Page 101 of Double Bucked

I can’t make her old man a good person.

I can’t help her wrap her head around the fact that she was sold off like an animal.

I can’t tell her any of this is going to be okay.

But I can kneel on the floor behind her, pull her soft strands of hair over her shoulders, and weave it back while she pukes.

She’s got nothing on her stomach, but her body heaves anyway. I get up only to wet a hand towel and hand it off. She pats her face dry, flushes the toilet, and leans back into me. She’s caved over, and her little body is trembling.

“How could he do this?” she asks.

I pet her back. “He made a mistake. He made a…damn awful mistake. One he must’ve regretted because he hired Everett to look after you. He wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t trying to protect you.”

She tilts her chin to look up at me. Those eyes are gentle and watery. My Claire—full of teeth and iron—is caught without her armor. I wanna tuck her away inside of me and keep her safe. “Why the hell do you defend him?” she asks.

I shake my head. “He was a rotten, mean old pain in the ass. He made my life a living hell—and he enjoyed it, too. After how he treated you…well. He deserved anything he had coming to him. I ain’t defending him. Just trying to make sense of it.”

“There’s no sense.” Her hand touches her mouth. “Nothing makes sense.”

Her body trembles. It’s those quiet, hiccupping sobs. I hold her, and she curls tighter into me. Her fingers twist in my shirt, clutching.

“I hate him,” she cries. I can feel the wet through my shirt, against my chest. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.”

But I know she means the other thing.

Hate doesn’t hurt like this.

“I’m here,” I tell her. I kiss her forehead, the damp sweat that’s collected there. I pet her back and inhale the scent of her hair. “I’m here.”

34

EVERETT

It’s been a trying day.

Ransom has assumed charge of cleaning up the pieces of Claire that today’s revelations smashed apart. For my part, I’m doing my best to let him.

It’s not me she wants to see right now.

I understand this very clearly.

Claire has friends, and Claire has enemies. Right now, I’m an enemy. Someone who can’t be trusted. I don’t blame her for putting a length of space between us.

Even if it takes every ounce of willpower within me not to rush upstairs, peel Claire’s clothes off, shower her, and tuck her into bed.

The urge to care is a throbbing organ inside of me, split and bleeding and poisoning me internally.

I can’t take care of Claire. So I focus on the one thing I do have control over.

My palm is slashed in the middle. Mr. Preacher’s trap left a red line across it like a new lifeline. It’s a thin cut and I run cold water over it, cleaning it.

I hear Ransom approach. His heavy footfalls. He’s the opposite of stealthy. He hangs in the bathroom doorway, shoulder on the frame. “Need a hand with that?”

I don’t reply. He steps inside anyway and gets in beside me. His shoulder bumps into mine as he opens up the mirror, finding an antibacterial.

“Give me your paw,” he says.

I hold up my hand. He douses it. The cut stings, fizzes. I hold it steady.

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