“That’s fucking stupid, Ally.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll kill you. You and I both know it and then he’ll come for Brett and Brandon.”
I look out the window and fold my arms. I’m not arguing about this with anyone. “I know what I’m doing, Whit. Hiding hasn’t worked.”
“Only because you were found wherever you’ve been. Not your fault or mine. There’s only one person to blame for that and you’re making another fucking bargain with him?”
He comes to my side and makes me look at him, probably attempting to get me to see a sense I’m not willing to accept anymore. The only way this ends is with Franco dead, and if that’s what needs to happen then this is my last and only shot.
“It’s done, Whit. One way or another, I’m finishing this. If you want to help, get Brandon and Brett out of here for a while so I don’t have to worry about them.”
He throws his hands up in the air, scowls his displeasure. I don’t fucking care anymore. I’m doing this, and if he wants to get in a damn argument about it that’s fine with me.
“You got yourself away and now you want to go put yourself right back in front of him. You’re a fucking lunatic,” he shouts.
Two can play at that game.
“Probably,” I spit. “But as and when you’ve had someone rape you because of a fucking decision you made as a kid, you can have a fucking say. Until then, back the hell off!” Both of us stare, both of us getting mad as hell about something that has nothing to do with him other than me running for help when I was a kid. I’m not one anymore. Certainly not after having my insides ripped out by the very family that is trying to kill me because of my actions.
I swallow, blow out a breath, and look back out the window. “I can’t do it anymore, Whit. I just can’t. Every fucking second of my life is ruled by the next man that walks around the corner, by the next moment that might be our last.” I hug myself, glare at passing traffic. “And you know what? The only time I’ve felt safe enough to just breathe and not care for a few hours was in Malachi’s bed. I felt safe there, still feel safe there.” My voice softens, the feel of that safety making me quiet and small in a room full of everything that is not me. “He gives me that, Whit. Maybe not forever, and maybe you’re right, maybe he’ll get bored of the street trash and do something to prove him the asshole you seem to think he is, but for now he’s what I need.”
Need?
The feeling courses through me – in real time. No strange pills guiding me – no fucking pulling me to him. It reminds me of his hand on my thigh, of my hand on his chest, of the pain that should still be flaring all over my skin yet is somehow providing me with strength. “I do. Need him, I mean.” I shouldn’t have let that out of my mouth, but I have and now I’m thinking about what it suggests more than the reason I said it in the first place. “For lots of reasons, most of which I don’t understand myself. Who would? He’s hot and cold and everything and then nothing but fear and concern for me. But he’s not, you know? He’s more than that. He’s tired of the world he’s in. You don’t know, Whit. You weren’t there, didn’t have to hold him and find a way through that moment, and if I can give him one minute of peace, or even every fucking minute of peace because that seems to be what this bargain is to stop that happening again, then that’s good with me.”
I sigh, suddenly too tired to carry on anymore but needing to now. Doesn’t help that tears are in my eyes for some reason. Not flowing. Just bubbling there, as if all this – every hour of time I’ve either been in or lost – is a wash of emotion and reaction. “I’ll do that for him, Whit. I want to do that. For him, and for me. That’s what taking care of someone is. It’s holding them and letting them know they mean something. That they have a point, a reason to exist. That they’re worthy of being loved and that you need that love returning from no one else but them.” That’s what family is, or was before my family was ripped away from me.
I lower my gaze, look at a gilt frame housing a picture of a generation of Jones’s in some plantation somewhere. “And now it’s just Brett and Brandon and I will not have them in danger anymore.” Not anymore. “It is what it is, Whit.” I pick it up, searching for lines and features I now know so intimately. “We’re where we are. So excuse me if I’ve made a decision on my own that doesn’t include what you think is best. They’re my choices, Whit. He’s my choice.”
It stays quiet behind me. Fine. Quiet is better than arguing. And there’s nothing to argue about, anyway. I’ve made my decision – put the bargain out there. I’m all in Malachi’s hold with zero chance of getting out of it if he agrees. Not that I’d want to. Or I don’t think I’d want to, but who knows what every fucking minute means to him. All I know is I’m the only thing I’ve got to give to make this happen. If that’s what he wants, he can have it.
“Quite the speech.”
I spin and look at Malachi leaning on the doorframe, my mouth open. “Where’s Whit?”
“I sent him away about half way through your tirade.” He stares, a strange look on his face that I’ve never seen before. Perplexed, confused maybe. Whatever it is, it seems to stay that way as he walks over to me and takes the picture frame from my hand. It gets put down carefully, and he looks at me some more before turning around and walking from the room.
“Wine?” he calls.
We end up in a room with a grand piano in the corner of it, and I spend fuck knows how long questioning what I said in that speech of mine as he plays. I can’t remember much of it, but I do know I’ve never said any of it directly to him. It all makes me skittish and pathetic in some way I don’t like. I feel like a twelve year old that’s just admitted some delinquent poster boy obsession.
I sit with a glass of red, settling myself back into the rhythm of his playing in the hope that whatever I did say will just be forgotten, or thought about without me having to speak about it again. I’m not ready for that, and even if I was I doubt it would mean the same to me as it does to him. I just need him to agree either way and then we can get on with that plan.
Nothing’s said. He stays quiet and watches me while his fingers move. The atmosphere makes me at odds with everything. And then I end up questioning if I just fucked up a plan by introducing feeling into the mix. Stupid considering I’d been sensible enough to keep them out of everything before now. At least vocally.
The air eventually grows too thick with the low sense of unease I’ve created. I did fuck up. I crossed a line, brought words into his thoughts and made him rethink shit. I know that with every fibre of my being, as I glance at his wrists. No bandages anymore, but the scars are visible enough under those bracelets. It saddens me. The whole fucking air saddens me. Maybe it should make me fearful, or concerned for any explosion that might come, but it doesn’t in any way. It does, however, make the thought of staying in this air with him impossible.
I push the boots from my feet and pull up onto the couch. “Are we going to talk about this or are you going to play in brooding silence forever?”
“I’m not brooding. I’m contemplating. Distinct difference.”
“Contemplating what?”
“Whether you deserve punishment or praise.”
“Neither.”
