Page 139 of Secondhand Smoke

She’d clamped her eyes shut and then covered her ears with her hands. She’d leaned against the back wall of her cell as tremors overtook her body and she listened to the muffled grunts, smacks, and curses. She tried to make sense of what he’d said to them – something about a nest? – but it was meaningless to her. She knew two things: those men had been set to rape her. Kev had drawn them off.

She knew time passed because another guard brought her a tray of food...and something else. A broom handle that he passed across the bars. Back and forth, an oversized xylophone sound echoing against the concrete. And then he’d gone into Kev’s cell with the others.

Finally it was quiet. The cell door slammed and then silence followed. Gripped with fear, heart pounding in her throat, Whitney lowered her hands and crawled toward the connecting bars.

Kev lay on his back, shirtless, holding the torn and stained shirt to a bloody split lip. His torso was pale, dotted here and there with tattoos, and she could see the shadows of forming bruises against the fair skin. His jeans hung low on his skinny hips, the waistband of his Calvin Kleins dotted with blood. His fair hair was plastered down to his head with sweat. His eyes rolled toward her, glassy and unfocused.

A sob left her lips before she could stop it. Her vision clouded over with tears. “Oh my God. Oh my…Oh, what did they do to you? I’m so sorry, I–”

He pulled the shirt away, mouth swollen and messy with blood, and tried to smile at her. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s alright. Better me than you. I can take it. I’ve had worse.”

She couldn’t remember ever wanting to get her hands on someone so badly. She wanted to wipe the blood from him. Help him to sit up. Mop the sweat off his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, feeling helpless. “What can I do? How can I help you?”

“You don’t have any vodka, do you?” He tried to laugh and it was a terrible sound. He took a deep breath and winced. “Maybe you could…can you talk for a little bit? I don’t care what about. Just…say things. I like your voice.”

She dashed at her eyes, willed herself to calm, folded her legs up beneath her. “Okay. Okay.” God, what did you say to someone who’d taken a beating for you? How could she comfort him with her words alone?

But she had to try. “Well…okay, how about this. It’s kind of silly, but I always wanted to be a professional artist when I grew up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like oil pastels. They’re my favorites. I love them because they’re both forgiving, and totally merciless…” Perhaps “merciless” wasn’t the best word choice, given the situation, but she was warming to her topic, falling into the colorful world of her portfolio at home and gaining strength in her voice. “I did a piece recently from a photo I took on vacation…”

Kev’s eyes shut, and he seemed to doze as she rambled.

~*~

A sound woke her. Whitney startled awake and realized she’d fallen asleep against the bars, and that the lights above them had been halved, creating the dim impression of nighttime. Panic flooded her and she glanced around wildly.

Kev still lay on his back on the other side of the bars, shivering in his sleep as the cold concrete leached the heat from his skin. It was his cell door opening that had snapped her from sleep. The door slid back with a grating sound and three men in black stepped into the cell. More thugs. They brought the stink of liquor with them. Drunk thugs.

“Kev,” Whitney whispered, urgently. “Kev, wake up.”

One of the thugs kicked him and he lurched up to a sitting position with a groan.

“Rise and shine, queer-ass,” the kicker said with a dark laugh. “I don’t believe what the boys have been saying about you. Let’s see if it’s true.”

Kev tried to say something, clutching at his head.

He was grabbed under the arms by the other two guards, lifted, and then laid out flat on his stomach. Sound of something rapping against the bars, the floor. The broom handle again.

She didn’t shut her eyes this time.

Thirty-Two

The Teague kitchen was redolent of herbs and roasting meat. The oven light was on and through the window, Aidan could see the chicken thighs, no doubt slathered with butter and dusted with parsley. For the first time in his life, Maggie’s cooking wasn’t a distraction.

He and Carter stood shoulder-to-shoulder in Maggie’s kitchen, watching as Mags and Ava put together side dishes and a salad. The boys were in a playpen over against the wall. Ghost wasn’t home yet.

“So what you’re saying,” Maggie said, pausing as she sliced zucchini, “is that you don’t want us to share this with our husbands.”

“And I tell Mercy everything,” Ava said.

Mother and daughter stared them down, formidable as any firing squad.

“Yeah,” Aidan said, “that’s what I’m saying. I don’t wanna talk to Ghost and Mercy’s old ladies right now. I want to speak with Maggie and Ava. ‘Cause they’re the smartest chicks I know.”

Sam notwithstanding.

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