39. Thirty-Nine
Thirty-Nine
Toni
The first thing I noticed was the pasty feeling in my mouth and the grit that seemed stuck to my eyelashes. Everything was heavy and just opening my eyes took way longer than it should have. Once they were open, I wished for nothing more than to close them again.
“Welcome back, princess.”
Just inches from my face was the nightmare himself.
Franklin Barrett. Looking every bit the evil villain I’d always known him to be.
My body’s visceral reaction was to kick, snarl, and run, but I couldn’t move.
My arms were pinned behind my back, and though I wrestled to free them, all I felt was plastic cutting into the skin at my wrists.
I tried to kick, and found my feet bound, too. The same sharp cutting sensation there.
A scream tried to claw its way out my throat and died instantly when my father stroked my face. “It was so nice of Jack to help arrange this little visit for us.”
His touch always made me shudder. It was the briefest second, but the buzzing in my head got louder and louder.
I tried to cling to the present. To remind myself, I wasn’t twelve anymore.
I clung to that thought over and over again as he stared at me.
But as always, my brain was fighting harder to protect me, to keep me safe by sending me hurdling into darkness, urging me to drift away.
And I almost did.
Until I heard Brennon cry out “Birdie! Birdie, baby, stay with me!” His voice was loud, meaning he was nearby. It also anchored me. Gave me something worth staying for. My eyes popped open again, which was easier to do once my father stepped back.
“Birdie, are you still with me?” Brennon called again; his deep voice hoarse with desperation. Though, now that my head was clearer, I could feel his comforting presence at my back.
“I’m here, Bren, I’m here,” I sobbed.
My father smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. His smiles never did. But there was another voice behind him.
“Isn’t that just too fucking sweet. My slutty sister and her skinny little freak.”
I should have known. Wherever my father was, my brother was never far behind.
Francis Barrett. The just-as-evil but way more psychotic heir to my father’s legacy of torture.
His eyes teetered between me and our father, and in his stare, there was glee, pure fucking joy at watching our father torture me.
But I didn’t give a shit about my brother.
I couldn’t. Not when it was the person in front of him that captured my full attention.
Xavier Rothberg. Xavi. My Xavier. On his knees.
My brother standing over him with a gun pressed against the back of his skull.
The big windows behind the stage–the ones that lined the whole dining hall–did nothing but reflect that horrific image back at us.
Both Brennon and I screamed his name, and though his hazel eyes connected with mine across the distance he didn’t say a word.
Francis watched me like the predator his was, all while he let gun wobble in his hands. His eyes sparkling when I flinched, “Oh, him?”
He used the weapon the way a teacher would an old-school pointer, “I found him in the woods, you know, after I killed Mitchell,” he smirked, “Sorry about all that blood, sis.”
I shuddered. My mind so quick to recall the feeling of Mitchell’s still-warm blood dripping down my t-shirt.
Francis hadn’t always been this way. Once upon a time, we’d been playmates, siblings, friends, even. I used to call him Franny, for fuck’s sake. Until, somewhere along the line, he became this thing I didn’t recognize. A creature I feared.
Brennon’s mind leapt miles ahead of mine, as he cried out, “Why?”
“Good question, freak. Couldn’t exactly have the babysitters’ club finding out all our family secrets, now, could I?”
“What secrets?” Bren asked, as if our family wasn’t plagued by them. As if everything in my entire life wasn’t wrapped up in ugly, festering, secrets.
“Funny you should ask,” Francis chuckled.
My father, on the other hand, cautioned, “Francis…”
Normally, one word from him was enough to get either of us to comply.
But not tonight. Francis was too drunk on the power he wielded over me.
I knew it. Everyone knew it. Yet, I refused to look away from the man I loved, even though I, and Brennon beside me, shook with fear.
Xav, always the stoic, was so still, so outwardly calm you wouldn’t have any idea he gave a single fuck what was happening to him.
In an attempt to draw my attention, or maybe because he loved the sound of his own voice, Francis ignored our father’s warning.
Again, the end of his gun danced uncomfortably close to Xav’s temple as Francis swayed.
In another life, it might have been comical, but not now, knowing that my brother had murdered Mitchell.
He tipped the barrel forward once more and grinned, “All those years ago, you four were so concerned, so caught up in burying the body, that you never stopped to think about who actually did the killing.”
Nick. The only body we ever buried. He was right.
We didn’t stop to think. We all assumed that I bashed Nick’s head in with a rock and that that was it.
The weight of that stone still felt fresh in my hand, even now.
Then Mitchell planted a seed of doubt. One I didn’t quite believe until now.
Until Francis looked from Xav to Brennon and said, “You think she’s this sweet angel, but I’ve known all along what my beautiful sister was capable of.
I watched her smash Nick’s skull over and over again, calling for his death like the dark angel she is. And I’d have let her have it, too,”
He paused, staring down at me with a softness I hadn’t seen in years, “Only, he touched what was meant to be mine,” and any shreds of sisterly affection disintegrated under what I realized was a lustful stare, “So I…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Merely cocked his gun and pretended to fire, kissing the air as it twitched in his hands.
Those were the last sounds out of his mouth before the doors crashed open.
The old hinges, loose from years or wear, sending the doors cracking against the walls as Cole parted them with his full strength.
Only, the second he looked up, he froze.
Fixed, but arms lifted, ready to fight. Anyone else, everyone else but Cole would have stopped or run.
Instead, he paused, breathed deep so his broad chest widened and stepped into the dining hall.
He made it just two steps before my father drew his own weapon from inside his suit jacket and pointed it at me, “Uh-uh-uh. Not so fast Mr. Michaels.”
Cole stood stock still for a second and then dropped to his knees, too. Like a penitent in prayer, he turned his face up to Franklin and begged “Take me.”
His voice hollow and desperate, “Take me and let them go.”
My father threw his head back and laughed, “Why?”
The monster that was Franklin Barrett then looked down at where the barrel of Francis’ gun pressed against Xavi’s head.
“Why would I take you, Mr. Michaels?” My father asked again.
“Of all my little puppets,” he gestured to Brennon and I, and around the rest of the wider hall, “You and your father are the least important. I could kill you right here and no one would mourn you.”
He broke his face-off with Cole, if only for a second, to glance my way.
“From what I hear, not even my whore of a daughter would miss you.”
And like the goddamn idiot that he was, that threw Cole over the edge. He hurtled from his knees, launching at a speed I’d thought only Xavi was capable of. He moved so fast that neither my brother nor father anticipated it, side-tackling Francis hard enough that his gun went flying.
Only, my brother was a match for Cole in size.
So, though he’d lost his weapon, he managed to stay on his feet.
It took just seconds for him to recover before swinging for Cole’s face.
But it never connected. Cole ducked, bobbing and weaving like this was a boxing match, not a brawl, before letting his own punches fly.
They were enough of a distraction that Xav scrambled to his feet, rushing towards Brennon and I as fast as his legs could carry him.
He almost reached us, almost reached Brennon when a clicking sound went off beside me, followed by one quick snap, too loud to be anything but a gunshot.
One I couldn’t place, until the pain ripped through my left shoulder, burning its way through my arm and snapping my body backwards against Brennon’s spine.
A scream tore from my lungs, before my father commanded, “STOP.”
The searing hot pain continued to rip through my upper arm, but I bit down on my tongue to keep the screaming at bay until I could taste the metallic tang of blood in mouth and the pain became too much to bear.
“Move and I will shoot her again. I need her alive, but I know my daughter is more than capable for surviving a bullet wound or two.”
I wept silently. Half from pain, the other half from fear. Beside me, Brennon was silent. Xavi was on his feet but stuck halfway between us. While Cole froze and my brother seized the opportunity to strike him across the jaw, hard enough to send him tripping backward, to the floor.
In the depths of his eyes, I saw Xav frantically wracking his brain for a way to get us out of this, for some final glorious chess move that would stay my father’s plans. And I saw the moment he came up short, saw him swallow hard as horror crept over his face.
The only one who moved at all was Francis, took yet another opportunity to strike, this time kicking Cole in the face with his heavy boot.
It wasn’t hard enough to knock him out, but Cole’s upper body slammed backward, his spine cracking against the floor.
The noise was sickening. Francis smiled and huffed a snide laugh before walking the few steps to collect his gun.