Page 50 of Ramsay

Eventually, I can’t take the tense silence and I turn to him, studying his hands clenched around the wheel. “Why does he want me to stay away from his dad?”

“Because he’s a creep,” Ramsay says simply, exiting the vehicle and rounding the car before I can respond.

With a blank expression, he pulls me out and under his arm before leading me to the door and letting himself inside. Absently, I glance around as we step into a cozy living space, complete with comfy white couches surrounding a majestic fireplace with a huge flat-screen television on the opposite wall.

“Sit,” he says gruffly, and I do, leaning back with a sigh, and closing my eyes. I block out everything but the sound of my breaths, leaving my lungs in a slow whoosh until I hear him return.

“Drink,” Ramsay says, holding out a glass with amber liquid.

Eyeing the tumbler, I slowly shake my head, but he grimaces, shoving it further into my face. “Drink.”

“I can't,” I whisper.

“Why? It's just to take the edge off. I’m not asking you to drink the whole damn bottle.”

“One drink is too much,” I say dully, looking into his pale blue eyes.

He studies me with a raised brow, and I can see he's gearing up to argue, so I interject before he can start barraging me. “I can’t have a drink, a sip, not even a fucking smell, okay? I can't.”

Slowly he nods, searching my gaze and I turn away from him with a sigh, muttering, “Do you have tea or something? That might help.”

The pause is interminable before he nods and leaves the room. Once he’s gone, I open my phone app and pull up the local news. I’ve been avoiding this, but I can’t escape the inevitable.

The main article is exactly what I’m looking for, and my chest spasms painfully as I read the macabre story.

The authorities working the Lucky Charm case found four more bodies buried in a hole near a local fishing spot, all but one of which was reduced to bones. Kayla Ann Sharp, 15, went missing off El Paso's streets, where she was living as a homeless vagrant and last seen getting into a vehicle with a stranger. Sarah Brown, 17, a runaway, disappeared with no trace left behind. Carmen Preston, 15, a local girl living on the streets, was abducted from the downtown area, where she was last seen. The fourth body remains unidentified.

Of those found, the autopsies have revealed severe trauma to the bones, indicating torture before death. Authorities have not confirmed this is the Lucky Charm killer's work, but an insider source says they have the hallmark of this monster written all over them.

Setting the phone down carefully, I roll over on the couch, tears leaking from my eyes. Carmen was murdered, fucking beheaded, and still, I’m taken aback by the confirmation that she was tortured too. Oh, Carmen.

Was she scared? Did she know it was her end? Did she think about us? Me?

With any luck, she was fucking high and felt nothing.

I can’t hold back the sobs barking from my mouth and at this point I don’t even care that I’m sitting on Ramsay’s fucking couch.

Eventually, I rouse when I feel warm arms lift me and Ramsay pulls me into his lap. Exhausted, I lay my head on his shoulder and fight against the ache, but I can’t hold back the shivers that rack my shoulders.

Nothing makes sense, everything is wrong, and my chest hurts so badly I try to rub it away with the palm of my hand, but it does nothing to ease the painful burn. It hurts. It hurts so much, and I can’t stand it. I can’t.

Writhing out of my skin, I shudder convulsively and hiccup out another sob before devolving into hysteria. Through it all, Ramsay holds me gently, his arms warm and secure around my back. Even though I’m mindless to anything but the grief, some part of me recognizes he’s here, holding me together by the last thread of my sanity.

I must fall asleep because I’m alone on a strange couch with a blanket over me when I wake. For a brief moment, I’m blissfully ignorant before it all comes crashing down on me again.

Shit.

Rolling to a seated position, I rub my face wearily and toss the covers off. Ramsay is gone, but I have to pee, besides which I can’t stay here like this forever. It’s already borderline weird as it is. I mean, I blubbered all over the jerk who keeps threatening me.

Yep, this is madness.

With a yawn, I wander down the hall and fumble through several rooms, each more majestic than the last, before finding a powder room and locking myself inside. Although it’s a beautiful room like every other space in this huge ass house, I’m more concerned with my reflection.

I look like death warmed over. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, my hair is a rat’s nest on my head. Whatever.

With a fatalistic shrug, I wash my face and dry it with a soft cloth hanging from the bar, giving myself a mini pep talk as I do. I’ve been through worse, and even though this pain invading my bones like a damn cancer leaves me breathless, I can survive it, for if nothing else, I’m a master at shoving shit into a box and locking it away.

I will get through this, but not here and not now. Get your shit together.

---