Page 32 of Quiet Chaos

“From the bed to the toilet. I waited too long, and I didn’t make it in time.”

She must notice my discomfort because Patsy rubs my arm. “Aw, honey. It happens. No worries. Did Rita come back to help?” I shake my head. Hesitantly, she asks, “Did anyone come to help you?” I nod.

She releases a slow and booming, “Nooo!” Her eyes fixed on me. “Cade helped you!” Patsy slumps back in her chair. “I can’t believe it.” She sits for a moment and then asks, “What did he do?”

I explain everything, each revelation opening her eyes wider until they look like they’re about to burst out of their sockets. My voice drops in volume when I talk about the close moments. In telling her, I let her know Cade did nothing sexual. He eased me through my internal raging storm and rushed through the private situations.

After I finish, she sits, staring at nothing in particular. “I’m surprised yet not surprised.” I tip my head to the side, wanting her to explain.

“Cade is one of the most caring people I know, no matter how big and intimidating he comes off. He’ll do anything for people he cares about.” She gives me a soft smile. “Obviously, he cares very much for you.”

I raise the blanket to hide my smile. “Why are you surprised?”

“Oh, I’m not surprised he cares about you. His calm surprises me. Cade isn’t one for bodily fluids except cum. The man loves fucking.” As if remembering whom she is talking to, Patsy tries to make up for it by saying, “I didn’t mean that.”

The blanket drops from my hand. “It’s okay. I understand.”

She touches my hand. “Do you? I mean, understand?”

“Maybe not completely. I’m trying though.”

Patsy leans forward like she’s got a secret. “He’s young, stunning as all hell, isn’t attached to anyone, and has needs. You can’t fault the guy.”

I watch Armstrong stalk around the room to find a place to lie, like how I’m trying to express my opinion. “There are many men who don’t sleep around or have sex before marriage.”

“He’s not any man. He’s Cade.”

I shake my head. “I know. It’s none of my business. Cade has his ways and I have mine, which are on opposing sides.”

“Sky, no one faults you for your beliefs. They’re a part of you.”

My face clenches from sitting up too fast. I take a few breaths and say, “Cade does.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a fault. Like you, he can’t wrap his head around your powerful beliefs.”

I shrug and glance away. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not together.”

Patsy slides back into her chair and changes the subject to work. She stays until Rita has me walking around again. I thank her for the wonderful baked treats. The visit drains me, and I don’t know how long I slept.

I wake to Cade’s hand, brushing the side of my face. He is watching me, yet the broken lake ice eyes are darker, light reflecting off the cracks.

16

“Always drink your whiskey with your gun hand, to show your friendly intentions.” Scottish Klondiker Proverb

Cade - November 2019

Several weeks have passed, and Sky is on the mend. When the asshole who hurt her made bail, I had some guys snatch him and lock him up. He’s on my property in Bloomington, Idaho, at an old, abandoned barn cordoned off by an electric fence. I bought it a while back, intending to do some farming, but I haven’t gotten around to it. The prospects have kept watch. I wanted to wait, let the dick suffer by soaking in his wild thoughts of what might happen to him. Cruelty comes in many forms, although the mind can be the worst of all. A self-torture of endless scenarios.

By nature, I’m not a violent guy. I want to enjoy life, not take one. But what he did to Sky, a reminder every time I see her, burns through my veins. She’s precious. He abused her in their relationship and planned to involve her in human trafficking. This scum doesn’t belong on the streets. I became his judge, juror, and executioner, except my plan isn’t to kill.

In the middle of the room, his handcuffed wrists hang from a hook in the ceiling. I grab his bloody face, a sign the prospects had to restrain him. His eyes are full of fear. All I do is mention Sky’s name, and the fucker almost pisses his pants. Death is too good for him. I spent some time reading about vertebraeinjuries. If I can aim and somehow break his C4 vertebrae, his life will depend on food through a straw. He’ll no longer wipe his ass or stroke his dick. Someone will do it for him. This is the perfect punishment for what he did to Sky.

He took advantage of her, a delicate woman, bullied and beaten because of his own insecurities. When I think of the bruises, the jagged, red wound marring Sky’s ivory skin, I want to snap his neck. The only thing stopping me is Sky. A black cloud will hang over my head if I murder him, and while I look into her eyes, I’ll see what she sees—a monster.

I call a prospect over to ask about the oxygen tank. He tells me it’s in the back, so I have him bring it. Dr. Karl is on call in case we need him, although he doesn’t know the details. A bat leans against the main door of the barn. I retrieve it, sliding it in the palm of my hand as I step in front of him.

The guy’s head hangs down, sobbing. I grab his hair and yank his head up.

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