Page 80 of Whisper

I nodded. “So we good, bro?” These guys seemed to like the B-word a whole lot around here. Guess I’d better get used to that too.

“Yeah, bro. We’re good.” Kruger held out his fist, and I smashed mine against it. “I’ll let you get back to work. I gotta go buy some milk.”

I laughed under my breath.

On his way to the door, he turned. “Hey. What kinda people you got in your life?”

I tilted my head. “Why?”

“Because those people are gonna be around P, and if they aren’t quality?—”

“They won’t be around him,” I deadpanned.

“You’re willing to cut people off?”

“I’m willing to do whatever I need to do to protect him.”

“Good answer,” Kruger said and continued to the door.

I glanced at the panel, noting I had roughly two minutes. “Kruger.”

Once again, he turned back.

“I respect that you came here. I respect you trying to protect him. I’m glad he has you. But just so we’re clear, you don’t call the shots when it comes to my relationship with Matthew. He’s your brother, but I’m going to make him my everything.” I paused. “And if you call him Matthew again, I’ll throw that punch you didn’t.”

“All right, bro. Give it your best shot,” Kruger replied, stabbing two fingers at his eyes, then jabbing them at me, reminding me he would be watching.

He let himself out of the studio, and I went back to work.

Go ahead and watch, bro. I’ll show you how it’s done.

17

Prism

Jamie offered to go to the store with me to pick out sheets for my new bed. He seemed to think he was some sort of savvy sheet connoisseur. I didn’t ask him what made him an expert. To be honest, I didn’t want to know.

After a morning splitting myself open with Arsen, being subjected to the shrewd and judgmental stares of the police, and then moving, the idea of going to some busy, bright, loud store was enough to clog my throat with repressed screams.

So I declined.

And now here I was, hours later, side-eyeing the basic twin-size blankets from the dorm that I’d spread across my new king mattress, hoping I could make them work for the night. Hope was far too optimistic for a pessimist like me. I probably don’t have to tell you that my brand-new bed looked like one of those busted cans of biscuits you get at the grocery store.

Well, I don’t buy them. They’re basically the adult version of a jack-in-the-box and, bro, my nervous system was already haywire.

The blankets didn’t fit. At all. I hated when things didn’t fit. It made me feel like I did something wrong. Like I needed to be punished and to think about what I’d done.

The carpet under my feet made me itchy even when I put on socks. Socks were stupid. Like jail cells for feet.

I busied myself putting clothes away in my dresser, but my socks ended up with my jeans and my shirts with my Speedos. Not how they go.

This townhouse was quieter than the dorm, but the quiet amplified all the new house sounds. How was I supposed to concentrate? Every sound was so loud. So irritating.

Giving up on trying to get used to the new noises, I stuffed my AirPods into my ears, but they wouldn’t turn on. When I snatched up the case, the light blinked orange before going out completely. Frustrated, I ripped them out of my ears and whipped them onto the floor. The scratchy-as-hell carpet could have them.

Eyeing several boxes stacked on the floor, I debated ripping them open to try and find my charger, but just the thought was overwhelming. And the sound of the blade slicing through the tape holding the cardboard closed? Shudder.

Dropping onto the end of the unmade bed, I propped my ankle on my knee to scratch the bottom of my foot relentlessly. Inside the sock, my skin stung, an indication I was itching too hard, but I kept at it. The skin inside my elbow started tingling, erupting into a fiery need to scratch. It didn’t seem to matter how much I itched. The prickly sensation persisted as if ants were crawling under my skin instead of over the surface.

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