11. The Mutilation Inside
11
THE MUTILATION INSIDE
Despite his convincing display, I can’t take Merrick at his word. It’s not personal. I can’t trust anyone. There’s no reason for me to assume he’s lying, but there’s also a possibility he’s trying to manipulate me for his own agenda. Either way, I still have to operate under the assumption he’s telling the truth, both to save face with him and protect myself in case he is.
Knowing Scarlett might be some kind of twisted fiancée only makes my stomach churn more when I knock on her door to fulfill my end of our agreement. Merrick’s theory would also explain her sudden warped entitlement. But understanding it does nothing to soften my internal tirade at the reality.
It’s been bad enough being a McArthur prisoner. I will never be a McArthur son.
Merrick said he wants me to run, but he knows as well as I do that’s not a possibility. He was just relieving whatever speck of conscience he has left in that jaded soul—or trying to get me killed. Whatever the motive, my only real escape is to destroy the monster before it destroys me.
I’ve been plotting to take down the McArthurs since the day they dragged me in. I just needed to put the pieces in place and wait for the right opportunity. From the moment they sent me to Undertow, I sensed this feud with the Hartfords could be the opening I’ve been waiting for. Now it’s confirmed. I don’t have a choice anymore. I will take down the Hartfords as directed—and the McArthurs along with them.
The question is how.
“Hey, Shaw,” Scarlett says with a smile that tells me this evening is more than a meal to her. Her revealing dress could easily pass for lingerie, and she seems disappointed I’m still wearing the Palmetto Grande uniform. I’m not sure what else she expected. I’m still just another employee, whether she wants to accept that or not. “Come in.”
I force a quick smile and enter, trying not to react to the sound of the lock clicking behind me.
She can’t hurt you.
But she can.
She has.
“I ordered all your favorites. Wait until you taste the salmon.” She motions toward a table set with the precision of a five-star restaurant. All that’s missing is the smartly dressed waitstaff—aka witnesses.
“I even had them get one of those bottles of the Vici cabernet sauvignon you like. Vintage nineteen seventy-two, right?”
I set my jaw and force a nod.
Showering me with proof of her obsessive stalking is not winning her points. I take the seat she offers anyway, gritting my teeth against my true reaction to this charade. A deal’s a deal. And knowing what I know puts me in an even more precarious position than when I made it.
“Wait. I’ll do it,” I say when she reaches for the bottle of wine. It’s still sealed, which is the only reason I will consider consuming any of it. The food on the table is a joke.
Her expression darkens when I pull the bottle and corkscrew toward me.
“You don’t trust me,” she says.
“Should I?” I reply coolly.
“You’re overreacting.”
“You drugged me.”
“No. Not really. They made me do it.”
Semantics, and I have no interest in a pointless debate. Instead, I remove the cork and pour two glasses. After a cursory shove of one in her direction, I take the other and lean back in the chair, assuming a bored pose.
Anger flares in her eyes. Good. She wants to marry me? Welcome to our fairytale.
“So you’re not even going to touch the food I spent all afternoon arranging for you?” she snaps.
“No.”
“Shaw, come on. Are you seriously going to hold a grudge over that stupid New Orleans incident?”
Incident? Interesting word for waking up with two strangers, a stab wound, and a damning video documenting your murky nightmare.
“Why am I here?” I ask, ignoring her ridiculous question.
“You know why,” she says with a hard look, and I shake my head in irritation.
“Manipulate and extort all you want, but I will never have feelings for you, Scarlett. I will never want this.”
She lands an icy stare on me from across the table. “Yeah? What do you want, Shaw? You’re so good at pretending, no one seems to know.”
Because it’s irrelevant.
My pulse picks up as I study her, trying to read more in her dangerous statement. “I’m not allowed to want anything,” I reply evenly.
Freedom.
Peace.
One ray of anything good.
Her eyes soften in a way I don’t expect. “Shaw…”
“Can we just get this over with? Go ahead and eat if you’re hungry. I’ll wait.”
“Will you stop acting like this? I get that you’re under pressure?—”
“ Under pressure? ”
“And I know you’re mad, but you’ll understand soon. It’s not as bad as it seems.”
Is she serious? She can actually sit there and say this crap to me? My blood pounds at her conciliatory bullshit. All of this.
“Let’s not talk,” I growl out. “Just eat so I can leave.”
“Excuse me?” she snaps. “What is your problem?”
“My problem? How about all of this?”
“All of what? This nice meal I’ve prepared for you? Wanting to be your friend?”
“Oh, we’re friends now? Is that what this is?”
“Oh my god! You know what your problem is? You think because you’re Daddy’s little errand boy now, you’re some entitled prince or something. Well, guess what, you’re not. You need to learn to suck it up and stop being a little bitch about everything!”
Furious, I shove up from the table, my chair slamming back against the tile floor.
Stalking toward her, I unbutton my shirt with sharp movements. Her eyes widen as I freeze in front of her and rip it off my body.
“Look at me, Scarlett,” I hiss.
I know even as the words come out that I’m screwing up. I’m reacting, showing emotion. My control has been slipping since I crossed the bridge to this haunted island. I’m not myself, haven’t been since… Julia. Since a piece of my soul flaked off and exposed itself to her.
Maybe the problem is you are yourself. You’re thawing, Shaw. You have to refreeze.
But right now I’m an inferno.
“Shaw, I?—”
“Look. At. Me!” I point to the three-inch scar by my collarbone. “From the incident in New Orleans.” I twist to show the one on my side. “Chicago.” My neck. “Toronto.”
I’m shaking when I turn to expose my back and flinch at her gasp.
“Las Vegas.” My voice is as scratched and torn as the rest of me. We could do this all day. God, how many times have I done this all day? Day after day after day. My entire body, covered in scars hidden by art—or art hidden by scars. I don’t even know which is telling the true story now.
Neither, because the real mutilation is inside.
I scrub at my eyes, drawing in ragged breaths to regain control.
Get it together. You can’t do this with her. With anyone .
I’ve already messed up with this tiny display. It’s just… The lies. The hiding. The pretending.
“I’m not a prince, ” I say once I can breathe again. “I’m a prisoner. I’m fucking owned .”
Heavy breaths make their way back into my lungs. I feel her attention as I tug my shirt back on and rebutton it.
“I’m not allowed to want anything, to be anything other than what they want. So don’t sit there and act like this is anything other than what it is.”
I search her eyes, pleading with her to understand, even though I know she can’t. No one can. Most of the damage isn’t even from this nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I… didn’t know.”
“Yes, you did,” I reply in a harsh tone. Her gaze lifts to mine. “Yes, you did, Scarlett.”
I have quilted my body with the flesh of my idols
and replaced my eyes with seven years of bad luck
Concrete sheets cloak the vessel
sleeping on top soil dreams
opiate poetry hitting thresholds
a helping hand to mask the screams
Nothing lost in shooting shots
but shots and shooting mark the skin
filling veins with ink and blood in pens
to compliment the sins
Gouge out the shards from my eyes
draw permanence from my lips
there was a time when you were staring back from the chasm of this pit
Take every strand of hope you have and tie a knot above the wound
mistakes will fester, life will cease,
but none a greater threat than you
Time flies in reverie and the impressions wind up lost
or at least as soon as you are found
It all feels all for naught
-JD August 15