~Chapter 9~
I let my anger cloud my judgment. I should have seen the signs. They were so damn obvious. Her skin, usually creamy and slightly pink, was damn-near cadaverous. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and her whole body was shaking; and not in a sexy way.
I was trying to intimidate her, trying to make her submit to my anger, so I almost missed it. I almost missed her as she fell face-first towards the ground. I barely managed to fling my arm around her mid-section before she gained another bruise. Thankfully, it was easy enough to twist a little and scoop her into my arms.
Now, I’m standing here with this damn woman in my arms, and I can’t move. I can’t fucking move. I’m just stuck, staring down at her limp, broken form. It’s not lost on me that the last time I touched her like this was the night of the accident. The night we almost lost her. The night before she planned to kill herself.
Anger roars through my veins as that recollection buries itself deep in my bones; like a cancer eating away at me.
“Charlie…” Even’s low voice pulls me out of my mind long enough to get me moving. I flee with her to the guest room, Even’s heavy footsteps trailing behind me. I make it to her bed and have to force myself not to toss her on it. I can’t take it. I can’t take her body touching mine. I can’t take the sight of her looking so God damn broken.
Once she’s placed on the bed, I turn so abruptly that I bump into Even. “Woah. You ok, man?” He steadies me with his hand on my shoulder before ripping it away. His eyes widen as he takes in my face, his eyes darting between mine.
Awareness trickles in, and I focus on “fixing my face,” as Stu calls it. With a nod, and a sort of grunt, I run from the room.
Today is uncharacteristically cool for November near Houston, Texas, so I don’t bother with swimming. Instead, I head up the stairs toward my room, slamming the door the moment I cross the threshold.
I roughly rub my hands back and forth across my head, letting the pain from the friction ground me. Pacing the room, I consciously pack up all the bullshit, all the feelings I thought I had for Omega- Beatrice- and pack them in a tiny little box.
A growl of irritation rumbles up through my chest, and I pound over to my maroon La-Z-Boy on the opposite side of the room. I slam my body into it, forcing the air from my lungs. My heart feels like it’s in my throat, and I hate everything about this situation. I feel out of control, lost, and just plain crazy. This woman has us all fucked up.
Needing to release some tension before returning to our current job, I pick my guitar off the stand to my left, slide the pick from its spot between the fretboard and the strings, and close my eyes. Absent-mindedly, I start moving my fingers along the strings, plucking them at just the right time. I let my thoughts go as my feelings drain out of my hands and into the chords playing through the room. Once I hit the chorus, I scoff at myself and roll my eyes. Of course, my brain would decide to play John Mayer’s Edge of Desire.
My heart squeezes, but I don’t let it take me over. Instead, I lose myself to the notes surrounding me, allowing them to soothe something so deep inside me that I’m not sure I ever want to stop.
I drowned myself in music for over an hour. The pads of my fingers hurt in the best way, and I feel clearer; more myself. After making another pot of coffee, I swiped a protein bar and am now staring at the maps of our area and the three cities bordering ours.
We can’t pin down these damn Crimson Knights, and they’re starting to interrupt the local businesses. They’re pushing past drug running and are just being absolute dicks.
Like, why go to Mr. Napoli’s and destroy the pizzeria his father opened a year before cancer took him away?
And Craving Kernels: nicest damn people you’ll ever meet and the best, and strangest, flavors you could ever think of. For some reason, a bunch of the knights snuck in and set off enough fireworks to consider it a July 4th celebration. The business had to completely shut down; indefinitely.
Hell, last week, two of them purposefully crashed Hummers into stop-light poles, effectively screwing up two major streets in town right at the start of rush hour. Fucking asswads.
I slam my hands on the desk as I try to find a pattern, a central point, any-fucking-thing.
The biggest problem with the Crimson Knights is that they aren’t easily identifiable. There are no “colors,” no “tats,” nothing that makes them stand out in any way.
In fact, the only reason we know who to thank for the bullshit is because of the little insignias they leave behind. It reminds me of those pressed penny machines at the zoo or museums; the elongated oval, thin, zinc and copper object stretched to its limit. When holding the token vertically, you can see the image of a knight stamped in the middle. Slightly curved, vertically, around each side are the words “Crimson”- on the left- and “Knights”- on the right.
It’s stupid, and cheap, and shitty, and I fucking hate them.
We find one of these little pennies at almost every damn location where something ridiculous happens. It’s like these assholes are you trying to find the most bizarre ways to fuck up others' lives.
Scrubbing a hand down my head, I lean back in my chair and begin rocking. Tapping my pen against my mouth, I try to find a different angle to work from. There’s something we’re missing.
A knock on the door pulls my attention from the giant Christmas light knot of information tangled in my brain. “Yeah,” I call out.
The door opens, and Stu pokes his head in. He looks like absolute shit. I feel myself scowl as anger coils through my body. Fucking Beatrice.
“Hey, Boss. I got a call from HQ. They want us to take on another job. I sent the info through email. It should be easy enough. I’m going to stake it out tonight. Probably can take ‘em tomorrow or the day after.” His voice is quiet, all business, and completely void of his usual sunny disposition.
I nod my head in understanding and take a deep breath as my mind switches gears from one target to another. Shaking the mouse next to my computer, I enter my password and navigate to our hidden email server.
As it loads the information, I look back at Stu, and my heart pinches a little. I’ve always been protective of Stu. Yes, I’m protective of all the guys, but Stu… I don’t know. It’s just different. He's like a goofy little brother.
To see him so off, so fucking miserable, makes me want to burn the world down. Hell, it makes me want to hug him. Which is fucking weird because I barely handle touch. However, over the last year or so, he’s randomly patted my shoulder or arm or used them for support, and I haven’t flinched away.
Either way, I need to figure out how to bring that wide grin and those crazy dimples back. I need Stu back.
He stands quietly in the doorway as I scan the information he already tracked down. He’s right; this should be relatively easy. This douche has been using his status as a revered motivational speaker and sex therapist to take advantage of young women reaching out for help. The scumbag takes their money to “invest,” promises them the world, uses the guise of BDSM to do whatever they want in bed, no safeword allowed, and then drops them; acts like he has no idea who they are. The sneaky bastard even deposited the checks under an umbrella corporation that’s not linked to his name.
Unless, of course, you have a Stu.
Glancing back at him, I nod and take a deep breath. “I’ll go with you. I need to get the fuck outta here. We could use an easy case.”
A yawn slips out at the end and Stu chortles. “You need a nap first, Boss Man?” Rolling my eyes, I crumple up a paper and toss it at his head. He dances out of the way, and a slight smile tips his mouth. There he is.
“Let the others know we’re leaving tonight. They can babysit the little girl.” I sneer at the thought of her. A miserable mixture of lust and irritation descends on me, and I forcefully shake my head, hoping to erase it like an etch-a-sketch.
I realize Stu hasn’t left yet, so I glance back at him and almost kick my own ass. He’s pale again, his eyes are watery and glossed over, and he looks like he’s moments from curling in a ball and checking out.
With a rough exhale, I scrub my face, feeling the prickles under my palms, and look back at him. “Stu, I’m sorry. I just-” I heave a sigh, then groan in frustration. “Forget her. You’re too good for her, and you don’t deserve anything she’s done to you. Once she’s all healed, we’ll all get back to normal; she’ll be out of our lives, and we won’t have to be shit on for simply helping. We did nothing wrong.” My voice has turned angry, and I’m pretty sure I growled.
Stu nods, barely mumbles, “Yeah,” and turns away, closing the door behind him. I know that wasn’t the right thing to say. I do. The problem is: I’m not just pissed, I’m fucking hurt.
And that is so much worse.