Chapter 23 #2
My trembling hands cover my face before diving into my hair, then dropping to fist my T-shirt, having no idea what the fuck to do with myself. Anxiety eats at my nerves while my heart races, beating at a pace that’s making my vision swim.
“Kellan,” Lionel says, now adopting a pleasant tone. “I didn’t realize you were there. I’m surprised my daughter befriended you, considering all you’ve put my family through.”
Dread chuckles wickedly, and I close my eyes as my heart sinks, feeling utterly doomed.
“Don’t play stupid, Lionel. I’m sure you’ve seen social media. If having to change my bedsheets every night means we’re friends, then sure, we’ve never been closer.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, anyway, and hurt punches me in the gut. It lingers for a moment before red-hot fury unleashes in my chest, traveling up my throat until my face burns with it.
I haven’t had a single second to truly process what just happened. This last time was different than before. Not because of the sex, but because of everything leading up to it.
We both acted out of character.
He got jealous. Not just possessive. But truly jealous, so much so, I could taste its pungency on my tongue, like a real boyfriend would.
But rather than rage at him for it like I did the last time, I explained myself and assured him Bryan meant nothing—because he is nothing. I fought for him to hear me so he didn’t think for a second I was going behind his back, like a real girlfriend would.
That's when his panic surfaced. He tried to run from me, and like an idiot, I didn’t let him. Like an idiot, I kissed him. I took control in the locker room because I had no choice. None of that was my decision. But this time… it was all mine.
I knew the second I did it—the second I felt him freeze, staring at me like he couldn't believe what I just did once I pulled away. I knew he knew everything had changed, too. He felt it, too.
Or maybe he didn't, and it was all an act to get revenge on me. The thought alone makes me want to vomit, but it's one I'd be fucking stupid not to consider.
Up until this past month or so, all he's ever done is pursue my misery. So maybe things changed for him when he kissed me in the pool and fucked me in that locker room. But instead of no longer wanting to break me, he just found a different way to do it.
None of it matters anymore, anyway. There’s no uncertainty that all of it was a huge mistake.
Because yet again, Dread has proven there’s nothing he cares about more than revenge. Against me and against my father.
Even if he hates me less, he doesn’t hate Lionel less, and he will choose that hatred first, even if it’s at the expense of my life.
It’s incredibly fucking stupid to believe differently.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be inviting Lionel to come to Colorado.
He wouldn’t be dangling me in front of a serial killer’s face, the proverbial red flag taunting the bull.
Now that Lionel is free, I’m nothing more than bait.
God, I’m so fucking stupid.
“I see,” Lionel responds quietly, giving nothing away.
But I know better. He’s boiling inside, and if the chance of him showing up was nothing more than a seed, Dread just planted it deep into the dirt, where it’ll fester and grow.
“Then I presume Charlotte has told you all about her delusions. She’s always had quite the imagination. It seems you two are similar in that regard.”
Dread flicks a resentful glance my way, a cold reminder I haven’t told him a single thing about my ‘delusions.’
Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. It would be so easy for him to ask Lionel what he’s referring to, and though I don’t know if Lionel would tell him, it’s also entirely possible he would once he realizes I’ve been keeping secrets.
Regardless, this entire situation has vomit kissing the back of my throat, and I want out of here and away from these two psychotic men.
You know what—they deserve each other, actually.
Fuck them both.
I stomp toward Dread and snatch the phone out of his hand, spearing him with a vicious glare. His upper lip curls, and just like that, any trace of peace between us vanishes. Once more, we’re left with nothing but contempt for one another.
“Stay away, Lionel. I’m serious,” I bite through gritted teeth. “You got everything you could ever want and are a free man now. Don’t be stupid and jeopardize that for someone who wants nothing to do with you.”
There’s a hum beneath my skin, and the sound of a thousand bees fills my head. I need this man off my goddamn phone and Dread far away from me.
“I don’t have you, Angel, and that’s all I could ever want.”
The phone clicks, leaving me on an ominous note that has the vomit rising to my uvula.
Instantly, I’m running into the half bath and bending over the toilet just as I lose my meager dinner from last night. I’ve barely eaten anything since they set Lionel free, so there’s nothing more to cough up other than bile.
I dry heave for several minutes while hot tears track down my cheeks. Tremors rack my entire body, and by the time I straighten, wipe my mouth with a square of toilet paper, and flush, I’m on the verge of collapsing.
I turn toward the sink, stopping short when I see Dread leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, an indifferent look on his face.
Ignoring him, I grab my toothbrush from the holder right beside his. Something about that disturbs me greatly right now.
While I concentrate on the porcelain sink as I scrub my teeth and tongue, he watches me closely, his stare burning into the side of my head.
When I’m finished, I wipe my mouth and face him with a sigh.
“If you wanted me dead, you could’ve just taken me back to the pool and done it yourself,” I tell him, my voice raw and hoarse.
Dread arches his scarred brow, and it’s so reminiscent of the look he’d give me when there was nothing more than hatred between us, it almost hurts.
“That didn’t sound like a man who wants you dead,” he says tonelessly.
Vitriol builds in my throat just as quickly as the bile, and right now, I’m not so sure which I’m going to spew at him first.
Just as I open my mouth, he cuts in, “Let me guess. I don’t know what I’m talking about.” His tone is dry yet cynical. When I don’t respond immediately, he chuckles humorlessly.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I hiss. “I don’t owe you anything, Dread. I’m not the one who took your mother from you, so why can’t you leave me out of this?”
His eyes are frosted glass as he stares at me, sending a shiver down my spine, as if I’ve put my hand against the icy surface.
“Tell me what you’ve been keeping from me first,” he demands coldly.
My instinct is to tell him to fuck off, to hold everything close to my chest because that means I’m safer.
But I realize now, I’m not safer. At least, not from my father.
There’s no doubt Lionel’s coming for me, but I didn’t realize Dread saw it for what Lionel wanted him to see it for.
Reconnection. He doesn’t think Lionel will kill me, which means he’ll continue to use me as bait, dangling me like a worm on a hook, and Lionel will bite.
If I confess, Dread will have yet another reason to hate me, and maybe he’ll kill me instead. Truthfully, though, I think I’d rather die at the hands of a man who was tormented because of my family than die at the hands of a father who sees me as nothing more than a loose end.
“Fine,” I choke out, motioning for him to back off so I can get out of the bathroom. “Let me at least sit down. If I get to pick my death location, I’m not going out next to a fucking toilet.”
His brows jump, a mix of wariness and suspicion swirling in his gaze. However, he silently steps back and lets me pass before following me into the room.
My heart races as I sit on the edge of the bed, every part of my body revolting against this, but now that Lionel is free, I don’t have a choice. I glimpse the huge damp spot on Dread’s bedsheets and pointedly ignore that.
That already feels like ten years ago, and it sure as fuck will never happen again, that’s for sure.
Dread stops a few feet away, standing before me with his arms crossed and a blank, though expectant, expression. Clearing my throat, I wipe my sweaty palms down my thighs, racking my brain for the right words.
“My first memory is of my mom drowning me in a bathtub when I was four years old. I spilled apple juice on the floor, and she slipped. She was twenty-eight weeks pregnant with my little brother. She miscarried because of it. The doctor diagnosed her with major depressive disorder with peripartum onset and psychotic features. She wasn’t in her right mind and blamed me, so she decided she was going to kill me, then kill herself.
My dad walked in on it and stopped her.” I relay the facts like I’m reading them from a scientific research paper.
Most days, it feels like the least terrible thing I’ve experienced.
Dread’s expression stays carefully blank, though his right eye twitches, and I think I hear a couple of his fingers crack.
“I refuse to demonize her for something she couldn’t control.
She got help, and she recovered from all her postpartum symptoms by the time she came home from the psychiatric hospital,” I explain firmly.
“However, my mom struggled heavily with mental health her entire life, and she wasn’t exactly a good person.
I think she loved me—or maybe just a part of her did—but she also still blamed me and heavily resented me for it.
In her weakest moments, she wished she succeeded or that I died instead of my brother.
But she deeply regretted that moment and spent the rest of her years feeling extremely guilty.
She never, ever felt like what she did to me was deserved or okay.
So if you want to call her a monster for anything, don’t let it be because of that, okay? ”
Dread nods stiffly, so I blow out a breath and continue.