by Skye Warren
I don’t know how much time passes. A few minutes. A few hours.
The door opens again, and my heart lurches. I don’t want to see him again. But I do. I’m torn.
But it isn’t Kip who walks through the door. “Clara!”
She runs to me, crying, and I cling to her, ignoring the pain of it, sobbing for everything—for our broken family, for Kip. For every goddamn dollar I’d picked up off the stage. We hold each other for hours, two sisters, safe together, adrift in a sea of cold men and colder women.
Clara will always be my sister.
I don’t care if we have different fathers. I don’t care about the color of her eyes or the alleles that would sway a DNA test. She’s my sister because I kissed her fat cheeks as a baby. She would blink up at me with those blue eyes, and I think she knew who I was to her then. I was the one holding her. I was the one changing her diaper when our mother was gone.
I blame her for that—but I also know how it feels to need love.
Clara is more than my sister. I took care of her after our mother left. I never wanted her to be alone or afraid. I never wanted her to have to take care of me.
That changes today. Once I cry and hug her until my side aches, she turns the tables. “Get back in bed. You’ll tear your stitches like that.”
I give her my best stern look. “I’m fine.”
The effect is possibly ruined by the gasp that escapes me. An arc of pain is like fire through my body.
“Bed,” she repeats, her voice hard but her hands soft as she guides me under the covers.
I close my eyes as I wait for the pain and nausea to pass. When I open them again Clara is holding a glass of water and two white pills in her palm. “No,” I say. “No more of that.”
“The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what he said. They mess with my head. I haven’t been sure if I’m awake or asleep. I wasn’t even sure if I was dead or alive.”
Clara’s eyes fill with tears. Her hand closes around the pills as her lip trembles. “Oh, Honor.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, immediately contrite. I’m still not taking the pills though.
“Don’t apologize,” she says, sniffing. “I’m the one who left you there. I can’t believe I left you. How can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad you left.” The image of Clara tied to that bed, being beaten by a belt, is one that will never leave my head. I feel sick with it.
With a sigh, she drops the pills onto the table. They roll until one falls off the edge. The other one comes to a stop. “At least have a sip of water. You need liquids. And rest.”
“I’m fine now that you’re here.” Not exactly fine, not with a million miles between me and Kip. I’m staying in his house, but there’s more distance between us now than ever. “Speaking of which, how did you know it was safe to come back?”
“I never left. Not really. You know our neighbor on the right side?”
“The one with the mullet?”
“No, the other side. The one cooking meth on that hot plate. Anyway he came and warned me about some guys poking around. It was sweet actually.”
Wait. Her expression is way too appreciative. “Please tell me you don’t have a crush on Meth Guy.”
She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t sure they were there for us. There are a lot of shady people in that place, you know. But I figured it would be safer to leave. I took the statue out of the window so if you came back before me you’d know it wasn’t safe.”
“And then you left town.” That was the plan anyway, but I’m starting to have suspicions. Especially with that faintly guilty expression on her usually open face.
“Not exactly.” She makes an exasperated sound. “I didn’t want to leave without you, okay? Is that a crime?”
“So where did you go?” Suddenly the ceiling becomes the most interesting thing in the world to her. “Clara?”
She still won’t meet my eyes. “I went looking for you, that’s all.”
Oh no. My eyes narrow. “Where would you possibly look for me?”
“I went to the Grand, okay?” The words are ripped from her. “I went there, and I know you’re going to freak out but don’t. It was fine.”
Okay, somehow I survived Byron. But I’m not so sure I can make it through this. It’s like there’s an anvil on my head. “Are you lying to me right now? Tell me you’re lying.”
A sigh. “Look, you went there like every day. But I can’t go there even once?”
“No,” I say flatly. I want to stomp around, but that would hurt a lot. More than that, I want to wrap her in a bubble, one where creepy dudes will never stare or paw at her.
“They were actually really nice.”
This only makes me more suspicious. “Who was nice?”
“Everyone! I met Lola and Candy. They were cool once they found out I was your sister. At first they were worried about Ivan seeing me, but he said I could stay as long as I needed to.”
So this is what an aneurysm feels like. Okay then. “He’s a mobster, Clara. Like Dad.”
She turns pensive. “Maybe that’s why I felt comfortable with him. Maybe growing up like we did has made us twisted or something, like dangerous guys feel safe.”
I stare at her in shock. How did she know? It had taken me forever to figure that out. And by then it was too late. I was already head over heels for a dangerous man. Already in love with his boots and his scruff and the stories he tells.
There’s something around her neck. I recognize it—but not on her.
“What’s that?” I ask.
She looks down, a faint smile on her lips. Her fingers grasp the marble cross I’d seen Kip wear. “He said it’s for me. Something my father—my real father—left behind when he… He said I could have it.”
My heart melts at the wonder in her voice. Of course she’d known she wasn’t my father’s daughter. And Kip must have told her the whole story. Or at least the PG-13 version. I’m glad Clara can have that sense of family now, even if it’s laced with betrayal and pain. At least now she knows where she came from.
I put my hand on hers. “I’m glad.” Something pricks at me. I have faint memories from the hospital and from coming home. I must have been awake enough to talk to Clara before, but the drugs make it all seem hazy now. And something is bothering me. “How did you know to trust Kip?”
“I didn’t.” She gives me a rueful smile. “I gave him hell, especially when I found out he was Byron’s brother.”
That’s my girl. “What changed your mind?”
“Well, he saved your life. Once the cops had questioned us about a hundred times, that much was clear. Even then he was demanding to see you and I was saying no. I wanted you to be fully awake and healed so you could decide for yourself if you wanted to see him.
I raise my eyebrow, a little nervous by the way she won’t meet my eyes. “Something must have happened, because I have vague memories of him in my hospital room.
Her pale cheeks turn bright pink. “You kept calling for him.”
“Oh.” Now I think I’m blushing too, imagining crying out for him. Shouldn’t I be angry at him? He lied to me. He tricked me. He also saved my life. And maybe, like Clara said, growing up like I did made me twisted or something. Maybe dangerous guys make me feel safe.
Chapter Nineteen
Over the next week I heal. And spend time with Clara. And read the book of Rudyard Kipling stories I had my sister steal from downstairs and bring to me. I even grieve for my father. He may have been twisted, but he tried to help me in the end. I believed he would have if Byron hadn’t turned on him. I had the real father I’d been longing for—but only for a few seconds. That’s who I mourn.
I do a lot in that week, but I don’t talk much with Kip.
Or rather, he doesn’t talk much to me.
I get one visit a day, and even that feels compulsory. His eyes are always shadowed, like he hasn’t been sleeping. He asks me, stiffly, if there’s anything
I need. Like he’s some kind of formal host and I’m a guest. And not his lover. Not the sister of his sister.
I don’t know if we can be close again, if I can trust him again. I’m not even sure what trust is. It’s all a dark miasma of lies, a twisted knot in my stomach. My mother’s death. My strange sisterly relationship with Kip and with Byron. Maybe it shouldn’t matter to me if we’re not blood related, but if I’d known that I never would have touched Kip—not for any amount of money. And now I’ve touched him everywhere. He’s touched me back. Too late.
I consider leaving the house. I’m not even sure where I’d go. Maybe it would be a relief to Kip to have me gone. Maybe he’s only keeping me here out of guilt for what happened.
Or because of Clara.
What if he’s disgusted by the way he saw me on that bed, naked and beaten? What if he only spent time with me because I was a stripper, because I was easy, and now that I’m lying in bed, I’m no use to him?
The next day when he comes to visit me, I’m already sitting up.
He frowns when he sees me. His eyes look haunted, but at least he’s distracted enough from all that to admonish me. “You should be lying down. You’re not fully recovered yet. If you push it—”
“Come sit by me,” I say, patting the sheet beside me.
Normally he doesn’t sit at all. One time when I asked him to, he sat on the edge of the armchair, looking so freaking uncomfortable I asked for a glass of water just so he’d have an excuse to leave. But this time I’m not going to let him off that easy.
He looks ready to refuse. God, is he actually leaner than before? Like he’s not eating either…
After a long moment he nods and sits on the edge of the bed. My stomach sinks. He really does seem disgusted. “Is something wrong?” I ask softly.
He looks surprised. Then he laughs, a little rusty. “I’m not the one who got shot.”
“Mhmm, but I’m making a full recovery over here. You, on the other hand…”
He shakes his head. “The last thing you need to worry about is me.”
“Do you want me to leave?” My heart gives a pang as I ask the question. I don’t want to leave. But I will, if he wants me to. I haven’t figured out if I can live with him.
But I’m already figuring out I can’t live without him.
“No! Jesus, Honor. You’re way too sick to be moved.”
I frown. “You make it sound like I’m dying.”
“You almost did.” His voice is rough. “I held you in my arms, watching you bleed out. Do you have any idea how much I—You can’t leave. That’s the bottom line. Don’t try to fight me on this.”
I hadn’t wanted to leave at all. But something is still wrong. “Are you—are you grossed out by me? By how I looked when you found me?” Before he can answer, I rush to add, “Because I wouldn’t be offended by that. I mean, it was awful. I hate that you saw me like that.”
He looks away. A muscle in his jaw flexes. His chest rises up and down like he’s forcing himself to be calm. But when he looks at me, he’s anything but calm. There’s fury in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about? Gross? You think I think you’re gross?”
He’s saying it like it’s totally ridiculous, but I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all. “Well, I mean…it was pretty gross.”
The marks haven’t healed. I see them every time I shower, though Clara has to help me. She winces just to look at them. I’m guessing a few of the deeper ones will leave scars, but at least eventually they’ll fade into some regular color instead of black-and-blue like now.
He’s just staring at me now. Speechless.
I’m making a mess of this, but I’m not sure how. “Look, I don’t want you to think I expect anything from you. Like a relationship or something. I know that we were just… that you were just… I know what I was,” I finish lamely.
Kip stands up, tension radiating from him. He stalks to the door, and I think he must be leaving. I open my mouth to call him back, to apologize, to beg him to stay, but then he turns on his heel. Even this far away I feel his gaze sear me.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “According to you, I’m just using you for sex. I think you’re gross because you were hurt. And I want to throw you out in the cold while you’re still recovering. Does that about sum me up?”
My voice is small. “When you put it that way, it sounds kind of bad.”
His eyes are like molten copper, metallic and in motion. He’s panting like a bull about to charge, and suddenly my words seem like red flags.
“No, Honor,” he says, taking a step forward, “I don’t want you to leave. Not ever, if it’s up to me.”
My heart pounds. “Oh,” I say, real quiet. Because oh.
Another step. “And when I looked at you tied to that bed, I wanted to rip apart every man that had helped put you there, every man that had hurt you. I wanted to take your wounds into my own body, feel the pain instead of you. Not once have I thought you were anything but beautiful.”
I swallow hard. “Kip?”
“And as for using you for sex…” He reaches the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t stop. He leans over me, one hand on either side of the headboard, his face just a foot from mine. This close his eyes are pure energy, a vortex that sucks me in and steals the air from the room. “That much is true. I want to use you for sex again and again. I never want there to come a time when I can’t use you for sex, for friendship, for every goddamn thing, because I’m in love with you. Fuck, I love you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper. It feels almost magical, like if I talk too loud, I’ll break the spell. How could he love me after everything? How could I love him? But I do.
Love doesn’t ask questions. And love doesn’t lie.
“No,” he says, pulling back.
Um… “What?”
“You don’t love me,” he says flatly. “You don’t even know me.”
* * *
Night has fallen by the time I venture outside the house. I had to wait until Clara went to sleep. Otherwise she’d worry.
It feels right to find him in the dark, where we walked holding hands, where we lay on the roof. The moon conspires with us, giving just enough light to see the lines of each other’s bodies, but not enough to see all the scars.
Kip sits on the porch railing, looking at the yard with its dark morning glory blooms. He doesn’t turn as I come out. He doesn’t move when I walk closer. But he knows it’s me. “I suppose it would be useless to order you back to bed,” he says without heat.
“You could try.”
He slants me a look. “Why do I get the feeling you’d enjoy that?”
“Because you know me.” I lower my voice, pretending to be serious. “You know everything about me.”
“Think this is a joke?”
“I’m not laughing. I’m just… You can’t make these vague proclamations and expect me to just accept it. If you didn’t love me—” I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. “I’d understand that. But you do love me, and it feels like a miracle. I can’t just pretend you didn’t say that to me. Unless…unless you didn’t mean it.”
He raises my chin with his knuckles, so I have to meet his eyes. “I meant it. Don’t ever doubt that you’re loved. Don’t doubt I’d do anything for you.”
“Then be with me,” I whisper. Both in body and spirit. He’s shutting me out like this, and he knows it. It hurts. It hurts more than the lashes of Byron’s belt.
He swings his legs back over the balcony so he’s facing me. A hand runs down my arm. “You really should be in bed. Not my bed either. You should be far away from me.”
“You keep warning me away. But I know the kind of man you are. The man who wanted to help me when no one else did. The man who saved my life. And you gave up the bounty to do it—”
“Fuck the bounty,” he says, harsh and loud. The word bounty echoes off the brick and wood of the porch. There’s a lake beyond the metal fence. I see it peeking f
rom between the trees, winking in the moonlight, beckoning. I feel suddenly tired, as if the only rest can be found underwater. I remember the poem, about the key being underground. I understand it more now, better than I could have before, how someone can want death. Not in a desperate scrabble, not violent or quick—just a slow drift to the bottom of a pond.
I look at this man in front of me, so intense, so angry. At himself?
And my sister inside, relentlessly cheerful after having lost her entire life. The father she knew. And the one who abandoned her before birth. She’s lost everything.
I’ve failed them both, Kip and Clara. I’ve failed myself. I thought I was looking into the barrel of a gun before. I counted each breath as I took Clara and ran, knowing any one of them might be my last. I faced down a lunatic and got shot in the process. But none of it hurt as badly as this desolate peace.
Kip’s eyes search mine, dark and knowing. “You deserve better,” he murmurs.
My voice is raw when I answer. “You’re all I want.”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, I see his determination, the new openness. There are no brambles, no thorns. There is only a wide expanse, an endless earth.
“You were there,” I say softly. “How?”
“I told you my father worked security for yours. I was just a kid, roaming the grounds when I wasn’t allowed to. I saw you playing. You looked lonely. You looked beautiful. Even then, I think I loved you.”
“When did you realize it was me?” I ask. It hurts a little that he didn’t tell me. We both look different now, older, but at some point he clearly realized.
“I always knew,” he says. “That’s what I meant up in the room. I always knew it was you. That first night when I saw you onstage and in the private booth, I knew exactly who you were.”
My stomach turns over. Maybe it shouldn’t matter that he knew who I was. He could pull my hair and make me fuck his boot if I were a stranger. That would have been easier than this. Knowing what I was to him—almost family—and letting me debase myself in front of him.
“I hate what I had to do in that motel room, but I don’t regret doing it. Byron has always been…off. As he got older, it got worse. Complaints from other kids. Dead animals in the yard. We got him some counseling, and I went off to the military, too busy with not getting my ass shot to worry about what was happening back home.”