Page 12 of Still Beating

Dean’s voice interweaves with the steady drops, and I blink slow, my gaze fixated on absolutely nothing.

“Cora.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I don’t move. I force myself to breathe, just so I can stay alive.

“Talk to me, Corabelle.”

What am I supposed to say? Dean knows exactly what happened. He had a front row seat to the play-by-play. I finally work up the strength to pull my head upright, and I stare at the foot of the staircase on the far side of the room. I’m dreading the moment those clunky, black boots reappear—a prelude to a new set of horrors.

“Are you okay?”

This finally grabs my attention and I force my eyes to the right. Dean is leaning back against his pole, fully facing me, his arms locked behind him. My gaze works its way up from his heather gray running shoes to the mess of tousled, dark brown hair atop his head. It’s starting to curl just below his ears. I remember Mandy complaining that his hair was getting too long and she was about to trim it herself.

I swallow. “I’m fine.”

I’m usually a terrible liar, so I’m impressed with how honest that sounded. It’s not the truth, of course. It’s the greatest lie I’ve ever told.

Dean is fully aware of this. “You’re not fine. You can talk to me.”

An eyebrow raises on instinct as my lazy stare continues to assess him. His jacket was removed at some point, so he’s only wearing a baby blue t-shirt that matches his eyes and faded jeans. “I can talk to you?” I release a grating chuckle. My throat feels raw from all the pointless screaming I’ve been doing. “Because we’re such good friends, right?”

I take in the way his eyebrows pull together, a look of indignation scrawled across his face. “I’m the only friend you’ve got right now,” he says tightly.

“I’d rather be alone.”

Another magnificent lie.

I don’t want to be alone. But Dean is here, and I don’t particularly like him, so I’m going to take all of my fear and trauma out on him. It’s the only sense of control I have right now.

It’s my only power.

“Listen,” Dean continues, his voice low and splintered. “I know we’ve had our issues, but we need to work together. Once we get the hell out of here, you can go back to hating me, but this is life and death, Corabelle. Get over this fucking resentment you have with me and let’s put our heads together.”

“Don’t call me that.” I pull my eyes away, dipping my chin.

A scathing laugh fills my ears. “Of course that’s the thing you focus on.” I can see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, then he slams his cuffs against the pole, and I jump in place. “You woke me up in the middle of the night to come pick your ass up, after we alreadyoffered you a ride home. But I came anyway, because believe it or not, Cora, I do fucking care about you. We’re going to be family.”

Tears rim my eyes at his words. Funny—I didn’t think I had any left.

“I picked you up at almost two in the fucking morning, and I end up here. Chained to a goddamn post, waiting for whatever that asshole has in store for us. And now you’re giving me attitude?”

“I was justraped!” I seethe through gritted teeth, my voice cracking as it rises in pitch. “Raped by that disgustingpig. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” My own derisive laugh slips through as I swing my head to the side. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing my words, and then, “I told you—you can talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t like you!”

“Fine!” Dean smacks his chains with a grunt of frustration. “Fucking hell. I’m only trying to help.”

I sniff back my tears before they break free. “Maybe if you started helping fifteen years ago—startedcaringabout me like you claim you do—I’d be more inclined to open up. But all you’ve ever done is tease me, hurt me, and tear me down. I have no reason to trust you right now.” My chest is heaving up and down, burning and stinging, as my anguish mingles with so many years of bottled up bitterness.

Dean considers my reply for a long time. The only sounds permeating the space between us are our intermingled breaths and the dripping pipe. Then he scuffs the sole of his shoe against the dusty floor and regards me from the other side of the room. “It’s always been our thing,” he murmurs. “I give you shit and you give me shit.”

“I never had a choice,” I counter. “I’m programmed to defend myself around you. My sword is always drawn, ready to fight.”

“Because it’s fun.”

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