Chapter 28 #2
The tropical storm is expected to reach us tomorrow, so everyone is boarding up windows and businesses are closing early as they pull down their awnings and take in their outdoor tables.
The Ameses’ house already has the shutters closed and cars tucked in the garages.
I cruise through the open gate, my tires hitting the tiled driveway as I coast to a parking spot off to the side.
Under the trees probably isn’t a good idea, but I’ll be gone long before the high winds hit us.
Locking the door, I jog through the rain, drops pelting my shirt.
I knock on the door, only waiting a couple of seconds before it opens.
Damaris Hernandez, a seventeen-year-old from the Bay, smiles. “Dallas.”
Anna-Katherine is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but with Garrett Ames able to return anytime and Milo around, I don’t think she—or Callum—wants her alone.
I walk in, forcing Damaris to back up. “It’s getting bad out there,” I explain. “I’ll stay with Anna-Katherine till he gets back. You go home.”
Her mouth falls open—she’s about to protest, but she knows she shouldn’t. When Macon speaks, even the seventy-year-olds do what they’re told.
I’m not him, but she knows I’m not Trace, Liv, or Army, either.
Finally, she nods. “Okay.” Heading to the foyer table, she picks up her bag and keys. “Are you sure?” she asks. “He might be gone overnight.”
Motherf—
I draw in a hard breath and hold the door open for her. “Weather’s bad and getting worse. Drive careful.”
In any case, he’ll get a notification from the exterior cameras that I arrived and that Damaris left, while I didn’t. He’ll come home.
The kid leaves, and I lock the door, walking farther into the house. “Anna-Katherine?”
I hear the pitter-patter of footsteps across the hardwood floor upstairs. She rushes up to the railing, drying her hair with a towel. “Hi!” She beams. “Are you staying with me?”
“Yeah.”
She makes some sound, a mix between a yip and a gasp, and disappears back into her room. In six seconds she’s back with her hair dryer and a brush. “Damaris was going to dry my hair,” she says as she hurries down the steps.
Holding the shit out to me, she smiles.
I grimace, not even trying to hide my discomfort as I take the brush and dryer. “I’m sure you could do a better job yourself than I could.”
She starts walking for the kitchen, telling me, “It’s relaxing.”
I didn’t even do my sister’s hair when she was little.
Following, I frown as she takes a seat at the island. “Who brushes your hair when Damaris isn’t here?” I ask.
“My brother.”
I cock a brow at how easy the image pops into my head. He seems fatherly to her. I mean, the right kind of fatherly. Protective. Nurturing. It’s why I don’t fear not being around for her anymore. He’ll take good care of her. If he can keep his father away from her.
Plugging in the hair dryer, I hesitate. But then I take her long hair and run the brush down it.
Her head jerks backward. “Ouch,” she whines. “You gotta do the ends first.”
I purse my lips. If she were Liv, I’d throw the fucking brush out the window, but I don’t want to make her cry. Taking her hair in my fist, I work the ends and then gently move the brush farther and farther up until I’m combing through in long, smooth strokes.
As I glide the brush down her brown locks, I go still, a memory hitting me.
My parents’ bedroom. The curtain billowing in the breeze, a storm coming. My mother sighing—happy—as I ran a brush down her shiny, long black hair. Maybe I was nine or ten.
My arm moves on its own, combing Anna-Katherine’s locks, almost seeing my mom’s hand reaching back and patting mine as I brush.
I blink, water in my eyes and my throat aching, but I grab the dryer and start working the strands.
In a moment, she’s tipping her head back like my mother did and I’m brushing as I dry.
I completely forgot that I brushed her hair sometimes. Why didn’t I remember that? It’s a good memory, and I have almost none of those with her.
I turn the dryer off and set it down, continuing to smooth down the girl’s hair.
I didn’t help my mother, but I can try with Anna-Katherine.
“AK?”
She swings her legs a little. “Yeah?”
“You know he’s not your…real brother, right?”
Her legs stop moving, and I know it’s cruel to say, but she needs some perspective. She needs to fight for herself instead of trusting others. Someone needs to say it just once.
“He calls you his stepsister,” I point out. “Not his sister.”
Her shoulders shrug. “Oh, that’s okay.”
She’s trying to make light of it, but she’ll be a lot better off if she starts asking some questions and taking responsibility for herself.
“You’re not Anna-Katherine to him.” I stroke her hair with the brush. “You’re Sophia.”
I hear her swallows and her head bows a little.
“Callum is going to turn into him,” I tell her.
He may always love her and try his best, but the stress and darkness of his world will spill over onto her. Maybe it’s an associate who gets ahold of her at a party here. Maybe the Wolfe Room finally has its way with Callum’s head. Maybe he has to send her away to keep her safe.
She won’t be the princess of their own personal castle forever.
“He likes me,” she says, fighting for him. “He cares about me.”
“He does. You thought Garrett did, too.”
She sucks in a breath, and before I can dial it back, her head is shaking back and forth. Like it did when she was freaking out with Callum.
Fuck.
“No, no, no…” She starts crying, hunching over.
I throw the brush down. “Anna-Katherine, look at me.”
But she jumps off the stool, runs around me, and escapes back into the foyer, her footfalls hitting the stairs in heavy steps.
“Shit!” I growl.
Son of a bitch.
“Anna-Katherine!”
I charge into the foyer and start up the stairs, hearing her cry. Why the fuck did I say that to her?
Am I right? Yes. She should be thinking about herself and protecting herself and getting the fuck out of this town!
But it doesn’t do her self-esteem any good to imply that Callum doesn’t care about her. He’s the only one who hasn’t failed her, even if he is a fucking dickhead.
I should just leave.
I grab the banister and haul myself up the steps, though, running to her room. Pushing open the door, I see her holding her head and crying.
How close is she to falling completely apart?
I take her in my arms, pressing her head to my chest as she shakes. “Dancing bears,” I say, trying to remember the words. “Painted…wings.”
Fuck, I don’t remember any more.
“Dancing bears,” I start to sing again, hoping she helps. “Painted wings.”
Come on, honey. She shakes, and I already feel her tears seeping through my shirt.
I hear her voice, though. “Things I almost rememberrr…”
She keeps going, and I pick up the tune, joining her on the chorus as our breathing settles in sync.
By the time it’s over, her voice is strong, and I’m relaxing a little. Thank God she didn’t go full freak-out like she did with him. I would’ve been in serious shit.
I shouldn’t have said those things to her. She could be on the cusp of coming back to herself or she could be like my mother—only a matter of time. I don’t know her enough to talk to her like that.
Holding her tight, I rest my chin on her head, staring across the room at her Victorian dollhouse. “You have to remember, Anna-Katherine,” I tell her, “we’re all just kids inside, trying to pretend that it feels good to be grown up.”
“Why?”
Maybe because it’s expected when we turn eighteen. Maybe we need money.
But instead, I say, “Because we think freedom will give us things that are good for us.”
That’s why we want to grow up. That’s why we pretend we’re glad we did.