Chapter 7

ZANDER

Iwake with a jolt. My heart racing and face sweaty from the nightmare. From the monsters and bad men who were chasing me. And the screams. They were so loud, so scary—they seemed so real. The last one begging for help was the worst.

I blink my eyes. Over and over. And the nightmare slowly goes away.

The bed creaks when I sit up. My throat is dry and this room is hot. Water. It’s all I want and it’s against my dad’s rules to keep any in my room because of the cockroaches. I think about sneaking to the kitchen to get some from the tap, but I’m not allowed to leave my room after I’ve been put to bed.

Never. My dad’s hand reaching for his looped belt. The sting when it hits my bare bottom. The threat of it keeps me from breaking the rules.

But maybe they’re asleep. Maybe Dad’s put enough of that heaven in his arm that he’s on the couch in that kind of sleep where his eyes are partway open but he’s really not awake. If that’s the case, then Mom will be asleep in her room, because then that will mean the other men who come over will be gone too. The ones who sit with Dad and his lighters and crooked spoons and icky needles, because she’ll only go to sleep after they leave.

Because then she’ll know I’ll be safe.

I cough, try to swallow to wet my throat, but it doesn’t work. And now all of this thinking about water is making me have to go pee.

Like go pee really bad.

With my stuffed doggy tight to my chest, fingers pressing on the lumps in its stuffing, I get out of bed and tiptoe to the door. Right when my hand twists the knob, a scream fills the hallway. It’s loud and horrible and sounds just like my dream did and scares me. I freeze, but it goes on and on and on.

Mommy.

Instantly, she’s all I can think about, the only one I worry about. Tears blur my eyes as I rush down the hall. It’s the smell that hits me first. That strange scent like when I get a nosebleed, but this time it’s not just in my nose—it’s everywhere.

When I enter the family room, my dad is standing near the front door. He looks funny, like something is wrong. His hair is in his face and his shirt is dirty with big, dark splotches all over it. He looks up and his face is scary mean, and he’s out of breath like when he gets some of the “bad heaven” that makes him go kind of crazy.

I shrink back. I don’t want to get in trouble for breaking his rules. Especially when he has this look on his face.

“Zander.” My name is a whisper. There’s a gurgle of sound. A whimper in pain.

The fear of my dad is forgotten the minute I notice my mom on the floor at the end of the couch. All I can see is her arm stretched out above her head and her face from the nose up.

“Mom.” I say it once, but her name repeats in my head over and over as I run to her and drop to my knees. There’s blood everywhere. It’s all I can see, all I can think of as I grab her hand and tell her I’m here. My tears fall on her cheek. They wash away a spot of the blood there.

And holes. There are holes everywhere on her. Little holes marked in red. Big holes with even bigger red. On her chest and her tummy and her arms and her throat.

She moves her head to look at me. Her hair falls off her face and I see it. The handle of the scissors looks funny standing up out of the side of her neck.

Her previous warnings not to run with scissors flicker through my mind. Did she run with them? She couldn’t have. She’s lying down.

Something’s not right. Can’t be. My brain isn’t working, my body frozen in fear.

“Dad!” I remember he’s in the room. Look up to get help. But he’s right there. Looming above me. Like the monster in my dream. And I see the spots on his shirt are dark red. Just like the dots of it over the skin of his arms. His hands.

Just like blood all over my mom.

She gasps. I think she says “No,” but I don’t know because it sounds like she’s underwater.

My whole body shakes. My eyes blink over and over, but I can’t make this nightmare go away.

Get up. Call the police. Get help. Save her. Save me. Mom. Oh my God, Mom. I need Band-Aids. Fix her cuts. Stop the bleeding. It will help.

Band-Aids. Go get them to help her.

But I don’t move. Can’t.

“If you tell anyone you saw me, I’ll do the same thing to you.” His words shock me. But I know that tone. Know when he uses it, he means business. The sting of his belt on my bare bottom is a constant reminder to listen to him.

The door shuts with a slam.

I need to help her. Have to. My hand on the scissors.

The blood like a river. The silver stained red.

A gasp of breath. Blank eyes staring up at me. Her hand limp in mine.

If you tell anyone you saw me, I’ll do the same thing to you.

It doesn’t matter.

I won’t tell anyone.

I don’t think I could speak if I wanted to.

“Where the fuck am I?” Something startles me awake as the dream ends, disorients me, confuses me. I take quick stock of things: It’s dark outside now and the towel from my shower earlier is still wrapped around my waist. I shove up out of the bed, swing my legs over the edge, and scrub my hands over my face to give myself a second to deal. And to give me time for a running start to escape if this is the dream and that was my reality.

My pulse pounds. My head is so fucked by the nightmare it’s not even funny. The breath I blow out doesn’t help. The repeated fucks I say out loud to the empty room don’t either.

I’ve dreamed that nightmare so many times I know it by heart. Because it’s not a dream. It’s my memory. My childhood reality. So perfectly clear. Like I’m back there. The smell. The fear. The sound of my mom’s voice. So damn bittersweet. My mom’s last words, my last memory of her . . . is my worst memory of her. Time hasn’t faded any of it. Time hasn’t healed old wounds.

Fuck no.

But why now? Why did the nightmare come back after so many years without it?

And then I remember the one part of the dream that’s new. The scissors. The hilt in her neck. The slippery feel of it beneath my fingers. Her whimper in pain as I pulled on it. The gush of blood. How I tried to save her.

And ended up killing her.

I roll my shoulders. Take in a deep breath. Rationalize in my adult mind that the little boy trying to save her didn’t really kill her. The autopsy may have said that the cause of death was her bleeding out when the scissors lodged in her jugular vein were removed, but I know deep down she was dead before that.

But knowing it and accepting it are two entirely different things. And accepting it and not letting it fuck you up is even harder.

I nod my head and take a deep breath, knowing that’s why I’m here: to deal with the past at last so I can make things right with those who gave me a future.

And it’s all because of the goddamn box.

The one delivered to my house out of the blue weeks ago that stole the peace I’d found years ago. The one I made the mistake of opening. The words on the first packet of paper I picked up knocked me flat on my ass. Causing me to question everything I’ve ever known. About myself. My memories. And the fact that others in my life knew the truth when I didn’t.

That fucking packet of paper: a copy of my mom’s autopsy report. The truths it held shocked the shit out of me. Brought memories and images that I’d repressed as a child to come back with a vengeance and fuck me up. Those truths had been much too harsh for a seven-year-old boy to accept. I’d moved forward never knowing there were blank spots in my memory that needed to be filled: my hands on the scissors and the final sound she made when I pulled on them.

Does it really matter all this time later? Yes, because if I couldn’t remember something so goddamn significant, what else am I not remembering? What else has been kept from me?

Fucking ghosts I thought were dead and buried are now back with a vengeance.

That’s why I shoved the autopsy report in the box, taped the flaps of cardboard back up—to try to pretend like the life I’ve been living isn’t built on a lie.

Like the memories aren’t bullshit.

And now that box sits in the corner over there and taunts me. Makes me wonder if the rest of the stuff in there is just as jarring as the first thing I saw.

Curiosity—it’s more dangerous than fear.

It’s the reason why I’m here.

And while I’d like to be angry at Colton for firing me and forcing me away from the track, this isn’t on him. Not in the least. I’m man enough to admit that.

To myself anyway.

Distance has allowed me to see that. The step back Colton forced me to take, the time to reflect with a clear head without the distractions I was drowning myself in—alcohol, women, adrenaline—allowed me to realize the truth.

And now I’m left not only to deal with the ticking time bomb of a box in the corner, but to figure out how to right the wrong choices I made.

Hell yes, I could take the easy way out—torch the box in a bonfire and choke on my pride and call Colton to apologize. Stifle the curiosity and take back the brutal words I said when I was pissed at the fucking world and just needed an out. Anger is the one emotion that makes your mouth work faster than your mind, and you better bet your ass my mouth was running.

But that wouldn’t solve shit. I’d still be fucked in the head and apologies are just a Band-Aid placed on an open wound when you cut someone as deeply as I cut Colton.

I know from experience—they don’t always stop the bleeding.

“And that’s why you’re here, Donavan,” I mutter to myself as I flop back on the bed, the sight of the ceiling much better for my psyche than the taunting cardboard box. The one I need to man up and open. Prove that without the distractions, I can deal with it. That its contents won’t fuck me up any more than I already am.

Besides, I can’t chase the ghosts away for good if I don’t face them head-on.

And yet my first week in PineRidge is over and it still sits there. Unopened. Untouched. The question is, what else is in there? My curiosity calls for me to open it. My mental stability tells me to waste a whole roll of duct tape on it and seal it off forever.

Fucking Christ. I’ve dealt with this shit already. Dealt with it as a kid by crawling inside my own mind and not speaking for months. Dealt with it through endless hours of therapy and countless nights curled up in a ball, afraid to go to the bathroom for fear of what I might find again. Leading to a wet bed and a fucked-up head.

And then when my dad did come back for me, I had to deal with the chaos he brought with him again. The gun he held. Rylee, my counselor back then, protecting me at all costs. The taste of fear in my mouth. The tiny bit of desire for him to win so maybe I would die and could see my mom again. Then the gunshot. More blood again. A policeman standing over his body.

And then the freedom in knowing he could never come for me again. The fear that ended.

So yeah, I dealt with it all right. Kind of don’t have a choice when you’re eight and all alone in this big, bad world.

Who am I kidding? I’m still dealing with it every day. And if the first thing I pulled from the box messed me up so much I was willing to throw everything important to me away, what happens when I open it again and discover more things I can’t cope with?

But that’s the point, dumbass. To come here, deal with my shit, and prove to myself I’m the man I know I am—the man that Colton helped make me. Only then can I go back home and redeem myself. To my adoptive parents, to my crew, to the fans.

“Fuck, this is fucked,” I groan as I bring a forearm to cover my eyes when I hear the front door slam. Followed by the pad of footsteps. A giggle that throws me. Then the squeak of that damn bathroom door. And the whole reason I went and slept on Smitty’s boat—the sleepless nights with a beer in hand watching the phosphorus light up the water and the tinkering with mechanical shit I have no business tinkering with—to get some space and perspective on why I’m here in the first place—just flew out the damn window.

Getty.

The old pipes in the house creak. The telltale sound that she’s taking a shower. And a shower means she’s naked. Goddamn, if the image of her standing in the hallway naked except for those mismatching socks that first night we met doesn’t come to mind. Not like it’s gone very far from my thoughts to begin with.

And yet I told Darcy we were cool with rooming together. How did I think that was a good idea? My hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you theory—room with a woman and then maybe I could avoid the temptation of all the others—isn’t working too well for me now.

Daily reminders of her naked curves definitely don’t help.

Not to mention I went and kissed her. Kissed her when I had no business kissing her, because I thought maybe if I got it out of my system, I’d be done and over thinking about it. Yeah. Like that had a chance of happening the minute she made that little sound in the back of her throat that made every part of me want to lay her down and get to know what other sounds she makes.

But more than that, I shouldn’t have kissed her after the way she jumped when I grabbed her arm to stop her from walking past me. That in itself tells me she’s here to deal with her own shit, and kissing an asshole like me isn’t going to help in the least.

I’ve seen flinches like that before. I lived the first seven years of life watching my mom do the same exact thing. Jump over nothing. Shrink into a corner to be out of the way.

Getty’s not my mom, though. She doesn’t need to be saved. She obviously saved herself.

Get that through your head, Zander, and leave her the fuck alone in all aspects.

You’re roommates. You’re both dealing with shit. Sleeping together—because let’s face it, that would definitely not be a hardship if the way she kisses is any indication—isn’t going to fix either of you. It would just complicate matters when they’re complicated enough as it is.

But fuck, is it tempting.

Lost in thoughts of her, I jump when my door suddenly flings open. Getty is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, cheeks flushed. And fully clothed. So obviously my thoughts of her being in the shower were purely for my own sexually frustrated benefit.

She flicks on the switch just inside the door. Light floods the room.

“And the wonder boy has come back from his stint as Popeye!” she says with dramatic flair as she waltzes in, catching me off guard.

“What can I do for you, Getty?”

“Do for me?” She laughs, her eyes moving wildly around the room before she beelines straight for my dresser. “You know what you can do for me, Mander?” she says over her shoulder and with a bit of contempt. She picks up some racing magazines I have stacked on the desk, lifts them a few inches, and then drops them back down with a thud. The top one slides to the side; the bottom one is askew. “You can stop making everything so damn perfect. You can stop lining up your shit on the bathroom counter so it’s all perfectly straight. When you empty the damn dishwasher, you can stop making the forks in the drawer sit perfectly on top of each other. Lined up. You can—”

“Getty?” She’s going postal on me. While I’ve been with enough emotional women that her display doesn’t completely rattle me, something about her acting like this registers on my radar.

“Hmm?” She says it like she has not a care in the world. Maybe she’s not frantic after all. Maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing—and that’s even scarier. Also intriguing.

“What are you doing?” My curiosity is definitely piqued. I don’t mind her touching my things. I invaded her privacy first. Her paintings were ten times more personal than my cologne and magazines, and yet I ask because I’m fascinated over what has caused her to storm into my bedroom like hell on wheels and start ranting.

“Perfection is overrated,” she states as she picks up a folded shirt from the top of the dresser and tosses it carelessly onto the chair beside it. While I know she’s referring to my stuff and how I prefer everything to be in its place, the sound in her voice makes me think she’s talking about a lot more than just organization.

“Good thing I’m far from fucking perfect, then.”

“That makes two of us,” she says with a bit of a giggle, mood changing now that she’s done whatever she set out to do. Turning around, and for the first time since coming into my room, she locks eyes with me. There’s something off about her, something I can’t place, but I know the minute she notices what I’m wearing.

Or rather, not wearing.

Her eyes widen, then roll as she throws her head back and laughs in disbelief. “Seriously? This again? I mean I may not know much, but I know that’s more than above average in size.” Her giggle fills the room as she motions her hand out in front of her and gestures to my dick, bobbing her head for emphasis. When she lifts her gaze back up from the overtly long stare at my package, it’s then that I notice her eyes are a bit glassy. Realize her last words were a tad slurred.

Well, shit. Seems Getty has had a few to drink.

I fight the grin on my lips, her compliment boosting my ego, but the sight of her tipsy is even better.

“Don’t think I can’t see you laughing at me, wonder boy. Do you really think I’m going to fall for your bullshit again? Beautiful paintings, Socks,” she says, mimicking my voice. I can’t help but laugh. “. . . then run away. I don’t want to kiss you, Socks. Kiss me and run away to a boat. A boat? What are you, Captain Jack Sparrow? And now? Now you probably planned this so the towel conveniently slips off so I fall at your feet. And then what? We’re gonna sleep together and then you’ll run away again?” She steps forward and right into my space, finger poking my bare chest. “Dream on, Mander.”

And while her acting bit is pretty damn comical, it’s got nothing on the image she’s put in my head of her on her knees and the towel at my feet and her lips around my . . . Fuck. Stop thinking about it. This towel won’t hide shit if I’m flying half-mast from the thought.

“First Popeye and then Captain Jack? Every woman’s fantasy.” I laugh. “You been drinking tonight, Getty?” She sways a little when she shakes her head, and I hold on to her shoulders before she falls full-court press into me. She shrugs out of my grip immediately, but not in the startled way she did the other day. More bothered because she doesn’t want any help.

“Maybe.” Her grin tells me definitely, but I let it slide. “Just a little. Liam wanted me to settle in on the other side of the bar, watch the game, be a local. So I did. And it was fun. So screw Ethan. Screw him and his A lady would never be caught drinking bullshit. I did. So what would he think about that?”

Ethan? The name throws me. My quick reply fades as I focus on the name and how it reveals a tiny piece of her past that she guards so closely. A part of me wants to ask more, question her when she’s more apt to talk . . . and while I may have no problem skirting the line of morality, this is one line I won’t cross.

“Nothing’s wrong with a few drinks and watching the game.” I play it safe. Prefer to let her business stay her own. No fair taking advantage of someone in any capacity when she’s drunk. “You should have told me. I could’ve used a beer or two and would’ve liked to catch the game.”

“I thought you were busy sailing the seven seas or something.” She snorts when she laughs and it’s fucking adorable.

“Not hardly. You should’ve asked.” What are you doing, Zander? Thought you were going to try to steer clear of her.

She looks at me for a second, eyes narrowed, as thoughts visibly war across her face before she walks to the window. She looks out to the lights in the bay for a few moments before turning back around. “Sorry, but that might have complicated things.”

She shifts her eyes to mine when she says the words, a lift of one eyebrow and a purse of her lips to reinforce her sarcasm. We stand in silence, letting her taunt ricochet in the space between us, building tension with each passing second.

“Define complicated.” I can’t resist. Know I shouldn’t push the buttons I don’t want pushed, but fuck if I don’t like tipsy Getty a whole helluva lot.

Her smile is fast and devious as she steps toward me, and I fucking love it. “Complicated,” she says as she walks right up to me again without hesitation and lifts onto her tiptoes so that her mouth is right at my ear when I lean down, “would be if I kissed you right now.”

Fucking Christ. I’m standing in a towel, can feel the heat of her breath on my ear and her tits brush against my chest when she breathes in, and she goes and says that? I must be off my game, because there’s that split second where we both freeze, both know we want it to happen, but I don’t think I could stop at just a kiss.

Hell no. Not right now. Not with the bed behind me and that playful dare off her lips. Not with her drinking. Not with my promise to myself.

But hell if she’s not making things painfully hard. In all areas.

She retreats a few steps, eyes still locked on mine, like a slightly different woman stands before me from the one I’m used to. The mismatched knee-high socks may be the same, but the defiant smirk on her lips, the flushed cheeks, and the eyes full of life are all different. There’s a newfound confidence about her right now. A lack of inhibition. Her constant guard has relaxed. A hint of the real her that she hides beneath whatever bullshit she’s dealing with is peeking through.

“You didn’t answer,” she says, and she’s right. There’s no way I can, because hell if she’s not making complicated look welcome.

“Is that what you want?” I’ll play her game, answer her question with a question. With her eyes trained on me, I lean back and grab a pair of gym shorts from the bed. Her gaze flickers down to watch as I slide them on under my towel before letting it fall. Now I can get that earlier image out of my head. At least we’re on a bit more of an even playing field. But the one I really want to be on is the horizontal one behind me.

“I want a lot of things. . . .” Damn. The way she says that—throaty, full of invitation—causes a chill at the base of my spine.

“You and me both, Socks.”

“I don’t want to like you, you know.” She tries to stifle the yawn but fails miserably.

“I don’t like me either lately, so no worries.” The admission is out of my mouth without thought. Her head jogs back and forth at it, eyes narrowing in a way that causes a little crease in her forehead.

“What do you—whoa!” That carefree laugh of hers fills the room again—breaking the moment—as she holds her hand to her head. “Did you feel that? The room just moved.” Her hushed whisper makes me laugh too, thankful for the interruption.

“It didn’t move at all, but you’re probably going to want to go lie down.”

“Oh, is that what I’m supposed to do?” She’s looking at me with eyes widened in question, lips pursed in an O shape, and surprise written all over her face.

Innocent. Trusting. Beautiful. Time to step back. Regain that distance.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Zander. No one gets to tell me what to do ever again.” She crosses her arms and gives me a death glare that’s so damn cute I want to laugh at her. And then she sways. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“Good idea.” I follow her out of my bedroom door and watch her open hers. “I’ll go get you some Advil.”

I grab two pills and when I shut the medicine cabinet, my eyes veer to the bathroom countertop. To my deodorant and lotion and hair gel all lined up in a perfect little row against the wall.

Her words come back to me. Bug me. Make me wonder if they’re another hint at the life she lived before this cottage. I walk halfway down the hall before stopping, shaking my head, and going back to the bathroom. Not certain why I’m doing it other than that I know what it’s like to have a trigger—a thing to remind you of something you’d rather forget—I knock over my deodorant onto its side and slide my gel out of line.

I stare at them for a beat. Question why I’m even bothering. For the same reason you’re bringing her Advil. Because you care.

Fuck.

When I knock on her door, it swings inward and she’s dead center on her bed, sound asleep. There’s something so peaceful about her. Something that makes me want to just sit here and stare at her, because it’s kind of calming.

Jesus, Zander. You’re really doing well on the distance thing, aren’t you?