And the idea of killers searching for Krew and me—that someone was willing to pay a lot of money to have us murdered… It sounded too bizarre to be true. I was a stylist, working in a high-end salon. I did hair for God’s sake. I didn’t hang with anyone other than Maya. I was a homebody. I didn’t go out.
And Krew… Actually, I didn’t know what Krew did for a job. Was fighting his thing? Or did he work elsewhere?
Then there was Decker’s female friend, Sabrina. He called her his handler and she called him bossman, which he hated that title. She had said the real targets were Maya and Jess.
That last piece of detail actually explained some things, which happened a few days before the fight. Like how Maya had packed a much bigger bag than she usually did for her overnight stays with Jess. Or how she had mimicked my hair cut and color. And let’s not forget how I found the front door to our apartment wide open at the crack of dawn the morning after the fight.
Could all this be coincidental? Was Maya innocent in all this?
I slowly got up, went to the door of my room and leaned in. Putting my ear to the wood, I listened for any voices, moans or footsteps. All I heard was the silence of the house.
Phew! I really needed to go. Having to time my trips to the bathroom to avoid the guys was the hardest part of my self-imposed isolation.
I opened the door, and immediately stepped back, surprised to see Krew standing in the doorway of his room. He looked… tired, maybe dejected. His eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders slumped. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I stayed silent.
“I made breakfast,” he eventually said before he turned away from me.
“Thanks,” I said, finally discovering who was making food and leaving it in the fridge. As much as I wanted to reach for him, I refrained from moving. I couldn’t. Even after what we shared in the motel room back in Chicago—which I saw now was wrong of me to initiate—I still couldn’t look at Krew and not see his brother.
Just as his door was about to close, shutting him away from me, his name flew out of my mouth. “Krew?”
The wash of emotion in his tired eyes had my heart lurching. And yet, my feet remained firmly anchored to the floor boards, as conflict warred within me.
“I truly do appreciate that you took the time to cook for me… and Decker.” Which was true. There were usually two plates in the fridge.
He rubbed at his eyes before looking tiredly at me. “It was my pleasure. And I don’t mind.” Krew’s voice cracked.
He was about to close the door when I slipped into the hallway. “Can I do anything for you?” I narrowed the gap between us a little more and hoped he wouldn’t close the door in my face. The dim bulb overhead cast a yellowish hue on Krew’s skin. Dark circles framed his eyes—no doubt he hadn’t slept in days, or at least not well.
He shook his head. “No, I’m good.”
“Are you?” Why did I have the feeling Decker was the cause of Krew’s wounded expression?
Between the two men, Decker had always been the hothead. His mouth worked faster than his brain. He had a knack for shoving his big fat foot right into it—especially when things didn’t go his way. A lot about Decker might’ve changed, but I doubted that had.
Krew, on the other hand, was the thinker—always processing before he reacted to a situation, even on the simplest matters.
If I had to sum them up, they were the yin and the yang. Or maybe they were at one time, and I was completely off. Granted, I hadn’t exactly taken the time to figure out who they were now.
“Don’t worry about it, Regi.” His words snapped me out of my thoughts. Krew dropped his attention to the floor. “Remember, we aren’t your problem.”
Ouch. That hurt.
Krew’s withdrawal unsettled me in ways I couldn’t describe. While I was pissed at being put in this position, he was also a target. Furthermore, he didn’t deserve my wrath for being biologically linked to my rapist. No matter how hard it was for me to look at him straight in the eyes.
His dejection was killing my insides and my internal struggle to remain distant cracked.
Krew turned his back to me, closing the door between us.
“Please,” I whimpered, not sure what I wanted to say to him. Apologize? But not to his retreating back. When I placed my hand on his bicep, he stiffened like a board, as though my touch was poison. “Sorry.” I pulled my hand away.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s just that… I thought you hated us—hated me.” He looked over his shoulder and the truth of his words slashed another protective layer from my heart.
“I don’t hate you, Krew—never could hate you.” Which was the truth. “It’s just that…” How did I explain this to him without divulging what had happened to me?
Your brother did…
I quickly shook off the horrid memory edging into my mind. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to bring up the past—not right now. Maybe not ever.
