“You teach me how to defend myself, just in case.”
“Deal. But first, we have to convince the doctor to let him out of this place.”
Knox wouldn’t speak. Not to Preacher, not to Memphis, not to the medical staff. The medical doctors said Nash hadn’t caused any physical trauma to Knox’s vocal cords. So, they’d brought in the head shrinker, a children’s psychiatrist who wore jeans with his white coat and looked more like he should be selling vitamins at GNC than worrying about a child’s cognitive development.
Preacher didn’t like him. He smiled too much and talked to Knox like he was two instead of twelve. Hell, maybe he was two again in his own mind. He looked much smaller and fragile than he’d looked the day before. Even with everything he’d been through, he’d told Preacher he’d found the hospital fun in comparison to his former living arrangements. He’d been mouthy, sarcastic, told dumb jokes. Now, his eyes were…vacant. Nash wrapping his hands around that boy’s throat in a place he’d felt safe was the last straw for him, it seemed.
Memphis wasn’t doing much better. He paced erratically, snapping at police officers and doctors alike. He tracked Preacher’s movements like the wounded dogs they pulled from the rings. Beaten and broken, terrified but desperate for somebody they could trust. Preacher wanted to be somebody Memphis trusted. He hoped on some level he was. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d let both of them down. He suddenly wanted to call and apologize to Cy for all the shit he’d given him when they were on the inside and Cy was protecting Nicky, a stranger. Cy had said it was instinctive, that they’d protected each other as kids and that need to look out for Nicky had returned the moment he saw him again.
Preacher got it now. He did. He didn’t know Memphis or Knox, but he felt this pull, this tug in his gut that told him they were his responsibility. Maybe he felt this way because he was the one who found Knox in that room, dirty and bruised? The need to protect him had kicked in almost immediately. Hell, maybe it was selfish—Preacher needing to be needed. Seemed a big ask of a twelve-year-old.
But then there was Memphis. Preacher felt a much different kind of pull from him. A weird urge to touch him, brush his hair from his eyes, know what his lips tasted like. Sometimes, he’d catch Memphis looking at him and wondered if he was thinking the same. Preacher had never really experienced an attraction like this before. One that seemed to spark out of nowhere.
But none of that mattered; it wasn’t the time or the place. They stood outside Knox’s hospital room as the psychiatrist did his best to coax Knox into speaking to him.
“Why’s it taking so long?” Memphis muttered as he paced a small circle in the narrow corridor.
Preacher didn’t answer. He had no idea how headshrinker’s shrunk a head, even one as small as Knox’s. He wasn’t sure Memphis was talking to him anyway. He was hunched deep into his hoodie, his golden blond hair poking out around his face like a lion’s mane, a couple day’s growth of stubble on his sharp jaw. He chewed on his thumbnail, brows drawn together, occasionally shaking his head as if in answer to some inner monologue.
When the doctor emerged, Memphis approached him so fast the large man took a couple of steps back. Memphis seemed to catch himself, pushing back the black hoodie as if he thought that was what made him look like a threat and not the wild look in his eyes. “What’s wrong with him? What did Nash do to him?”
Even though Memphis said Nash’s name, it was clear he blamed himself for what happened. That Preacher understood. He blamed himself, too. He shouldn’t have agreed to leave. He knew all too well how people like Nash Camden behaved.
The doctor cleared his throat. “I believe your brother might be suffering from selective mutism.”
“So, he’s just choosing not to talk?” Memphis asked, frowning into the room where Knox was now slumped in the bed, covers up to his neck.
“It’s not quite that simple. Your brother has experienced a severe trauma, and this is his brain attempting to process it.”
Memphis gave the doctor a look like he was stupid. “We grew up in one big traumatic environment. You’ve seen Knox’s bruises. Our older brother, Nash, did that.”
The doctor nodded as Memphis talked before saying, “I understand. But as extreme as that environment was, Knoxville—Knox—still felt there were boundaries in place. While your older brother might hurt him, starve him, beat him, there was a limit to the level of abuse. Knox believed there was a threshold that wouldn’t be crossed. Last night, Knox learned that he’d never been safe and, even with two hundred people in the building with him, he almost died. That’s a lot for somebody his age to process.”
“I should have protected him,” Memphis snarled, his thumb once more returning to his mouth to chew on his nail.
Preacher pulled the hand from his mouth, giving it a squeeze before letting it go. “This isn’t your fault. Nash is a monster. The police should have known that he could come back and they should’ve placed an officer outside Knox’s door. He’s a witness in a criminal investigation.”
“Pretty sure that stuff only happens in the movies,” Memphis said, stress etched into the creases marring his forehead.
“Yeah, well. Consider me your full-time bodyguard,” Preacher said.
The doctor cleared his throat. “So, for this type of traumatic or psychogenic mutism, we use behavioral therapy to help the child process their trauma. I’ll have the nurse bring you the cards of some of the specialists in the area.”
The man turned and left without waiting to see if Memphis had any questions. Preacher could see something was eating at him. “What is it?”
“I make fuck all at the flower shop. I have a studio apartment that I live in rent-free because it’s the size of a hotel bathroom. I don’t even have a car. Kids need things. Clothes. Food. Shelter. Health insurance for behavior therapists. I can’t even take care of myself. I’m almost thirty and I’ve never even been to a dentist. How am I supposed to take care of him?” Memphis asked, looking two seconds away from crying or punching a hole in the wall.
Preacher wrapped a hand around the back of Memphis’s neck. He tried to flinch away, and Preacher knew it was because his fingers were touching the burn scars left from his father. He held firm. “Look at me.” Memphis’s gaze twitched to Preacher’s, and he was once more struck by eyes as blue as lapis yet somehow golden in the center. “Let’s focus on getting the both of you back to my house and getting him settled. He needs some stability and safety…and you do, too. Your brother knows you’re here, so we need to go. Now.”
“Knox still needs infusions. Look at him. What are we going to do?”
We. Memphis said we, and it felt like somebody punched Preacher in the heart. If he was smart, he’d just walk away right now. There was still time. He could still untangle himself from these two damaged boys and their fucked up families and go live in peace in the middle of the sticks with his dogs. Which was what he’d told himself he’d do if he ever got out of that fucking prison.
It was a fleeting thought, burning bright and flaming out as quickly as it came. One look at the tiny flicker of hope in Memphis’s gaze was all Preacher needed to realize he was already in way too deep with these two…orphans. Fuck.
Preacher let his hand fall away, missing the warmth of Memphis’s skin almost immediately. “You go sit with your brother. I need to make some phone calls so we can get you out of here, okay?”
Memphis’s pink tongue darted out, licking over his lower lip, before he nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
