Page 12 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

She’s the only other person in the world that knows the complete truth, or at least enough of it, and she still looks at me the same as everyone else. There’s fear in her eyes, baby blue and hollow. It’s not that she’s afraid of me. It’s that my presence is a reminder of what she lost and that’s a potent combination of her innocence and one of her siblings.

A loud bracelet, a steel chain with trinkets hanging down the side, steals my attention. And then my gaze passes over the scars on her wrist. They’re not new, but they’re not too distant in the past either. By my own experience, I’m able to discern that they’re maybe two weeks old. I reach over and caress her wrist. She reacts as expected, ripping her hand away from me, disdain and distrust oozing from her being.

“What are you doing, Emily?”

She responds with an eye-roll. “The real question is what are you doing here?”

“Don’t try to change the subject.” I reach forward again, but she’s prepared this time. She wraps her other hand over her wrist, covering the scars. “When did you start cutting yourself?”

She scowls, narrowing her eyes on me.

It’s a little manipulative, but I quickly realize how I can force her to answer my questions. I clear my throat and ask the same question, only louder. “When did you start cutting yourself, Emily?”

“Would you shut up?” she scolds me in a hushed whisper as she edges closer to me. “I don’t know what your problem is, and I don’t know why you're back in town, but can you at least pretend that you’re not here to dismantle my life again?”

You can take the girl out of the Calloway family, but you can’t take the Calloway family out of the girl. One’s personal business is to remain private, never talked about louder than a hushed whisper. The very thought of anyone overhearing is enough to force her into a conversation, albeit a quiet one.

“I’m worried about you,” I say lowly and without a hint of irony. “I take responsibility for what I did back then. You need to do the same for the present. Harming yourself only serves to make things worse because the hatred inside of you will shift away from those that did you wrong and threaten to drag you to hell with them.”

She huffs, whether from amusement or agitation, I’m not sure. It doesn’t exactly matter which anyways. “You don’t get to pretend that your hands are clean. Your hand might as well have been on the blade as it cut into my skin.”

It’s a fair enough assessment. I’ve never studied the effects trauma has on individuals, but I’ve lived it enough to understand it on a visceral level. It’s easier to lash out at the demons that are still alive, the ones that stare straight into your soul. The sins of the departed and the demons and secrets that are buried with them can’t be faced because they can’t be seen nor touched.

“Now you're silent?” she questions, huffing once more and this time it’s absolutely in amusement. “I didn’t ask for your help. You took things into your own hands without regard for the collateral damage.” She grabs me by the side of my face and turns my head to force me to look into her eyes. “Look at me. Look at what I’ve become.”

“I can’t change what happened. It’s done,” I say softly and if I could cry, maybe I would. “It’s in the past. I did what I thought was right and I live with the consequences of my actions every day. I can see it in your eyes. What happened that day irrevocably changed you, but I absolutely refuse to apologize.”

“I’m not asking you to apologize,” she scowls. “I’m asking to never see your face again. When you leave this bar, please consider disappearing again.”

Actions speak louder than words and that’s why I’m not buckling under the weight of her judgment. She could have gone to the police. She could have told the world the truth, but she didn’t. Both of our souls are covered in the blood of Carter Calloway and the truth will go to the grave with the both of us.

I’ve never questioned if I did the right thing, but looking into her eyes, I can’t help but wonder how her life would be today if things were different. She carries the trauma like a heavy winter coat, wrapped around her in the summer heat. She must be suffocating. The perverse hands of fate have ensured she never had a shot. From what I can gather, she’s entangled herself into a sexual relationship with an adult who should know better, but he doesn’t care. Neither does she.

Trauma is the most fucking dangerous drug in the world. It’s an addiction that courses through the veins of the traumatized. We spend the entirety of our lives fighting it, running from it, or giving into it. Bad decisions beget bad decisions. It’s a never-ending cycle of pain and maybe that’s why we are both guilty of cutting scars into our skin like a wicked tapestry of pain. It’s the most fucked up version of art. I used to think the scars on my body were beautiful. Now, I know better, that they’re nothing more than a reminder of the pain, a brutal dichotomy of reliving the trauma all over again while being responsible for it at the same time. And yet, on my worst days, I continue to bleed anyway.

I can’t promise that I’m going to leave and never look back, but I’m fine with operating within the shadows. It’s better for everyone that way. I just need her to answer one thing before I leave. “We need to talk about Nick.”

The utterance of his name from my tongue seems to shock her. She angles her gaze my way, quiet but focused. “What about him?”

The way she questions me only serves to prove that it’s true. Carter and Emily have an older brother. “How did I never know about him?”

She shrugs with apathy, but it’s clear she’s hiding something. “You and I are from two different worlds, separated by only a few miles. But the difference between the Hamptons and here is like Kansas and Oz.” She drops her head, lost in contemplation as she stares straight at the bar. “You didn’t live in our world. You stumbled into it and left a path of wreckage in your wake.” And then she’s looking at me again, looking straight through me. “Nick is my brother in name only. He was never around when Carter and I were younger. Too caught up in his partying and disinterest in participating in the family.” She chuckles slightly. “I spent my entire life hating him, but in retrospect, I get it.”

And then she stops, and the silence is enough to set my nerves on fire. There’s something she’s hiding, something she’s not saying. “Get what, Emily?”

She shrugs with a shake of her head. “I understand why he never wanted to be around the people I’m supposed to call family.”

That’s it. There’s a part of her that’s heartbroken, but it’s met with equal parts relief. She doesn’t have to say the words. I know exactly what’s going on. After I left town, she was either disowned from her own family or she emancipated herself from their grasp on her own accord. I want to say she’s better off without them, but it’d ring hollow. I’d be better off without my own mother, but I’m drawn back to this place because I can’t cut the cord. Maybe it’s because I’m addicted to the pain. More likely it’s because I’m lost in a constant war of trying to convince myself that I'm better than my mother. As if a good deed or even a hundred could ever absolve me of my sins.

“I met your brother yesterday.” I grab my neglected drink and give into the craving, downing the entire drink in one go. It burns like hot fire against the back of my throat, and I relish it a little too much to the point that it terrifies me that I’m more likeherthan I care to admit. Addiction is in my blood. “I can safely assure you that he’s a complete asshole.”

She’s quiet. Too quiet. The wheels in her mind are spinning. I can see it in her wild, chaotic eyes. Her mouth moves to speak, but folds sideways. And then she says, “You two would be perfect for each other.”

ChapterEight

NICK

Look, I’m not a fucking stalker. I don’t make a habit of tracking people’s locations and I’ve certainly never done it with a woman I’ve been with. This is a matter of safety though. The last time Addison was in town, one of my siblings ended up dead. I can’t let her get to Emily. And is it really considered stalking if it’s family?

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