Chapter 10 #2
Except instead of cold and bone-chilling, the water makes me feel human again. For the first time in days I feel like I can think. I feel like myself. Without having to ignore the blood and gore and worse on my skin, I can finally take a moment to just exist.
At least until that familiar, awful, yawning loneliness and dull fear invade my chest. My friends are gone. Dead, with at least one of their corpses outside, maybe a few hundred feet from where I’m sitting.
Ariana hadn’t deserved that. Scotty didn’t either, and if I’m being nice, Tyler deserved less than what he got. My fingers tense against my face and I shift, dragging my knees up to my chest to wrap my arms around them.
I take a breath.
I take another breath.
Then, for good measure, I take a third. Holding it in my lungs, I count to ten in my head as the uncomfortable feeling spreads, my body telling me I need to let it out and suck in another chestful of oxygen.
Or I could just…not. Sure, that’s unrealistic, but there’s a dangerous allure in just not taking another breath so I don’t have to face any of what’s outside.
I could just—
No.
The thought is immediate, and my body’s visceral reaction is to violently expel the air in my lungs through my nose and mouth.
I drag in another breath and shove my hair back from my face, eyes open to glare at my feet.
My toes curl against the porcelain of the tub, and I watch the last remnants of blood swirl down the drain.
No.
I’ve done too much, and come way too fucking far, to let myself die here that easily. If I can escape an auto shop with only a chainsaw and a dog, I can escape Fox and Deacon Shaw.
Or at least die trying, rather than drowning myself in the shower.
That thought propels me to my feet, and I take a few last moments to appreciate the relaxing joy of the hot water. It’s probably the hardest thing in the world, harder even than launching a ship into orbit, to reach out and turn off the water. But agonizingly, I manage to do just that.
Somehow.
The bathroom feels too silent, almost oppressively so, without the hot water pounding against my skin. I’m half relieved that the mirror is too fogged up to see my reflection, though I wipe my hand across it to catch sight of my face in the half-clear glass before the steam takes over again.
I don’t look much better, is my final consensus. With the blood gone and the grossness finally out of my hair, it even looks normal, instead of a rusty color and caked together. It’s still tangled, but I don’t see a brush in here.
But my face?
I look exhausted. Hollow.
Haunted, if I’m being honest. There’s something in my eyes that wasn’t there a few days ago, and a big part of me worries it’ll never go away. That I’ll always be this wretched, terrified thing who stares into mirrors like a Victorian child’s ghost haunting some asylum.
Just to be sure of things, and because I can’t leave well enough alone, I wipe the mirror again.
Yep.
There she is.
Still there, still haunted, still dark-eyed with lips that aren’t usually so pale and looking more hollow-cheeked than I ever have before. The mirror fogs back over a little slower this time, and by some trick of coincidence, my eyes are the last thing I see before it’s all clouded up with steam.
I decide I don’t need to look again. Not until I figure out how to escape this place and this current look I’ve got going for me.
Once I’m dry and my hair is damp rather than dripping water onto the floor, I examine the clothes Fox left for me.
The grey t-shirt smells like him, and it’s soft like it’s seen the washing machine more than a few times.
The flannel is just as soft and warm; its smell is just as heady to my lungs when I inhale.
On the other hand, the navy sweatpants feel a little more pressed, a little more taken care of, like they were meticulously folded and kept in a drawer to preserve their form.
Still, they’re soft enough that my raw, bruised knees don’t complain, and by the time I open the door, I’ve even scrubbed my shoes clean-ish.
Well, at least cleaner.
But not clean enough, judging by the way Fox looks at them with a wrinkled nose and narrowed eyes.
I can almost see the pure insult in his gaze as he takes them from me, being careful not to touch the still-stained fabric of the tongue and toes.
“We’re going to keep these, uh, by the back door.
Or at least not on any carpeted surface.
” He drops them back to the bathroom floor, and before I can protest, his fingers slide around my wrist to pull me out into the hallway with him.
“Where are we going?” I stumble after him across the hardwood that’s smooth beneath my bare feet.
He doesn’t answer, only hums that stupid song I know I’ve never heard before in my life. But he doesn’t need to when he opens a door halfway down the upstairs hallway to reveal the room I was locked in earlier.
It’s better than the dog kennel.
“Your hair is a mess,” Fox informs me almost gently, turning to run his fingers through a few strands near my face. “Let me help you?”
Somehow, it doesn’t really feel like a question, no matter how it’s phrased.
I’m too reluctant to do anything that may seem disagreeable, given the circumstances.
But I don’t expect him to pull me over to the bed before sitting down behind me, my back pressed to his leg that’s folded in front of him.
“What are you doing?” I can’t help asking, and I turn just enough to see him from the corner of my eye. To my absolute surprise, Fox has a brush in his hand, and he looks at me with brows raised at my incredulous look.
“What does it look like?” He chuckles as his free hand comes out to gently push me back to face the window, where the sun is setting and painting the sky with purples and oranges.
Gorgeous.
I rarely get to see the sunset quite so perfectly in the city. More than that, I’m not usually in a position to really stop and appreciate it.
When he starts humming again, I speak up without thinking, cutting him off to ask, “So what song is that? Is it something you made up? Or…?”
His small snort is rough and full of amusement.
It’s unexpected, as is the gentle way he sections out my hair to run the brush through it.
Being somewhat tender-headed, I brace for him to hit a tangle, but when he does, Fox uses his hand to wrap around the section of my hair to keep the brush from pulling as he works through the knot.
It’s surprisingly thoughtful, and my hands reluctantly unclench from the fabric of my flannel shirt when he doesn’t make me tear up.
No one except my mother has ever thought to do that for me before.
Not either of my boyfriends, not my stylist, and most of the time, not myself either.
“It’s called ‘Never Say Never to Always,’” Fox answers, drawing me out of my suddenly tumbling thoughts.
“Hmm?” For a second, I have no idea what he’s talking about, and my cluelessness makes Fox chuckle.
“The song. That’s what it’s called.”
“I’ve never heard of that in my life.” The title doesn’t even sound vaguely familiar, and I wonder if it’s some old hippie music or country song from a decade long before I was born, much like this entire house is.
Suddenly, Fox leans in, his nose brushing my hair as he takes a breath. I expect some whisper, some taunt or jibe about me being too young to appreciate the music.
What I don’t expect is for him to start singing softly, in barely more than a murmur beside my ear.
“Always is always, forever.
As long as one is one.
Inside yourself for your father,
All is none, all is none, all is one.”
The words send a shiver down my spine, even as my brain works to put together the meaning of the lyrics. They’re sweet, I think, in an absolutely creepy kind of way. And I shake my head slightly as he hums once more, though his voice really is suited to singing.
“I’ve definitely never heard it,” I admit after a few more moments, trying to focus on something other than the soft feeling of him brushing my hair.
Like he actually cares, though he has no reason to.
If he did, he’d let me go.
“Of course you haven’t.” Deacon’s voice by the door makes me jump, and I glance over to see him leaning in the doorway, quiet as a cat.
How long has he been standing there?
A smile curves over his handsome, sharp features, though it never reaches his eyes. “It’s by Charles Manson. Most people only know it because it’s what his girls sang on the way to court.” As I watch, Deacon drifts away, looking bored with us, leaving Fox to snicker against my hair.
“He’s such a jerk,” he insults fondly, and I don’t realize what he’s doing until he’s pulled me back against his chest to run the brush through my bangs and the hair framing my face.
“There you go,” Fox murmurs, talking to me like a pet he’s cleaned up.
“That’s much better. You’re much better, aren’t you Sadie-Rae? ”
My stomach flips as he says my name and I turn to look at him, eyes a little wide and full of confusion.
Not that I get to ask whatever question I have brewing. As if I’ve given him an invitation, Fox suddenly kisses me sweetly, not at all demanding, but still all-encompassing. I take a breath against his lips, my shoulders pressed to his chest, and I swear I can feel my eyes wanting to drift closed.
I should not be relaxing into this.
But I don’t get to bolt away from him, or shove him, or anything else.
Fox is the first to move, smooth and lithe, getting to his feet to place the brush on the end table beside the bed.
“I’m not going to lock you in,” he tells me, already halfway to the door.
But he turns to meet my gaze, his smile somehow sharp and a little bit threatening.
“I’m going to tell you to stay, little rabbit”—there’s a purr in his voice that makes me shiver, and the feel of his tongue sliding sweetly over my lips just won’t fucking go away—“and if you know what’s good for you?” After a moment, Fox comes back over to playfully tap my nose.
“You’ll stay.”
His smile widens and his head tilts.
In this moment, it’s clear Fox is the predator who will hunt me through the woods if I try to run away. He’s no longer the sweet guy who just brushed my hair while singing a cult song to me. He’s not even the friendly sheriff from the gas station.
In this moment, Fox is something else entirely that I don’t know how to quantify. The warning in his eyes, along with the playful savagery there, is terrifying.
He is terrifying, and I don’t need him to threaten me outright to know that if I have any semblance of common sense, I’ll stay right here where he’s put me.