Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Rett
“I have rheumatoid arthritis,” I confessed for the very first time in my life.
Being in his arms with fifty hugs in my lap made me brave. And so did the look of possession in his eyes.
And maybe just the teeniest, tiniest part of me also wanted to test him.
Because I wasn’t going back to waking up alone.
And in life, I’d found the best way to learn what someone really thinks of you is to tell them your truth.
Probably why I had no friends until like a week ago.
Getting rejected didn’t feel good. And I was already in pain.
Hiro’s body stiffened. “You’re too young for arthritis.”
“They really shouldn’t have called it that. It’s really more like the body attacks itself,” I said. “It causes pain and inflammation in the joints but in other parts of the body as well.” At least, that’s what I read. Beyond the research I’d done, I only knew what I felt.
“They who?” he asked like he was about to pick a fight.
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes, and I’m a mean bastard, so just tell me.”
I giggled. “You aren’t mean.”
“Oh, I am. Just not to you.”
“Or Haz. You call him half-pint.”
“Ooo-weee. Is that jealousy I detect?”
“Yes,” I said. If he could admit it, then I could too. “I thought I was special,” I muttered.
“You aren’t special. You’re the reason my self-control stopped working.”
Kissing him was way better than talking to him.
He made a sound as if he realized the error of his ways. “Let me rephrase. Special ain’t nothing. You are the standard everyone else has failed to meet. Special isn’t near enough to get me to turn my back on my own code. But you are.”
“You have a code?” I asked, trying not to feel dizzy from the amount of butterflies fluttering around my insides. I mean, I guess talking to him was pretty good.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I don’t.”
He reclined. “You don’t need a code.”
“Why not?” I wondered.
“Because you have me.”
The more he said it, the more I wanted it to be true.
“I’ve never actually been treated for the RA, but a doctor diagnosed me once. A long time ago.” I peeked up to see his reaction.
He nodded. “Go on, spill that hot tea.”
“When I was young, I never had the same amount of energy the other kids had. When we would play, someone would bump me, and it hurt so much I’d cry.”
A look came over his face. You know. The look. I figured I’d just go ahead and save him the trouble of demanding. “No, I won’t give you a list of names. They were kids, and they weren’t even being rough.”
“They’re grown-ups now,” he deadpanned.
I put my hand over his mouth and kept talking. Really, it was the only way I was going to get this out.
“Anyway, I got teased a lot. Crybaby. Whiner. Weakling. Sob goblin,” I listed. “I was also pretty clumsy and had a hard time opening things everyone thought were easy. Sometimes my hands and fingers would be red and feel warm to the touch. And I’ve always been small, so it made me an easy target.”
“You were bullied?”
“Oh yeah.” I confirmed.
“Didn’t your parents do anything?” he demanded. Then, “This is why I don’t have kids. Everyone would be dead.”
“You can’t kill everyone, Hiro.”
The temperature in the room dropped. “Actually, I can.”
I glanced up. “Surely, even the government has rules.”
“What the government doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”
I shook my head.
“Hey.” He caught my chin, pulling my face up. “How come you act like me being a sanctioned operative is no big deal?”
I arched an eyebrow. “You mean why don’t I care my boyfriend is a hitman?”
Another test. Let’s see how he reacts to the B-word.
Pursing his lips, he regarded me with an air of suspicion. After a moment, he said, “Yeah. Why don’t you care your boyfriend is a killer?”
Not only did he return the B-word, but he upped the ante by calling himself a killer.
Who was testing whom here?
“Because,” I said, debating on how honest I wanted to be, “I’ve been afraid my entire life. It makes me feel safe to stand beside someone everyone else fears.”
“You should fear me too.”
“I fell in love with you instead.” Guess I was going all in with the honesty.
His eyes darkened. “I’ve killed over forty men.”
“How many have you saved?”
He paused. “The blood on my hands says it doesn’t matter.”
“You saved me. More than once.”
“That doesn’t make me a hero. It makes me greedy.”
“No one’s ever been greedy for me before. I like it,” I declared.
“You’re just touch-starved.”
“The only touch I want is yours.”
He scowled. “I’ve been killing for the government for about ten years. Assignment after assignment. They call; I answer. They point; I shoot. I can’t get out. They own me, and they always will. I will never have a normal life. I will never not be a killer.”
“Sanctioned operative.” I corrected him.
“Permission to murder is still murder.”
“When I was twelve, my mother took me to the doctor so she could prove I was faking what was wrong with me.”
“What?” he shot up off the back of the couch, but I lay my hand against his chest.
“Listen.”
His tongue dragged over his teeth, but he nodded.
“She said I acted weak because I wanted to get out of chores even though I still did them. She said I was trying to get attention and pity from the teachers because they’d call home and tell her I was limping or that I fell asleep in class.
One time, she accused me of holding my hands under the hair dryer to make them red and hot. ”
Hiro’s hands clutched into fists, and I couldn’t help the little bolt of happiness that I felt because he was angry on my behalf.
“So she took me to the doctor, and he examined me and took some labs.”
“And?”
“And he called us back in to tell my parents that not only did I have all the symptoms, but I tested positive for juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, JRA for short. But now the doctors call it juvenile idiopathic arthritis. I don’t know why they changed it. I just read that they did.”
“You didn’t twist your ankle this morning,” he murmured.
I shook my head. “No. I limp because my ankles and toes hurt all the time. Usually, I’m better at hiding it, but after everything yesterday and running through the street…”
“Sleeping on the floor,” he intoned.
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That is not helping your case,” he snapped.
Yikes. “My wrists and fingers hurt a lot too. I have a pretty weak grip. Sometimes it’s hard for me to open things. My knees ache a lot and sometimes swell. It’s usually worse when I first wake up in the morning. It takes a while for me to get moving.”
“What else?” He encouraged me.
“Sometimes I get a fever and a sore throat. Or seem like I have the flu when I really don’t. Things that most people do every day make me tired.”
“Is this why you were sick when I found you in that box?”
“Probably,” I replied. “I’d done a snow-removal job not long before. I shoveled snow during a blizzard for several hours to make money.”
He growled below his breath, and goose bumps rose along my limbs. Not because I was afraid but because it turned me on.
“I hadn’t been eating well and was tired. I was just rundown.”
“If I hadn’t found you…” His words trailed away.
“I would have eventually made it to a motel. I would have been okay.” I reassured him.
He seemed skeptical but surprisingly kept his thoughts to himself. “And your parents?”
Inwardly, I grimaced. “They didn’t take it well. They accused the doctor of lying. Of letting me manipulate him for attention. When he showed them the lab results and one of the X-rays he’d taken, they threatened to sue because they hadn’t agreed to an X-ray.”
Hiro’s espresso eyes burned like coal, the malice in them actually making me twist my fingers into the hem of the hoodie.
He caught my hand, gently smoothing my fingers from the fabric. “Stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“They refused to pay for treatment, as it’s very expensive and we didn’t have insurance. They gave me extra chores to toughen me up and let my brother knock me around. When I would cry, my father would punish me.”
“Punish you how?” he asked quietly, eyes gleaming with enough malevolence to peel paint.
I shivered, and he frowned. “Why don’t you have any blankets?”
“They’re on my bed.”
“Answer the question.”
In response, I pulled the hoodie up my thigh and showed him the scars.
The muscles in his jaw bulged dangerously, but his fingers were little more than a soft caress against the faded marks. “And the ones on your back?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“I thought that was because you lived on the streets.”
“A few of them are.”
“What did he do?” he asked, gaze returning to the marks on my leg.
I tugged the hoodie down to conceal them. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Surprisingly enough, he accepted that to ask instead, “This is why you ran away from home?”
“Part of the reason.”
His gaze turned expectant, and I sighed. “A few years after my diagnosis, I confessed to my sister that I was gay.”
“You have a sister too?”
“I used to. She was younger than me and didn’t understand. So she asked our brother what it meant.” I remembered the look of disgust on his face that quickly transformed into hate. “He beat the crap out of me, so bad I couldn’t walk for a few days.”
Ghost shot up off the couch, his movements stiff. After placing me on the cushions, he paced across the room.
“My parents told him he did the right thing. After that, they called me damaged goods. My mom used to cry and say she wished I’d never been born.
My father started to beat me, saying he would beat the evil out.
One night, I’d had enough, and I ran. I knew if I stayed any longer, they’d eventually kill me. ”
His voice was flat, void of empathy or even anger. He stood rigid with his back turned, hands loosely at his sides. “Tell me.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood. “Chris and Amanda Redding.”
He paused. “Are you afraid of me?”
“I’ll never be afraid of you.”
“You answered.”
“I know.”
He turned, eyes finding mine across the short distance. I let him see the truth. I don’t care if they live or die.
He nodded once. “I’ll take care of it.”
Strangely, a weight lifted off my shoulders, one I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying. Suddenly overwhelmed, I ducked my head, trying to blink back the rush of tears and the tightness in my chest.
His much larger body was so graceful when it lowered before me, hands so tender when they engulfed mine. “There’s medicine that could help you?”
I nodded. “But I’ll never be cured.”
“I’m getting you to a doctor.”
My hand closed around his. “I don’t have insurance. Treatment is so expensive.” I’d looked up a few of the popular medicines once. Thousands of dollars for a single month. And that didn’t include the doctor visits.
“Money doesn’t matter.”
“Rich people always say that.”
He laughed.
I realized I’d spoken out loud and glanced up, sheepish. “You’re probably as rich as Kieran.” Apparently, killing for the government paid well.
The corner of his lips curled up. “Probably.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Do you want me?” he asked.
“Yes.” So much.
He lifted my hand to press kisses against the palm. “Pack a bag, Pip.”
“A bag?”
He pushed to his feet and glanced around. “You can’t stay here.”
“But it’s my home.”
“No.” The finality in his tone was shocking.
“No?” I squeaked.
“Your home is with me. So pack your stuff. We’re leaving.”
I pushed to my feet, wobbling a little. “Y-you want me to move in with you?”
“We sure as hell aren’t living here.”
“Can Harold Jr., Spike, and Hercules come?”
“Go ahead and bring another man home. He’ll be dead before he makes it to the welcome mat.”
“You have a welcome mat?”
“Hell no. Nobody is welcome at my place.” His face softened. “Except for you.”
I went over to the windowsill where my plants sat. I put them in the window sometimes for light because this apartment was terribly dark. I pointed to them in order. “Harold Jr., Spike, and Hercules.”
“Mm-hmm, I knew it. Married with kids by dinner,” he murmured.
“What?”
“What happened to Harold Sr.?”
I leaned forward to wrap my hands around the vines of the pothos. “You’ll upset him.”
Ghost pressed a hand to his chest. “My bad. Was it planticide? Bad soil?” He made a sound. “It’s this apartment, isn’t it? Harsh conditions.”
He came across the room to lift me and set me aside to turn his attention to the plant. “Don’t worry, Harold Jr., I’m your daddy now.”
I blinked. “What about me?”
“You’re their mother.”
I sniffed. “You didn’t even acknowledge Hercules and Spike.”
“Don’t embarrass me in front of my sons,” he chided and turned back to the three pots. “Hercules, you take after me. Look at those guns.”
I gaped.
Hiro glanced around. “Why are you standing there? Go pack.”
I shuffled from foot to foot. “You really want me to move in with you.”
“I want you to come home, where you belong.”
And this was why I loved him. Why his job didn’t matter to me at all.
He was my home.