“Everyone is made up of little contradictory pieces and you should never judge another person’s decisions because you don’t know the pieces they have to choose from.”
‘I SHOULD GO and check on him,’ Xander says, standing up quickly as something shatters. The sound of Bronson in the gym is riotous even from the couch I’m perched on in the living room. His roar is animalistic, raw, and pained, and I’m being drawn to it. It matches my insides. I want to go in there and hold him close. Have him hold me. Share our pain and anger and helplessness. But I’m just not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve never seen him angry before and this is more like a manic blind rage. A flicked switch in his head. I wince when I hear a howl of fury, followed by a smash and a hiss of pain.
Stacey touches Xander’s forearm, subtly persuading him to sit back down beside her and wait. In any other situation, she would arm herself and join his cause or. . . I don’t know. But tonight, she isn’t. I’ve never seen her so. . . passive.
‘Leave him,’ Clay orders, leaning back into the single recliner. Aurora sits quietly on the armrest beside him. She is usually such a big personality; her lack of comments feel uncomfortable. I blink at her. At her appearance. She has just been dragged from her bed at 1 a.m. and still looks like CEO Barbie. With her long dark hair pinned back neatly and her black column dress somehow wrinkle free, she looks like she is on her way to an executive job in the city. She must be a witch.
‘Leave your brother. He needs to blow off steam. You know what happens when he doesn’t,’ Butch states, positioning himself on the chair opposite mine, offering me all his attention. ‘You should get some sleep, Cassidy.’ Leaning forward onto his knees, he says, ‘It’s nearly two. You don’t need to be here when Jimmy arrives.’
‘I’m staying right here,’ I mutter, my eyes downcast, hiding the blatant accusation in them. A feeling I can’t drown. It is all their fault. It’s Butch’s fault for sharing his sons as if they were commodities. It’s Jimmy’s fault for existing.
I want Max.
Pulling my knees up onto the couch, I hold them in close and rest my cheek on top. Forcing a kind of mindlessness, I will myself to focus exclusively on my breaths in and out. I attempt not to let my mind wander to a future without Max. Where I raise this baby with his family and mine but without him.
Frick. Good attempt, Cassidy.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, settling into the red fabric of my dress. For every moment he is locked away, imprisoned in a cell that lacks warmth and softness and me, I’m fearful that his gentleness will die and the dark will take hold. Dig its claws in deep and pierce his heart and mine. I’ll feel that cold room when I place my hand on his empty side of the bed. When shivers rush the length of his spine, they will also find mine.
I swear I can feel them now.
When Bronson stops hurling things around the gym, the house is left in a chilling state of quiet. The clock ticks intrusively and mockingly loud. While we may all want to fill the space and time with conversation, talking is exhausting. And the silence is noisy enough.
I shoot up with a start as the tall, tightly wound form of Bronson Butcher appears, his face flushed from exertion, his chest weighted with heavy breaths. As he clenches his fists, my eyes drop to the ripped skin at his knuckles. My core twists.
Max.
I’m reminded of Max and how much he needed me a month ago – his knuckles and face bludgeoned from boxing. How I’d turned him away. How the nights between this one and the next time I see him, he’ll be dealing with his darkness alone. Just like that night. I cover my mouth quickly, forcing a sob down my throat.
I’m on my feet before I realise I’m moving. Dragging Bronson over to the kitchen sink, I pull his hands under the faucet and begin cleaning them. I focus on the butcherbird tattoo on his hand, scrubbing it over and over again. Max.
Grabbing the first aid box that I made and left beneath the sink when I moved in, I then wrap both his fists in gauze. Sighing, I slowly gaze up at him, silently sharing with him my pain and need to help Max when I’m helpless and unable to. He shows nothing, projecting only a steel-like expression that would’ve scared the frick out of me if I didn’t know him. He pulls me against his chest, and I welcome his embrace, throwing my arms around his waist and letting another single tear slide out.
‘It should have been me,’ he whispers hoarsely for only me to hear. I don’t analyse that statement as I already know that Max has something to do with Marco’s disappearance. What settles like a boulder in the pit of my belly is how very little I care. It’s heavy, that truth – I don’t care. I don’t know what pieces Max had to choose from when he made that decision. Whatever the decision.
I don’t care.
All I want now is Max in my bed and in my arms so that I can hold him tonight. And every other night of his life, even when he has to choose the pieces that pull him into dark places and make him do bad things – especially then.
My breathing shudders out. ‘It shouldn’t be either of you.’
The front door suddenly swings open and the formidable presence of Jimmy Storm appears, flanked by two other men, one clearly a guard and the other a tall, slim nervous looking man with a briefcase. I let go of Bronson and take a step towards them, my eyes barking questions while my lips purse to stop from verbalising them.
Jimmy surveys the room quickly, taking us all in.
‘What have you found out?’ Butch addresses the beanpole of a man.
He rubs at his sleepy eyes. ‘I am going to see him tomorrow-‘
‘They have nothing,’ Jimmy says dismissively.
‘Then why did they take him?’ I bite out, rendering the entire room silent. Butch and Clay both rise to their feet and oh God, I probably shouldn’t have said that. Or like, maybe should’ve used a different tone or sent a text or maybe a polite email. . . I sink back and hit Bronson’s chest just as big, colourfully inked arms go around my shoulders protectively. When Jimmy turns his gaze on me, my heart starts to thrash around between my ribs. These dangerous men are all unreadable, easily hiding their agendas. Their loyalties.
‘Cassidy.’ Jimmy’s polite and yet disembodied tone seizes my spine. ‘They took him because they have mistaken him for someone else.’
Liar.
Liar. Liar. Liar. My eyes must chant that word because a twitch hits Jimmy’s lip. I don’t know what that twitch means. That I should stay quiet like Stacey and Aurora, perhaps? Or maybe he likes my strength? He used to like me. I remember months ago not being able to fathom how a girl like me could cross a man like Jimmy Storm, but now I know exactly how to. And I’d happily cross him if I thought it would free the pieces of me locked away in that jail cell. I know what Jimmy Storm is.
He is no politician.
No philanthropist.
Mafioso.
I can still hear that old lady’s grief-stricken voice crying out for ‘her Marco’ and I don’t blame Max. No. I blame Jimmy Storm. And this must be the pregnancy hormones – must be – because these are unsafe thoughts to have. I curl my lips together to stop from saying anything further, but I’m scared he can read the threat etched onto my tight foolish features. I glance at my feet. And I think if Bronson wasn’t holding me, I might actually tremble so hard my knees gave out.
‘Take her to her room,’ Clay orders Xander.
No.
‘She’ll leave when she’s ready,’ Bronson states smoothly. Clay’s jaw muscles pulse as he squeezes his teeth together. A tangible energy crackles between the two eldest Butcher brothers.
‘That’s enough from both of you,’ Butch snaps. ‘Listen more and talk less!’
‘Clay, there is no need for that, my boy,’ Jimmy says, his voice calm and yet dominant. ‘She represents Max.’ He fixes me with a stare, his narrowed brown eyes boring into mine with a message. Be careful. Be smart. ‘Don’t you?’
Swallowing, I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘The, the issue is’ –the nervous guy cuts straight in, perhaps trying to blanket the embers flying across the room from one glare to another– ‘that he had a handgun on his person. That is going to be a problem. I will go see him tomorrow morning to discuss his options. Needless to say, we will get him out on bail while he awaits his trial, but I imagine the bail will be substantial. He has the means and could leave the country.’
All I hear is that Max will be out on bail soon.
I hold on to that like it is my last breath.
