Thirteen
R I V E R
I FEEL HIS PRESENCE first. Strong and intoxicating. Like the smell of a sharpie when held under your nose. It’s almost ironic when I see said marker whipped out in front of me, halting my steps.
With an irritated huff, I glare at his hand holding the marker. His hands are massive. Long, thick fingers and callouses dotting his knuckles. His tattoos leak to those hands, the colors fading off at his wrist.
I want to touch them. I bet they’re rough. I bet they’d feel so good inside me.
“Go away,” I say, pushing his hand away in the same manner I push those filthy thoughts away.
Roughly and with undisguised disgust. I lift my chin and resume my walk to the car.
The sharpie stops me in my tracks again. Angrily, I rip the sharpie out of his hand and throw it at his feet. Flutters assault my insides when my eyes meet his. I hate that I’m attracted to him. I hate that I missed him.
“What do you want, Mako?” I demand, glaring at him.
“I want you to use that,” he says quietly, his baritone voice getting to me. Every fucking time.
I raise an eyebrow. “Use it on what?”
He directs his eyes to my hand. “When you feel unsafe, I want you to use it to draw a circle on your hand. Most people who work customer service know what it means.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“You’re kidding, right? I’m not drawing anything on my hand. I don’t feel unsafe.”
Liar. You were just hiding out as his house a couple months ago because you felt unsafe.
I shift, subtly wincing at the pain in my backside, despite two weeks passing since that night.
I’ve been ripped open in a way that a person should never be. I passed out after a few minutes. When I came to, I was left on the bed naked and my phone gone.
For a full week, he refused to give me my phone back. It took me two days before I realized fighting him wasn’t going to get me access to my phone. So, I started being good. I listened. Loved on him even though I felt he didn’t deserve it. And reverted back to a docile, mindless girl.
That weekend, he ran me a warm bubble bath with roses and wine. Ryan sat behind me, crying into my shoulder, asking for forgiveness.
It wasn’t until the water grew cold that I told him I forgave him. He was so broken, sobbing until he couldn’t breathe. It didn’t take long before I was crying with him. He swore that would never happen again. He took off the tracker to my phone right in front of my eyes, gave it back to me and promised to do better. Having my phone and privacy back is what ultimately broke my resolve. I’ve never seen Ryan so upset in my life, so I knew he had to be truly sorry for what he did.
Mako’s eyes darken into a moss green. Just like his brother. Everything goes dark when they get angry. It’s like the evil shadow dwelling inside of them comes to the surface.
He nods his head slowly, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. My fingers twitch with the
urge to brush it back. Bending over, he picks up the sharpie. Then he steps closer to me, bringing his body flush with mine. With bated breath, I don’t dare look away from his eyes, even as he wraps his arm behind me and slips the sharpie into my back pocket.
Heat floods through me, so hot the oxygen in my lungs evaporate. If this is what it feels like with layers of fabric separating us, what would he feel like pressed against me, skin to skin?
I’m ashamed of the thought as soon as it flashes though my head. I love Ryan. I don’t even like Mako.
The familiar fingers of anxiety wrap around my chest. Without thought, I glance around my surroundings, convinced Ryan will somehow see me. Just because he took off the tracker on my phone doesn’t mean there’s not people watching me. I know he doesn’t trust me, not after I lied to him about Amelia.
I clearly don’t deserve his trust. Look at me now. Acting like a slut and entertaining thoughts of his brother. A brother he despises at that.
Stupid, River. Walk away before someone sees you. Ryan will never forgive you.
“When I come over for dinner tonight, I promise I’ll kill him if I see a black circle on that pretty little hand.”
Without thinking, I step closer, and bare my teeth right in his face.
“The only reason I’ll put a dot on my hand is because I want to get away from you.”
“Then why are your tits currently pressed into my chest?” he asks, a smirk sitting prettily atop his stupid fucking face.
Scrambling backwards, I nearly trip on my feet in my pursuit to act like I wasn’t just pressed up against him like saran wrap. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’ve no idea what to say now.
“You’re not coming over for dinner,” I state finally.
He smiles. “Dad assigned him to my case. His client is a key witness to a murder. Ryan and I will be working together until this case is solved. I’m coming over for dinner, River.”
I step away from him and turn to walk away. “Fine. But I would never allow you to kill him,” I
say over my shoulder.
Only I would get those honors.
“I WANT DINNER TO be ready by six. Make meatloaf. Mako hates meatloaf,” Ryan says through the speakers in my car. I called him the second I got in this heat box. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t tell him his brother stalked me again and told me about the dinner. I had to play dumb and wait until he told me.
I can’t believe he didn’t fucking tell me.
“I wish you would’ve told me this sooner. Now I have to rush to the store,” I complain, swatting
a sweaty strand of hair out of my face. My car is starting to get old, which means the heat of the Carolina sun is starting to outrank my A/C. Maybe it’s time for a new one—something I can’t quite afford right now.
“I only found out yesterday. I didn’t get the chance to tell you because I’ve been working my ass off, something you wouldn’t know about,” he snaps, his words lashing at me like a whip. He always knows exactly what to say and when to say it to hurt me most.
It takes everything in me to keep my mouth closed. Working my ass off was my entire life since I was old enough to have a job—but alas, Ryan always has temporary memory loss when shoving my jobless state in my face. Something he demanded of me.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, and then I swish it around my mouth as a reminder of what I’ll be tasting for the next week if I talk back.
“I’m sorry. I just want this dinner to go smoothly for you. I know how much Mako stresses you
out.”
And me.
My A/C finally kicks in just as more sweat breaks across my forehead. I’ve never thought I’d have to worry about Mako saying anything to Ryan until now. What if Ryan gets under his skin and he tells Ryan I stayed at his house for a week in retaliation? If I didn’t already know that it’s the good people that die young, I’d bet money that Ryan would have a heart attack right then and there.
Ryan’s silent for a moment. “Just make the meatloaf and have it ready by six. Don’t burn it. Don’t be late. Just do something right for once. Can you manage that?” he asks, his voice dark and
condescending.
Swish, swish.
“Yes,” I choke out.
He hangs up the phone without further comment. We’re fighting again. The corners of my lips tug down as guilt assaults me. I hate when Ryan is upset with me.
First, I oogle his brother and allow him into my personal space. Then, I complain about him not informing me of tonight sooner instead of realizing Ryan is swamped with work right now.
I’d get mad at me, too.
My foot presses on the gas harder. Tonight needs to be perfect.
“DINNER IS READY,” I call from the dining room. I set out the meatloaf and crisp asparagus on the ten-foot table in our outrageously formal dining room and laid out our best China.
I’ve no idea where Ryan got it from, but it’s pretty so I don’t care.
Ryan and Mako have been in the living room poring over their case. All I’ve heard this entire time is Mako's underhanded jabs and Ryan's condescending remarks.
They hate each other and neither of them bother to hide it.
They both enter the dining room, their eyebrows drawn and jawlines tense. Mako stops before his chair, staring down at the meatloaf with a blank face. An evil smirk flashes across Ryan's face.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Ryan’s being petty.
Mako’s hands tighten around the back of the chair until his knuckles turn white. If he wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved button up shirt, even his tattoos wouldn’t be able to cover up the veins pulsing in his arms. Calmly, Mako pulls out his chair and sits down, his eyes never straying from the apparently offending food. If I didn’t know any better, the meatloaf grew a mouth and is currently talking shit to Mako.
Ryan sits at the head of the table, while I sit on his left and Mako seated on his right, directly across from me.
“Did you make this?” he asks, his voice strained as he lifts his darkened green eyes to me. My breath stalls in my chest. While his face is arranged carefully into a blank mask, his eyes are glistening emeralds, ripe with anger.
I figured being forced to eat food you don’t like would annoy him, but the tension rolling off of him is potent and suffocating. I don’t understand his reaction, but I’d love to figure it out. The curiosity in me burns to know why meatloaf would make him so angry.
“Yes,” I answer. “Homemade,” I tack on, as if that’ll make it more appealing.
He swallows and picks up his fork. Quietly, he takes his first bite. And then another. And another. He’s several bites in before I realize Ryan and I just watching him with morbid fascination.
Well, I am, at least. Ryan is watching him with a sick sense of satisfaction.
For the first time, I want to smack Ryan for the way he’s treating his brother.
That feeling scares me. I love Ryan. I should be on his side no matter what.
Maybe he feels this way because Mako did something really bad to Ryan when they were kids.
Maybe he beat him up badly. Hurt him somehow. There has to be a good reason, and I need to remember that.
I eat my own food, proud of how good it tastes. This is the one good thing that came from having a shitty childhood strife with starvation and desperation. Once I had the means to cook, I immersed myself in it. I cooked so much; I had to donate ninety-eight percent of it to homeless shelters because there was so much food.
I perfected cooking, and it’s something Ryan’s always praised me for. Something I was always really proud of.
I glance up to see Mako visibly force another bite down. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Clearly, he just doesn’t like meatloaf. But I don’t like someone eating my food and not enjoying it. It makes me feel like I’m covered in oil.
Ryan lets out a soft moan. I look over to see him roll his eyes to the back of his head.
So it’s okay when he does it.
“This food is amazing, baby,” he compliments loudly. Just like that, I feel better. Happiness floods my chest. Making Ryan happy always does that to me.
“Thanks,” I beam. Mako glances at him with barely disguised disgust.
“So, how’s the case coming?” I ask, hoping to take all of our minds off this weird interaction.
“We’re making progress,” Mako says the same time Ryan says, “Don’t concern yourself with that, babe.”
I frown at the conflicting answers. Ryan never talks about work with me. I’m sure there a lot of things that are confidential, but he always shuts me down even on the simplest questions. I’ve tried to show interest in what Ryan does, but peppering him with questions only irritates him.
Ryan the boyfriend and Ryan the lawyer are two separate entities. I don’t know the second person, and sometimes that bothers me. I’d love nothing more than to see Ryan in action. I know he’s a fierce lawyer and seeing it with my own eyes would be incredibly rewarding. And maybe a little hot, too.
Mako gives Ryan a look I can’t name, distracting me from my thoughts.
“As long as Ryan’s client cooperates, I think we’ll be able to catch the killer,” Mako continues.
Ryan drops his fork on the plate angrily and looks at Mako with a filthy look. I look down at his plate, inspecting it for chips or scratches.
“I don’t want to talk about work at the dinner table,” he snaps, drawing my eyes back up to his reddening face.
Mako doesn’t even spare him a glance. He chews on a piece of asparagus slowly, as if he’s
contemplating his next words.
“His client witnessed a murder.”
“A murder?” the question slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Ryan’s murderous eyes snap to me. Immediately, I stuff a piece of meatloaf in my mouth and keep my eyes down on my plate. The familiar fingers of anxiety start to filter throughout my body, touching all my vital organs until every part of me is gripped with dread.
I made a mistake. Ryan’s going to be so mad at me now. He doesn’t want to talk about the case.
Mako’s ignoring his request and I just egged it on.
Stupid, River. Stupid.
“He’s dubbed the Ghost Killer. He’s linked to drug trafficking as well.”
As soon as the name leaves his mouth, my heart seizes in my chest. I’ve never heard the moniker, but it brings up the horrific memories of that night. Billy calling me a ghost as he beat and raped me.
Billy—who deals heavily with drugs, arms, and probably even the skin trade. Billy—who kills
people.
Lots of people.
Forcibly, I swallow the now dry meatloaf in my mouth. I nearly choke on it as it slides down my throat and settles heavily in my stomach.
This time, I don’t care that I’m pushing Ryan’s buttons. No amount of fear can compare to what Billy instills in me. If he’s out there, publicly killing people so carelessly… That could only mean one thing.
“Why is he called the Ghost Killer?” I ask softly.
“Because he carves the word ‘Ghost’ into his victim’s chests before he kills them.”
My hand trembles. Carefully, I set down my fork, and then rub my sweaty hands down my pretty pink dress. Sweat dots my forehead and slides down my spine, accompanied by cold shivers. I feel sick.
“That’s enough,” Ryan barks, his fist thumping loudly against the table, rattling the china.
“You’re upsetting her.”
Mako inspects me closely, noting my obvious discomfort. I let them assume it’s because murder gives me the chills when in reality, it’s just the fact that I know who the murderer is.
Much to my relief, Mako listens. He continues to eat his meatloaf, this time with a little more ease. Maybe it’s worth it now since Mako succeeded in pissing off Ryan as much as Ryan pissed him off with the food.
The rest of dinner passes by in tense silence.
Ryan is fuming, and I… I need to go see Barbie.
I’M LOADING THE LAST dish in the dishwasher—sans Ryan’s coffee mug—when I hear footfalls behind me. My shoulders tense, but I don’t stop as I pop soap into the slot, close the door and start the machine.
I’m just pressing Start when Ryan’s hand whips out and grips my pointer finger tightly. I freeze, my eyes snapping to his cold, dull blue eyes.
“What?” I ask, forcing innocence in my tone.
“You know what,” he growls. I don’t have time to formulate a reply. In one quick motion, he snaps my finger backwards.
I hear the break. I feel it. But the pain doesn’t register right away. I’m too shocked, my wide eyes slow to look away from his and down at my finger.
My mouth drops when I see my finger bent completely backwards.
Then the pain hits.
I rip my hand from his and cradle it to my chest as tears flow from eyes. My mouth forms around a scream but all the escapes is a whimper. Before I can rage at him, he grabs me by my hair and swings me into the wall. A cry rips from my throat when my broken finger hits the wall, my attempt at protecting my face. Dizziness overtakes me from the pain.
“I’m so fucking tired of you embarrassing me, you bitch,” he grits out before he slams my head into the wall.
Instincts take over. Despite the fact that I’m seeing stars, I scream and kick at him, punching with both hands, broken finger be damned. He subdues me easily, clamping a hand across my mouth in the process. Both wrists are gripped in his other hand.
“Do that again and I’ll fucking kill you, do you understand?” When I don’t respond, he shakes me roughly, his face contorted in pure rage. I nod my head, tears slipping from my eyes without permission. “Why don’t you understand that I’m the only one who would actually love you? Yet you continue to disobey me. Do I ask a lot of you, River?” he shouts, spittle flying into my face.
Against my better judgement, I shrink away from him. If it were possible to curl myself into a little ball and disappear, I would sell my soul to do so.
“Do I?!” he yells. I shake my head with desperation. I just want him to stop yelling. I don’t want him to be mad anymore.
“Then why do you disobey me, huh?” he asks, shaking me again. His hands squeeze tighter and tighter until it feels like my wrists are going to snap. “I do everything for you. I treat you like a queen.
I provide for you. I let you waste your fucking time with college and spend my fucking money. And this is how you act!”
He ends his statement with a rough push. The last thing I remember is falling backwards, the bottomless feeling of falling through air in the pit of my stomach. And then nothing.
THE SHARP PAIN IN my head assaults me first. Then the ringing in my ears follow close behind. The pain is blinding. Just the thought of opening my eyes sounds exhausting and painful.
Feet shuffle next to me. Slowly, memories start coming back. The dinner with Mako. How angry Ryan was when Mako told me about the Ghost Killer. And when Mako left, how Ryan had assaulted
me.
Again.
Right as that memory hits, so does the pain in my finger. My pinky just healed, and now another finger is broken. Though, I’ve had plenty of broken bones over my childhood. If I wanted to, I could welcome the pain like an old friend. Sometimes embracing it is the only way to get through it.
Brushing off the pain in my finger, I turn my attention to the person walking around. I’m in a bed —our bed. And I’m completely naked. The chill air registers, and immediately goose bumps rush over my skin like a tidal wave.
Fuck. If Ryan notices, he’ll know I’m awake. Nobody’s skin breaks out in goosebumps when they’re knocked out.
I keep my breathing deep and steady. Eventually, I hear the bedroom door open and then click shut. Immediately, my eyes snap open. Fuck easing into it. I don’t have time.
The light sharpens the pain in my head, but I push past it. I need to figure out what the hell is going on. I look down to confirm that I am naked. My lip trembles at the onslaught of memories of waking up exactly like this not too long ago. The things he did to me afterwards will forever imprint my brain, right where the rest of my trauma resides.
My breath lodges in my throat when I see bite marks marring my stomach and thighs. My eyebrows tighten, and I try to think of when he did that. They’re fresh. Some of the bites even have little dots of spit on them that haven’t quite dried yet.
The soreness between my thighs answers the question I now realize I don’t want answered.
We had sex a few times in the past week, and while he had been excessively rough, he hadn’t bit me. When my lip trembles again, I force it between my teeth, clamping down tightly. Did he seriously do this while I was knocked out? By his hands? Who does something like that? Who knocks out someone they’re supposedly in love with, and then fucks and bites them when they’re unconscious?
I can’t process something like that right now. Before I can figure out what to do, the door swings open. My heart freezes. It’s too late to close my eyes and feign sleep. Our eyes lock, and my heart stutters like an old engine.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice calm and emotionless. He doesn’t sound angry. I think I’d prefer that to the cold calculation in his tone. At least when he’s furious, I know what to expect. This side of Ryan is unpredictable.
“I am,” I force out, my voice broken and rough. I try to clear my throat, but the dehydration burns
too badly, and only makes it worse. “Can I have some water?” I ask softly, purposely subduing my voice to sound sweet.
He inclines his heard towards the nightstand next to me. I glance beside me and see a half-filled bottle of water and a couple of Tylenol. I don’t like that the water has been opened, but at the moment, I don’t care. He wouldn’t drug me now, would he? He already has me where he wants me. When I lift my hand to grab the bottle, I see my still broken finger. It’s black and blue and bent unnaturally. The sight of brings back the rush of pain. For a single moment, I had forgotten about that. Now, it’s all I can feel.
Ignoring the pain, I grab the bottle with my good hand and take a few small sips of the water first, before forcing the two pills down my throat. My only regret is that they’re not something stronger. If I had to endure this from the man I love, at least let me be buzzed while I do it.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
I want to rage at him. Ask him the cliché questions. How could you? Why would you do something like this to me. I thought you loved me… But I don’t. I just stare at him, with eyes full of hurt and anger. I’m not even angry about my finger at the moment. No, I’m angry about the violation of my body. Like a coward, he drops his eyes to my body. To what he’s done to me while I was unconscious from his own hand. He promised he
wouldn’t do something like this again.
He promised.
When his eyes lift to mine, they’re blank. He shrugs a shoulder and gives me a smirk. “You’re my girlfriend, River. I own you. I can fuck you whenever I want.”
“Did you have to do it while I was knocked out? After you knocked me out?” I challenge.
Another shrug. “Why not? Your pussy was available, and it turned me on seeing you so vulnerable to me. What’s the big deal?” he asks, his voice growing agitated. He acts as if I’m being unreasonable. As if asking why he would rape me is an absolute preposterous question.
I suck my bottom lip into my teeth. I don’t want to piss him off more.
“Would you have said no to me?” he asks, his voice changing to a softer tone. He sounds a little hurt, and it pulls at me. “I’ve always loved that you’re so open and willing to do anything that makes me happy. I didn’t think having sex with my girlfriend would be so hurtful to you.”
I frown. Having sex with your partner isn’t hurtful, he’s right about that. But that doesn’t make it okay. It feels strange, knowing someone was inside me without me knowing it. Feeling it. Consenting to it. This isn’t the same thing as a boyfriend waking me up to the pleasure of sex—that I’d always be okay with. There was no waking up. No opportunity to say yes or no. A dark feeling coats the inside of my body.
I feel used and dirty. I feel… foreign inside my own body.
“I just… I just wish I could’ve experienced it with you,” I whisper finally. His face softens.
“I’m sorry, baby. I wanted to try something new. I wouldn’t mind if you had sex with me if I was knocked out.”
Tears prick at my eyes. I hate when we fight. I hate when he’s angry at me. Having sex with someone you’re in love with shouldn’t be a crime. I wouldn’t have said no to him if I was awake anyway. Guilt starts to blossom inside my chest. Why am I making him feel bad for something that would’ve been consensual regardless?
“It’s okay,” I say softly. He walks over to me and sits on the bed next to me. Slowly, he swipes loose stands away from my forehead and behind my ear.
“How does your head feel?”
The tears dry quickly. He had pushed me. He hurt me. My finger is broken.
“You hurt me.”
He sighs. “I’m so sorry, River. My anger got the best of me again. I feel like complete shit.
Please don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”
I glance down and force myself to stare at my broken finger. Seeing the abnormal sights send a fresh hot wave of pain in my finger. The tears come back with a vengeance. God, it hurts. It hurts that he continues to break me over and over, inside and out.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me again,” I remind him weakly.
“I know, baby, I know. And this time I’m serious when I say I won’t. I promise you. I know that I really need to work on my anger. What can I do to make you see that?” he probes, sincerity coating his voice like candy dipped in chocolate.
I sniffle, snot starting to run down my lip.
“What are you going to do when you get angry next time? How are you going to handle it?” I ask.
I try to toughen up my voice, but I still feel… desolate. Like something inside of me is missing. The way he’s acting is relieving and a little soothing. But I’m just having a hard time feeling it right now.
“I’ll walk away until I calm down. Then we can work through the problem together. We’re in this forever, baby. I don’t want to lose you because of my temper.”
More tears well up in eyes until Ryan becomes a blurred image. I nod my head, accepting his apology.
I know I should feel better. Now only if I could actually feel anything at all.
“LUCKILY, YOUR FINGER SNAPPED cleanly. No fragments have been broken off. You’ll be healed up nicely in about four to six weeks,” the nurse says. She’s looks older than me only by a few years. Her pin straight brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and her brown eyes watch me closely as I assess my splinted finger.
She’s blunt and to the point, which I appreciate.
“How did this happen again?” she asks, eyeing my broken finger with enough pity to drown
myself in.
Appreciation gone.
I technically don’t have to answer, but the excuse slips my from my mouth anyway.
“I smashed it in the car door.” It’s the first thing that came to mind. And when her brows tighten, I realize it probably wasn’t the right excuse.
“Huh,” she says, her voice suspicious. “Usually fingers don’t break when they’re crushed like that. And especially in the manner that your finger was broken.”
“Are we done here?” I ask impatiently. She takes a step back, her lips tightening, seemingly sensing my growing agitation.
“If you don’t feel saf—”
“I feel fine,” I snap, cutting her off. I don’t want to go down this road. The last thing I need is a nosey ass nurse asking questions and trying to pry into my life. I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the head wound. Ryan said I hadn’t bled, and there’s a small knot forming on the back of my head. The knot isn’t forming inside of my head, though, so I’m not worried. More than likely, I have a slight concussion. I had already healed from the last concussion, courtesy of Billy.
Ryan already promised he’d wake me every couple hours as punishment for causing the concussion.
I wouldn’t have to come to this god forbidden hellhole in the first place if I was able to fix my finger myself. Unfortunately, it was too far bent for me to set it back into place. And considering neither of us have any medical experience, it’s likely we would’ve just made it worse.
Billy did have medical experience. There’s no way he acquired his medical knowledge the old- fashioned way by attending college. I get the feeling that Billy dealt with many broken bones in his life, and instead of going to the hospital, he learned how to handle them himself. He had to have had someone teach him surely. His connections reach far and to people with many different occupations.
Cops. Politicians. Business men. Doctors. Even celebrities.
Luckily, I’ve only had minor broken bones. Fingers, toes, and my nose. Billy would set my bones back into place for me. I was never under the impression he did it because he cared, but because having an imperfect prostitute wouldn’t sell very well.
The nurse gives me instructions on how to care for the finger. I hardly listen, too anxious to get the hell out of here. Ryan’s outside the door, waiting for me. He refused to let me go alone, just in case the nurse who helped me is a male. Said he doesn’t like it when another man touches me, even if it’s to fix a finger he broke.
I just want to go home. I fucking hate hospitals, and I’m discovering a newfound hatred for this nurse too.
“Can I go now?” I ask, cutting her off mid-sentence. She shoots me a derisive look, and huffs.
“Yep,” she says shortly.
I walk out without a thank you. Nurses deserve thank-yous, but she’s just going to have to get that from another patient tonight.
