Chapter Ten
Rainey
“I’m so sorry. I swear, Rainey, he’s not going to mess with you anymore. Jacques either.”
Paris kept up a string of apologies, promises, and vows of retribution all through the car ride. Understandable, since the story we were going with was the Bedlam Boys blackmailed me into a leash for a little viral video.
How do I explain it’s bigger than that? And so are my reasons for staying.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “Cairo is responsible for his actions. It looks bad, but they’ve agreed to leave me alone after everyone’s seen me made a fool of, like I did to Jacques. I’d rather that than they keep coming after me, and it damages your relationship with Cairo if you stand in the way.”
“You’re too nice, Rainey. My relationship with Assface is hardly the issue here.”
Paris veered off Lincoln, turning onto Bay Avenue. The street sign forced me to take note of where we were going.
Bedlam wasn’t a wealthy town, and like a lot of places, when someone hits it big, they tend to move to a larger city with larger houses and a larger community of moneybags to schmooze and impress. Unless your money is tied to Bedlam, then you tend to stick around.
Where they stuck around was Bay Avenue.
The big houses— Mansions I believe the rich call them. Infinity pools next to the hot tub. Four cars in the drive for the two people who live inside. That was Bay Avenue where the owner of the distillery, dean of the university, and apparently Paris got to live.
“Uh, Paris? We’re going to your place, right?”
“Of course we are. We’re about the same size. You can shower and change while I convince you to let me take care of this thing with Cairo.” She blew out a breath. “At least he likes you. He won’t go too far.”
I blinked. “Excuse me? Did you just say he likes me?”
“Yeah.” Paris slowed down, rolling to a stop by the curb. “They beat the shit out of Alphonso. Do you think they do that for everybody? Plus, he told everyone you’re their girl.”
“That means something other than I have to wear a collar?”
“It means what they said. No one messes with you. No one disrespects you.” She shook her head. “Except for them, I mean. Small comfort.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ll be quick and back in time for class.”
I hopped out a step behind her, walking up a hill to the main gate. A collection of pinkish stones topped by a gray roof unveiled before us. They weren’t quite turrets, but they came together to form a collection of As. It looked like a Barbie dream house that grew up to be a big-girl mansion.
“Wow. Nice place,” I said.
“Thanks.” She let me in the door ahead of her, came in and kicked her shoes in the direction of the rack. “Mom and Dad aren’t home, so we’re cool.”
“Would we not be cool if they were home?”
She laughed. “No, we wouldn’t. Mom would follow us around, asking a million questions about you, your life, and your family. Dad hasn’t forgiven me for when I was fourteen and said I can’t bring friends around ’cause he’s a massive dork. He’s now made it his mission to prove to all my friends he isn’t one... by being a massive dork.”
“At least your dad doesn’t come inside on a hot day, flapping his arms, and going ‘don’t mind me, just airing out my pits.’”
We howled, nearly tripping on the grand staircase. Yeah, I said grand staircase.
Paris’s home was as magnificent inside as it was on the outside. Peeking through the entryways on the right and left, I spotted a kitchen that could fit the entire farmhouse bottom floor, and cost more than both floors put together. The other side granted me a look at their dining room with crystal chandeliers and a hanging painted portrait of the family, smiling down on their china place settings.
We topped the landing and Paris went through the door in front of us, padding inside a large, airy suite boasting a king-size bed, lounging area, and a big-screen television outfitted with pink diamonds around the edge.
“Sweet digs.”
“You can stay over anytime.” Paris flopped back on her bed. “Like now, while I sort this shit out with Cairo.”
“Can I ask you something?” I wandered into the bathroom, hunting down a towel and washcloth. “Why does Cairo call you Evie?”
“My middle name is Evelyn,” she called back. “He always thought the ‘named after our favorite cities’ thing was stupid, and he wasn’t shy about saying so. Announced when he was five that he was calling me Evie, and no one could make him stop. I really don’t mind.”
“But you still call him Cairo?”
“I call him Assface.”
I barked a laugh. “True.”
The washcloth and towel were found in a little closet between the shower and bidet. I peeled off my sticky clothes and stepped into the steamy spray. Paris came into the bathroom to continue the chat.
“When he’s just being garden-variety irritating, I call him Cairo. When he’s sweet, I call him Danny. His middle name is Daniel.”
“Daniel,” I said, trying it out on my tongue. A simple, common name, and somehow perfect for him. “What about Jacques, Legend, Roan, and Arsenio? You’ve known them your whole life? Do they have the little-sister thing going with you too?”
Maybe it was cheating to get what the guys wouldn’t give me from Paris.
But I didn’t care.
“Hmm. I’m not sure if they see me like that. They don’t mess with me like they do everyone else, but that’s likely because of Cairo. Still, they’re pretty chill guys when you get to know them.”
“Yeah?” I edged closer to the glass, hanging on her words. “In what way?”
“My folks hated my high school boyfriend, so they got Arsenio to take me to prom instead. He showed up in a tux with a corsage and everything. Smiled nice for the cameras, then drove me to my boyfriend’s place and covered for me.
“Jacques helps me with homework, but that might be because he never misses a chance to prove he’s the smartest guy in the room. Legend sneaks me whiskey. Roan and I like the same music. I’ll catch rides with him out of town to see our bands play in Hunter’s Crest.”
I caught myself smiling. It did sound a treat to see the side of the Bedlam Boys that Paris got to see.
Paris ran out to get me clothes. I changed into a pair of jeans and a loose sweatshirt, and imagined Cairo’s face when he tore it off.
“We’ve got an hour before we have to head back. Want to—?”
“Cairo? Cairo, what are you doing here?” Rapid footsteps approached the door, and a blonde woman burst inside. My eyes widened, trying to take her all in.
She was beautiful. From the short, platinum locks, to the lily-green eyes, to the trim pantsuit that cut perfectly on her figure. I saw Paris in her at a glance, and looking in those eyes and the curve of her frown, I saw Cairo.
“Paris, where’s your brother? Why is his car parked out front?”
“He’s not here. He let me borrow it. There was an emergency and mine is in the shop.”
“Emergency? What happened?”
“Rainey happened,” she said, throwing her arms around me.
“I swear I’m not an emergency. Just a wardrobe malfunction.” I stuck out my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rainey de Souza.”
“Rainey, this is my mom, Nora.”
“Charmed, dear.” She shook my fingers, still fixed on Paris. “Why would you borrow your brother’s car, Paris? You know you can take one of ours. Is he coming over to get it? Every time Cairo comes into this house, it is such chaos. He always picks a fight with Isaac.”
“You mean the home-wrecker that whisked his mother and sister away in the middle of the night and refused to consider split custody of him?”
“Paris,” she cried. “That’s your father you’re speaking about.”
“That changes what I said how? Cairo hates Isaac. Isaac hates Cairo. The feeling is entirely mutual,” she said. “The picking fights goes to both sides.”
Paris had a pretty firm hold on me, or I’d have drifted out of the room a long time ago.
“It’s darling how you stick up for him, but Cairo is responsible for his own actions, and his behavior when he steps in this house. When he comes by to get the car, I will not have any nonsense.” She stuck out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
“Mom, please, no. Cairo’s going to stop giving me his number if you keep using my phone to call him.”
Nora flushed deep red. “I’m his mother, I have every right to call him. Phone. Now, young lady.”
Goodness, that authoritative bark is genetic.
Mumbling under her breath, Paris handed her phone to her mother.
Nora marched out, answering “Hello?” on the click of the lock.
“Ugh. Is family like this for everyone? Dad thinks Cairo is a behavioral problem and bad influence on me. Cairo winds him up because he won’t forget for a second that my dad stood up and flatly said in court that Jack was to have full custody of him and he wouldn’t even do weekends. And Mom forgot how to talk to Cairo a long time ago. All they do is argue, then they weren’t even doing that ’cause Cairo blocked her number and stopped coming over for dinner.
“Now she takes my phone and uses bullshit like borrowing his car as an excuse to speak to him. But, of course, she doesn’t use the time before he hangs up to say what she really wants to say.”
“What does she really want to say?” I asked softly.
Paris’s eyes filled. “That she’s sorry. She can’t say it because...”
“Because saying sorry means admitting to yourself you did something wrong,” I finished. “The words are easy. It’s what comes with it that lets years go by unsaid.”
“Yeah.” She laid her cheek on my shoulder. “I’m sorry I said all of that. You’re dealing with enough. No need to throw my family drama on top.”
“Don’t say that. We’re friends.” As much as I didn’t want it at first, I couldn’t deny it. Someone who wasn’t your friend didn’t rant for a thirty-minute car ride on their brother’s treatment of you, and that they’d defend you.
“Family is like this for everyone. With Ivy—” Pain crept into my temples. I rubbed it away, wishing the memories went as easily. “My sister and I got into a fight, and now she refuses to speak to me. I can’t blame her, though. I was wrong.” My voice grew thick. “In every way, I was wrong for how I treated her. I don’t deserve her forgiveness till I give an apology she can trust.”
Paris rubbed my arms. “It can’t have been that bad,” she said, pulling me in for a hug. “This is what siblings do. They fight. They literally try to kill each other. But you make up because no one is going to understand you like they do.”
I swiped a stray tear away. “Damn, we like to get heavy. Should I write you that check for therapy now?”
“Nah, you can give it to me at the end of the week.” She popped a kiss on my cheek. “Did you get any breakfast between all that drama? Our housekeeper makes a fresh batch of muffins every morning. Interested?”
“Interested? There’s a very good chance I’m not going to save any for you.”
“Oooh,” she crowed, backing toward the door. “How you gonna do that when”—Paris took off running—“I’m getting to them first!”
I chased her out the door, laughing my head off.
After a breakfast of delicious fresh-baked muffins, Nora told us to drive her second car to campus, leaving Cairo’s on the curb. I saw it for the obvious attempt to lure her son there that it was, and damned if I didn’t feel bad for both of them. It was a hard, difficult road for them to end up where they were.
Back on campus, I met my professors after class for the work I missed. The guys told them I was traumatized after the events of Ruckus Royale and needed time off. Actually, they weren’t the first to call out with that excuse. Professor Valdez was taking a short leave of absence. There was speculation on if he’d come back at the end of it.
End of Civil Rights, I waved bye to the teaching assistant, turned off my phone, and ducked out of the building through one of the side entrances. I didn’t put it past Cairo to be waiting outside the door with leash in hand. I couldn’t go back to the Bedlam Boy house just yet, and I wasn’t about to get in the argument about me needing to head out and they not knowing why.
I made it off campus and passed through the square. My bus stop waited for me with its pack of hopeful pigeons and a bus schedule that faded to blurred text years ago. Frankie honked her way up.
“Rainey, love. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you.”
“Out to the farm again,” she said. “What do you do there all day?”
“Between you and me, I’ve got the old generator and some swap shop appliances tucked away. I’d move back in if it wasn’t for the whole no-running-water thing.”
“Right,” she said with a laugh. “That thing.”
I settled in for the forty-minute ride. Frankie carried me all over town, dropping off elder riders pulling shopping wagons, and university students making it back to their student apartments.
This was the part of the trip I loved—other than talking to Frankie. Seeing my town pass by the window was the most relaxing part of my day.
There was still something of the old Crystal Canyon about Bedlam. Historical buildings survived like Westchester Drumlins, a general store, an old-timey barbershop, and a hotel that they renovated inside, but outside maintained the original stonework. It was trippy passing a structure that stood before your grandparents were born, sandwiched between a vegan restaurant and yoga studio.
But that was Bedlam. A town moving forward, and dragging its past along for the ride.
“Looks like you’re feeling better.”
I raised my head, catching Frankie’s knowing smile in the mirror.
“I am better than I was,” I admitted. Last time I stepped off this bus, I resolved to kill myself. I’d say I’m doing much better.
“I moved in with some—” My tongue stuck trying to say friends. It wouldn’t move at all for boyfriends. “—guys,” I finished. “I was in a bad place. They’re helping me see that I can be forgiven.”
“Course you can. Everyone deserves forgiveness, love.”
“Even—”
“No,” she sliced in. “Not my son-of-a-bitch ex.”
Giggling, I hopped off the bus, waving bye to Frankie rattling down the dusty road. My smile faded, turning back to my gate. It wasn’t being home. It was the reason I was here.
Climbing up the rickety porch, I lifted our mailbox lid and found three black letters waiting for me.
The letters have always come to the farmhouse. Despite me having moved out a long time before they began coming. It was proof of how long Scott Cavendish had been following me. He knew how often I came out to my abandoned farm far out of town. It was the perfect place to leave messages for me without being seen.
I broke the new lock on the door and went inside.
“Fuck!”
The estate agent hadn’t stopped with the door. My microwave, lamp, and the little things I snuck back inside were gone. I ran downstairs to check the generator and found that gone too.
“Point Cruella,” I hissed.
The woman’s actual name was Ella Franklin, but that’s because someone would’ve called child services on her parents if they wrote her full name on the birth certificate.
Heart pounding, the unopened letters crumpled in my hand. It had become my routine to sit in the place where I’d always felt safe and read the next horrible letter. The smell of warm, buttery popcorn and the soft glow dispelling the dark around me gave me the strength to break the seal.
Dropping the letters on the floor, I headed out and went straight to Black Widow Hill. The flowers I collected on the way were laid on the unmarked grave.
“Sorry I’ve been gone for a while.” I sat cross-legged on the ground, plucking blades of grass. “My suicide attempt ended in a chase through the forest and then semi-voluntary imprisonment. That sounds like an oxymoron.”
I fell back on the sea of green, gazing up at the evening sky. “Is it weird that I named you in my suicide note? The thought of you lying here until the next town rises in place of Bedlam and no one knowing you’re here was too sad to bear.
“I can’t help wondering about your family. Where are they? Are they looking for you? Did you have a job that you one day didn’t come back from? A home? Are you from Bedlam, or just a traveler blowing through town? And of course, who are you? What’s your name?”
There were even bigger questions than all of those. Like how I ended up lying next to the grave of a stranger. I wish I knew.
“The day I found you is still fuzzy,” I said. “After Gran’s death, something in me snapped. When they talk about going off the rails, they’ve got a photo of me in the case study. I was not doing okay, and wound up with a doctor and a bottle full of pills.”
I latched on a cookie-shaped cloud and followed it through the sky.
“That’s the real reason I didn’t go away to college. The pills Doc Nash put me on were supposed to balance my emotions. Some days they mellowed me out so much they took my brain offline. I’d have these blackouts. Hours would go by, and I’d come to somewhere else, not knowing what I’d done in that time.
“But the day I found you...”
I stopped, digging the heel of my palms in my eyes. It didn’t work. Visions of the blood, the body, and the terrible scene I stumbled into shone in stark clarity. The only thing about that day that was clear.
I recalled bits and pieces of dragging the body from the barn and taking them out into the woods. A blank eroded my memory, skipping over the time I must’ve gone back for a shovel. The last thing I vaguely remembered was scooping dirt into the hole I dug for them.
Maybe if I’d been in real control, I’d have checked them for ID, called the cops, gone about it in the right, sane way. But as it was, I couldn’t even say if they were male or female.
“That was my last day on those pills,” I said. “I wish I could say things started making sense afterward, but nothing did. Gran is still gone. Ivy’s gone. And I’m no closer to remembering if I— if I was the one—”
I cut myself off, got up, and left. Why did I think coming out here would make me feel better? Why did I think for a second I was regaining control of my life? Being with Cairo and the guys may have helped me not feel guilty. They didn’t help me forget.
I returned to the bare farmhouse and found the letters where I left them. Sitting down on the past living room floor, I opened the first one.
I stood outside the police station today, thinking all I had to do was go inside and point Sheriff Jack in the right direction. Tell him I saw a girl go inside Westchester Drumlins carrying a bow.
How much would you love that? Sitting in an interrogation room across your old friend Jackie Boy.
Don’t test me, bitch. You can’t ignore me.
I let the note flutter to the floor. That must’ve been letter number three, left when they found number one and two still sitting there unopened.
I can’t wait to see who you’ve chosen. Use another arrow.
The medieval Braveheart thing you’ve got going on is such a turn-on. I’ve masturbated twice to Scott’s death video. If you slow it down just enough, you can almost make out the slim piece of wood flying toward him.
I wonder why no one else has thought to do that? Maybe I should plant the idea in the sheriff’s head.
I will if you warn them, or tell anyone about me. The sheriff will know about EVERY death stacked against your name. He may let you slide on Cavendish, but what about the sweet little innocent you threw in a hole and covered with dirt?
You’ll be thrown in a cage, and I won’t stop killing the people you love. I’ll never stop. I’ve been here since Bedlam began, I’ll be here long after it’s ash.
I want that name.
Stay psycho.
XOXO
The final letter lay flat on my palm. The one I assumed would tell me what my new tormentor was referring to. The letter that was bound to demand more than I’d give.
I set it down in front of me.
I had to decide right then what I’d do. They said they didn’t have Scott Cavendish’s death wish, so I suspected they weren’t going to order me to kill them. They also said they’d put someone I care about in danger.
I won’t let it happen this time. No one is going to wake up in a freezer, and I won’t be forced to hurt anyone.
I’ll take these letters to Hunter’s Crest. I won’t go anywhere near Jack Sharpe, but someone there is bound to be a decent cop who’ll take the steps to catch this lunatic. Possibly set up a real sting to catch them leaving these notes by my door.
Mind set, I picked up the letter.
I promised you no more silly rhymes or games. I figure old friends like us can skip the tricks and get straight to the point. We deserved that.
My forehead crumpled. Old friends?
What the hell were they talking about? I knew my friends, and none of them were deranged psychopaths.
What is this guy playing at?
You disappointed me, de Souza. I thought of all people, you understood the meaning of sacrifice. It isn’t about malice or superiority. A fact is some must die for a greater purpose, and in that purpose they are honored.
Once, you knew that, but you forgot who you were. As your friend, I will remind you.
I’ll bring you back to who you were.
I flipped the note to the back, foreboding settling deep in my bones before the rest was read.
You will choose someone in this godforsaken town and put them out of their misery. I don’t care who you pick or why. You have two weeks and I want the name of the person you’ve chosen sitting in that mailbox in two days.
By Saturday the 13th, if their gruesome death isn’t trending in national news, the death of someone you love will be.
Paris Keller. Bella Hope. Francesca Lopez. One of Francesca’s brats.
Bet you thought you didn’t have anyone left to care about. We’ll find out how true that is in two weeks.
Stay psycho, bitch.
Love ya. XOXO
The note slipped through trembling hands. Gasping, I fought for air, but none was in the room.
The bastard was right. I did think I didn’t have anyone left to care about. Leave it to a killer to rip open a healed wound.
Francesca was Frankie. Gran’s friend, and some days, the only person to make me smile. My mind rebelled at the thought of them hurting one of her kids. Those sweet little ankle-biters who showed off all their missing teeth when they smiled, and kissed me hello the days Francesca went off-route to pick them up from the babysitter.
Bella Hope was the receptionist from the motel. Her father opened it forty years ago, and though she only worked there to save money while completing night school, she treated everyone who came through the door like family. I couldn’t count the times she got me out of my room to watch Netflix and eat Chinese food at the desk.
And Paris.
Tears dripped down my cheeks.
I did care.
I couldn’t let a single one of these women die, nor would I let a single hair on those kids’ heads be harmed.
You’ll be thrown in a cage, and I won’t stop killing the people you love. I’ll never stop. I’ve been here since Bedlam began. I’ll be here long after it’s ash.
What do I do?
“Fuck!” I flung the letter away from me.
This was supposed to be over with Cavendish. I did what he demanded I do. I killed the bastard, and it was supposed to get me my life back. How could there be another one? What did these people want from me?
“Rip out a piece of my soul,” I whispered.
That’s what this is about. That’s what it’s always been about. They want to make me a monster.
I thought of the grave at Black Widow Hill. For all I know, I am one. What if this is punishment for a crime I don’t remember committing?
Then why not just punish me? Why bring Jennifer, Paris, or Frankie into this? Why would this be revenge Scott Cavendish was willing to die for? And what did they mean they’ve been here since Bedlam began?
A dull, throbbing pain formed behind my eyes.
The headaches were constant these days. Advil barely made a dent in them, but I refused to go back to Doc Nash and be prescribed anything stronger. For better or worse, I was facing my horrible, screwed-up life unmedicated.
What to do about this fucking headache isn’t the question, Rainey. It’s what to do about the mad Letter Man threatening to turn you in if you don’t give him the name of the innocent person you’re going to kill in less than a week.
I froze.
I heard something. A creak from outside.
This is an old house. It creaks.I stood even as the thought went through my head, creeping toward the front door.
Thud.
My breath trapped in my chest. Peering through the cracked blinds, I laid eyes on the black-hooded figure standing on my porch.
I shot away and tripped over my feet. Panic blotted out my senses as I went down, hitting the floor with an ear-splitting crash.
Oh my god! He’s outside!
It wasn’t possible he didn’t hear that noise. The Letter Man was on my porch and he knows I’m here.
I scrambled across the floor, shoving my back in the corner.
He’ll leave. He won’t want me to know who he is. His plan to stalk and kill my friends won’t work if his face sketch is posted on every corner.
That was before he believed you were ignoring him, a chilling voice said. He thinks I’m refusing to play his game. What will he do now? What’s the letter he’s leaving supposed to say?
“Please go,” I whispered. “Please, just go.”
I forced myself out of the corner, crawling to the door. If he’s been watching me, let him have seen my debut with the Bedlam Boys. I wasn’t ignoring the letters. I desperately wanted to keep my friends and their children safe. The situation doesn’t have to escalate—
I glanced through the blinds and saw no one.
—before I found them myself and put an arrow in their heart.
Shaking, it took three tries to open the door and step out. I swept the farm for a sight of a person running away and saw no one.
I still didn’t know why Cavendish and his buddy chose me. I didn’t know who the Letter Man was, or how I’d find them in my shortened time period. I just knew two things. They wouldn’t get anywhere near my friends, and if I had to pick up my bow again to ensure they were safe, this time there’d be no hesitation.
I’m going to find your ass, bitch.
I stomped back inside, shoved the letters in my pack, and hitched it on my shoulder.
The laughing jackass, Douglas Herbert, had a whole crew of guys who got off on their sick pranks. Wasn’t a stretch to think there may have been more than one sociopath in the bunch other than Scott Cavendish.
The Letter Man could be one of them. Someone who has history with Cavendish. Someone he trusts. Nathan Wade and Sam Dillion.
I closed on the door handle.
Last I checked, Sam Dillion left town. All the same, he was the one I put my money on. Dillion called in a bomb threat, then fired blanks at a panicking crowd of teenagers. His goal was to incite true, honest terror, and two girls ended up in the hospital, so he’d get his kicks.
Tonight,I mused as I stepped on the porch. I’ll head to the library and see if I can find out where that guy really is. If I can’t find a trace, that’s suspicious enough to—
A hand clamped over my mouth.
“Hmph!”
I was yanked off my feet, flying back into the house. The door slammed on my muffled scream.
No!
I kicked and thrashed, bucking in his viselike grip. My head smashed against a hard chest. The Letter Man was correctly named, and now he had me.
“Hmm!”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
My eyes popped. That voice...
“I told you to wait outside for me after your last class, and I’d walk you home,” Cairo hissed. “You disobey me, refuse to answer my calls, and then I find you here.”
“Cairo, no,” I cried. “You don’t understand.”
He slammed me front-first against the door.
“Who you belong to now doesn’t seem to be sinking in.” Cairo bit my ear. “Seems you need another lesson.”
“No, I do. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t ignoring—”
Cairo ripped my borrowed pants down.
“Please, Cairo.”
His hand snaked around my waist, dipping between my middle. Cairo shoved two fingers inside without ceremony. I gasped on a cry.
The sound of his zipper dropping filled the room.
I shot away, knocking him out of me. I raced into the hall with no real idea of where I was going. All I knew was this was a hunt.
I had to run.
Cairo was on me in three bounds.
We collapsed before the door to the guest bedroom.
“Get off!”
“Keep struggling. I’m going to fuck you right here while the Ghost of Nanas Past watches. If you wanted to get away from me, de Souza, you should’ve run faster.”
There’s nowhere I could run to be free of you.
Seizing my ankles, Cairo dragged me across the floor.
“No!”
I latched on the doorframe, kicking to get free. All it did was help him get my pants all the way off.
He pulled me free of the door and hauled me bare-assed over the splintered wood. Cairo dove between my legs, descending on my pussy like a ravenous beast.
Have you ever been eaten out by a wild animal masquerading as a man? I would assume not unless that man was Cairo Sharpe.
Mercy was not in his vocabulary.
He tortured my clit between his teeth—reducing me to a moaning, quivering mess in seconds. His tongue forced its way past my folds, licking and collecting every drop of juice from my traitorous sex.
“Uh, it hurts.” I slapped him. “Stop!”
“I don’t have to stop taking what’s mine.”
He rose up, snapped me to him, and pushed in with a single thrust.
“Ah!”
Cairo gripped my neck, pinning me to the floor as he started pumping. I grabbed his wrist—to pull him off or to hold him, I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t think.
The pain was mind numbing. Ripping, tearing, rending the last pieces of the Rainey I used to be to shreds.
“C-Cairo... no, please.”
Sweat covered my body, easing my slide on the unforgiving floor. Cairo lifted me, burying his face in my neck. I whimpered as he licked a stripe along my collarbone, then sucked to mark his claim.
“Take it, you tasty little slut. And say thank you.” He bent my head back. “Say it.”
“Fuck you.”
I reared. Cairo caught my wrist and bent it behind my back, making me cry out. Pulling out, he twisted till he forced me on my knees. One hand securing my wrist. The other forced the back of my head down, pressing my face to the floor.
He sank inside with a deep, satisfying hiss—fed by my whimpers.
“Cairo, please. I can’t take any more.”
“You take what I fucking give you, and what.” Thrust. “Do.” Thrust. “You.” Thrust. “Say?”
Each snap of his hips molded our bodies together, driving him deeper inside than I thought possible. My knees scraped the wood, splitting open to weep their own red tears. The pain anchored me. Gave me a safe place to harbor as my orgasm swelled and fought to drag me under.
“Thank y-you,” I rasped. “Thank you, Cairo.”
“For what?” he asked—his smirk so damn obvious, I didn’t need to raise my head and see it.
“For... owning me— Ah!” Cairo struck that spot, lifting me off my knees. “For giving me what I deserve.”
“What do you deserve?”
“You,” I said so softly, his grunts washed it away, then I was gone.
I came so hard black spots danced in my vision. Cairo drew away, leaving me to jerk and bounce on the floor.
Every part of me from the knees up ached. Blood stained my legs. All that being tossed around gave me a few dings and dents. As for the fire burning between my legs.
I wasn’t getting up and walking anywhere, anytime soon.
My eyes blinked as open arms slid under me. Cairo cradled me in his arms, picking my bag up on the way, and carried me out the door to the waiting car. Not his, so I suspected the showdown on Bay Avenue hadn’t happened yet.
Cairo took me home and left me in the tender care of Roan, who got hard bathing me and tending to my scrapes. He jacked off in the shower a few times, but otherwise didn’t shove another dick inside me, or try to goad me into spilling more blood.
After my bath, I shimmied into one of his T-shirts and crawled into his bed. My eyes nailed him over the covers, silently daring him to make me move.
He chuckled. “It won’t be me who hauls you out of that bed and deposits you in the doghouse. Jacques, Arsenio, or Cairo will have that honor. Though, I’m leaning toward Cairo since he’s always in a particularly foul mood after visiting his mother.
“I’ll be the one watching and silently rooting while Jacques spanks you again, but this time for me to enjoy.”
“You get off on pain, don’t you?”
I swept an eye around his room. The whole place was a shrine to sadomasochism. Whips and chains hanging on the wall. Posters of various people wearing leather and metal, flashing their red bare asses, clamped nipples, ball gags, and saucy winks as they wielded their riding crops.
Such a sweet, charming grin stretched his lips, you almost believe he was as harmless as he looked. “There is no pleasure without pain, darling. Anyone who says otherwise is repressed.”
I stifled a laugh. “Not sure it’s that simple.”
“No, but then you’re still learning.” Tossing me a wink, he backed out the door. “We’ll complete your education soon enough.”
CAIRO
“Give me the keys.”
“Cairo, watch your tone.”
Nora stood on the other side of her gilded fence. My car keys dangled from her fingertips.
“How are you, sweetie?” She tilted her head, gaze softening. It was the perfect mimic of someone who actually cared. “Are you eating enough? You look thin. Come inside for dinner. I’ll have Chef make your—”
“This is low, Nora. Even for you.”
“Do not call me Nora,” she snapped, a flash of my true mother returning. “I am your mother. You will treat me with respect.”
“You’re my mother,” I repeated. I made a show of looking around. “Is that why you’ll only speak to me through metal? Are you afraid of me, Mommy dearest?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I am going to go into this house, Esteban will open the gate, and if you want your keys back, you’ll come inside and have a civilized dinner with your family.” She stroked my cheek through the bars. I could’ve been chipped from granite for all the reaction I gave her. “I have missed you, Cairo. My sweet baby. Come inside.”
Nora turned away and did as she promised. She strode into her grand house, taking my keys with her. The security guard hit the button to open the gate.
I headed off in the opposite direction. Walking past my car, I saluted the rusted can goodbye and continued down the street, leaving Bay Avenue.
I didn’t stop till I was three miles and an hour away.
The modest two-story bungalow loomed at the end of the curb. I found the spare under the flowerpot and let myself in. A fetid, demanding stench hit my nose before I stepped over the threshold.
Kicking aside stray beer cans, I passed through the short hallway, nose wrinkling as the smell got worse. I rounded the corner and there he was. The great and honorable Sheriff Jack—defender of the city and upholder of all true and lawful—slumped on the dining table.
A puddle of vomit decorated the floor, spreading to mix with the whiskey dripping off the table, flowing freely from the upturned bottle.
“Dad.” I shook his shoulder. “Dad, wake up.”
“Wha—?” He swiped at me and flipped over, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.
“Dad.” I grabbed him under the shoulders, grimacing as days’ old sweat and tequila enveloped me. My father didn’t discriminate. If it was alcohol, it was going straight to his liver. “Wake up.”
His head lolled. Dad peeled open bloodshot eyes, gazing at me for a second like he didn’t know me. “Cairo?”
“Who else would it be?”
I moved into the kitchen, taking the whiskey bottle with me. I returned with a glass of water and a bowl of pretzels. He didn’t even argue. We had our routine down by now.
Dad sipped his water—swaying slightly, and splashing some on the floor while I cleaned.
“I’m sorry, son,” he rasped.
“Just give me the name.”
“I... don’t want it to be this way.”
“Name, Dad.” My voice was hard. I was entitled.
“It’s just— It’s just—” He burst into tears. “I can’t say no. I w-want to. I do.”
“We’ve done this for ten years and you’re still singing the same song,” I said.
I wiped up the last of the sick and tossed the paper towels in the trash. Going back to my father, I made him eat a handful of pretzels. I made sure there was always food in the house. Didn’t stop him drinking himself to death on an empty stomach every time.
“But this is what a son does, steps into his father’s place. What you can’t do, I can.”
He sobbed harder. Tears and snot ran down unshaven salt-and-pepper scruff.
“I’m sorry. For everything. I wanted to be a good father. A good man. I wasn’t strong enough.”
I wasn’t about to dispute that.
“Let’s go. Time for—”
Dad grabbed me, burying his face in my shirt. “You’re a good son. The best I could’ve asked for,” he wailed. “I love you.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, trying to peel him off me.
“I do. I love”—he hiccuped—“you. I don’t say it enough. I don’t tell you how proud I am of you, but it’s true all the same.”
I got out of his hold and slung his arm around my shoulder.
“You’re all I have.”
He tried to hug me. I put a firm hand on his chest, keeping him back.
“Give me the name, Dad.”
Jack sniffled. “I’ll do it this time. I can—”
“No, you can’t. You couldn’t then, you can’t now.” I made him look at me. “Tell me the name.”
When the words came, they came slow.
“Axel. Axel Verlice.”
“What did he do?” I asked tonelessly.
“Started a side business. Cut us—her out of the profits.”
“Unwise.” I half carried him out of the dining room. “The situation will be taken care of.”
“Just don’t hurt him.”
“Don’t tell me how to do your job,” I bit off.
Jack fell silent.
He didn’t speak during the time I helped him out of the uniform and holster, cleaned him up, and pulled the covers to his chin. I left once to get another cup of water and put it by his bedside. I checked to make sure his pillows propped him on his side, then eased onto the rocking chair in the corner, picking up a book on the dresser.
I’d most likely be here till the morning, ensuring he didn’t choke on his vomit or die of alcohol poisoning.
Settling in, I picked up The Picture of Dorian Gray, where I left off.
People asked why my bedroom in the Bedlam House locked from the outside. The answer was simple and not shared.
It was so no one realized how rarely I slept in my room.