Page 73 of Torched Spades
I wipe the water out of my face and turn off the faucet. “Yeah. Just finishing up.”
“There’s a towel on the rack outside the shower and some fresh clothes for you on the bed.”
I stiffen. “Where are mine?”
“In the trash.”
“What? Why?”
“Becs, come on. They’re ripped and covered in blood. You can’t put those back on. Besides, I’ve already tossed them out. You don’t need that image in your head.”
“Oh, right… Of course.”
“Judging by that huge thing you wore to the diner, the size of the hoodie shouldn’t be a problem. “He lets out a nervous chuckle. “The sweatpants are going to be big, but there’s a drawstring, so…” There’s a pause, then he clears his throat. “Well, you’ll be warm at least.”
No. I won’t. I’ll never be warm again.
“Thanks.” It’s all I say, but it means so much more than gratitude. Not only did Jack go against every oath he’s ever taken by honoring my pleas to not file an assault report, but he didn’t alert my father. Even when he begged me to let him take me to the hospital, and I refused, he didn’t push. He simply drove me to his house in silence.
My demand to be taken home had been swiftly shut down.
“You could have a concussion,” he’d said, “and I can’t have that on my conscience. You’re going to stay with me tonight so I can keep an eye on you.” When I’d flinched, he quickly added, “You can take the bed; I’ll sleep on the couch. Don’t worry, Becs, I’ll have you up in time for your first patient.”
I hear him clear his throat from near the doorway. “Becca, you have to see this is a direct result of you crossing the line with—”
“I was mugged, Jack. That’s all.”
“‘That’s all,’ she says.” I wince as he exhales a frustrated breath. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”
I nod, although I know he can’t see it. When I hear the en suite door close behind him, I open the shower door and step onto the bathmat.
Red.
Blinking back the burn in my eyes, I pull the towel from the rack and wrap it around me. As water streams from my hair, I take four steps across the tile.
Red.
Biting my lip, I stifle a cry and run from the bathroom into Jack’s bedroom. Hard tile becomes beige carpet, but nothing changes. The red footprints follow me, staining every step I take.
Taking a fierce hold on my towel, I squint and stare down at the neat piles of clothing lined up across Jack’s brown comforter. The first one is what I assume to be a Brown University hoodie. I wouldn’t know; my glasses were shattered during the attack. Beside it lay the sweatpants he mentioned. But it’s the third pile that finally breaks the dam, sending the tears I’ve been holding back since he came running into that garage.
A pair of socks.
Chapter Twenty-Three
JOHNNY
It’sthe Devil’s hour again.
The last time I saw three a.m. staring back at me, I was at the docks minutes away from becoming an integral player in someone else’s game. I remember thinking how ridiculous it seemed to pin the misdeeds of the wicked on the hands of a clock. The Devil doesn’t need an hour of darkness to lure and entice when he walks freely in the sun and lies with a smile.
Tonight is no different.
Once again, I’m minutes away from storming into another standoff. Only this time, I’m doing it with awareness, a plan, and an endgame.
Gripping my phone tightly in one hand, I keep my eyes locked on the screen while reaching for the bottle on the nightstand. I’m all but choking the neck as I drag it to my mouth, willing a fucking flicker of movement to appear.
Of course, it doesn’t.
