is even more fucked the longer I’m out here with him.
And when Rian’s forehead drops against mine, the two of us breathing the same air, I don’t pull away.
How can I hate what he stands for, what he’s done, but still want what’s best for him? How can he tell me he’s going to kill me, and I still don’t want him to hurt? It’s confusing and fucked up. I wish he would kill me now. It would be easier that way for both of us.
“You are the second person to try to see more in me than I am. Don’t. All it will do is hurt you…even more than I already am…more than I already will.”
His hand drops away, but he doesn’t pull his head back yet, instead dipping it closer, so his nose rubs against the side of mine.
Rian pulls in a deep breath, then steps away. “I think we should bake chicken for dinner.” He moves back to the fridge as if nothing happened, and all I can do is watch him…think about him, and wonder what’s going on in his head, and why all I want to do is soothe him.