“You should give yourself up,” I coaxed once the mic clip was back on. “You’ve been coerced into this, blackmailed against your will. We can tell the cops everything. I’ll stand by you.”
“Why would you do that for me?” Kenneth sniffed against the wet patch sliding across my neck. Rubbing his back, I nudged him to look at me, to note the truth in my eyes.
“Because I’m your friend.”
The rest was a blur of crying and admissions, everything except the only detail I needed. Who had Kenneth so scared? By the time I’d managed to calm him down, we went to his bedroom to help him pack up his belongings. Whether it be the cops or the puppet master, someone was coming so we might as well be ready.
It was there, in the bathroom beside his toothbrush, that I found the pill box of antipsychotics, and where he made the omission that rocked the foundation of what I thought I knew. Kenneth is schizophrenic, and whoever is blackmailing him is his current source. He doesn’t have insurance, and without access to his meds…things like the polaroids happen. His mental health is being used against him.
The squad team burst in shortly after, guns raised and shouts carving my skull in two. I snatched the clip off Kenneth and shoved it in my pocket to save me from their hollering, withdrawing myself from whatever was said next.
All I know is, instead of putting his arms in the air, Kenneth reached for his tranq gun. In the next moment, he was on the floor. I watched him fall as if I was standing behind glass or looking through a lens. It didn’t seem…real, but the blood was real. The smell hit me before it somehow covered my hands, my body pressing over Kenneth’s. If the cops wanted to shoot again, they thankfully resisted the urge. With my stomach twisting onitself, hands tug me aside long enough for Kenneth to be cuffed, and the EMTs remove him from sight.
It still doesn’t seem real, even as the visions plague me. Water pours over my head, washing away the grime and trauma from the past few days, but none of it gives me any clarity. The spray is too warm, the weight of silence pressing on my skin. I can’t stop replaying the moment Kenneth went down. Could I have done something? Could I have prevented it? I told him I was his friend, then I stood there and watched him bleed out.
“Harp,” a gentle coax from Rhys sounds in my head. He’s found the mic clip.“Do you want to come out yet?”Pulling my legs up closer to my chest, I don’t respond. I don’t know what I want. Curling further into myself, my forehead touches my knees, the steam wrapping around me like a blanket. I’m thankful for the coverage, squeezing my eyes shut as fresh water hits my shoulders. I let it cascade down my face, as if it could wash the images away.
“Baby,” Rhys speaks again, softer this time. His voice grazes the inside of my skull like a hand brushing my cheek.“Please come out. Come talk to us.” His desperation pulls at something fragile in me, but I drop my chin and shake my head, even though I know he can’t see it. Talking is the last thing I want to do. Talking means choosing a place to start, and there isn’t a starting point that doesn’t squeeze my throat to the point of choking.
Either way, the door cracks a fraction wider, and Clayton’s shadow pauses at the threshold. When I don’t lift my gaze from his feet, he takes a careful step inside anyway. His silhouette shifts as he sinks to the floor, sitting with his back to the wall, his clothes still on. He stretches his legs out beside the shower as if proximity alone might coax me out. I raise my eyes to his face through the steam, noting how his hands raise in surrender.He isn’t here to push or rush me, he just couldn’t stay away any longer.
A tiny breath escapes me, not quite a sob, not quite relief, but something stuck in between. My hands tremble, words wanting to form through my fingers. I ache to communicate with them, to tell them I’m sorry. To say I’m scared. To ask if Kenneth is alive, but nothing forms.
So instead, I rest my cheek against my knee, listening to the steady rhythm of Rhys’ breathing through the mic.
“I used to hide in the shower too,” he sighs so quietly, I know it’s for my inner ears only.“It was worse when I humiliated my father at one of his galas. Partly because he’d been drinking, partly because he would—”There’s a sharp inhale, a carefully buried memory flooding to the surface.“He would let his friends watch him beat me, some joined in. The cigar burns were worse than the belt. They just kept on burning, even hours after. I’d hide in the shower, knowing I couldn’t step out from the freezing spray or else the burn would come back. I was nine when I first learnt that.”
A sob rises within. I cover it from Clayton, twisting my head aside. If it wasn’t for the knowledge that Rhys has never said these words out loud before, I’d beg him to stop. But I don’t deserve to be shielded from his pain, and he didn’t deserve to endure it.
“I don’t want your pity,”Rhys rushes to add.“I just wanted you to know that I’m right here. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready. No pressure. I just…miss you.”
The air rushes out of me. I miss him too. I’m right next door, but the chasm between us, between all of us, seems too vast. The last time we were together, I was the one who broke us apart. Escaping Kenneth gave me purpose, but now there’s no running from the hard conversations we need to have.
Clay had his reasons for wanting to pull away, and I respect him for it. I wouldn’t want to trick him into being with me now, when emotions are raw and heartache is fresh, just for him to resent me for it later. He can’t be around Rhys long-term. I get it as much as I hate it. So here I sit, trapped between wanting to stay distant and desperate to run to them. Wanting space, but knowing I’ve already had enough to last a lifetime. Now’s not the time to hide. It’s time to act, and damn the consequences. They’re tomorrow’s problem.
Blinking away the droplets lingering on my lashes, I drag myself to stand, using the cheap shower gel attached to the wall to finish washing myself. This is the third time I’ve scrubbed my skin red raw, but nothing seems to give me that clean feeling I’m seeking. It’s as if the staleness of the carpets, the dust of the boxes, the weakness I grappled with, it’s all embedded into my pores.
Rinsing out my hair with the same shower gel, since there’s no other option, and I know I’ll pay with split ends later, I shut off the shower. A towel appears through the damp curtain, Clay’s hand holding it high for me to accept. Wrapping it around myself, I emerge to Clay’s look of relief. He’s standing too, his jeans dusted with condensation.
“How are you feeling?” I read from his lips. Somehow, I manage to offer a lopsided smile, which is entirely for his benefit. That’s not a question I can even begin to answer. Returning to the hotel bedroom, Rhys straightens from where he was leaning by the window. I stare at him over the bed, the king-size bed with red cotton sheets and white pillows. Across the other side of it, a singular cot has been made up for whoever draws the short straw.
I hesitate for a moment at the edge of the bed, clutching the towel closer. I wish I could rewind time, slip back to before everything fractured, but hope is pointless. Too much hashappened. Instead, I force myself to meet Rhys’ eyes, searching for reassurance, maybe for forgiveness. There’s a fragility in the air, as if the tone will be set by whoever speaks first. Should I ask them where we stand, whether anything has changed, and whether we can try again?
My lips stay tightly closed, dreading the response. This week has been hellish, but it would be nothing compared to losing them again. To watching Clayton walk away for the last time, to crushing Rhys’ heart as if I had any right to it in the first place. No, words are a fool’s errand. Action speaks volumes, so I untie the towel at my breast and let the fabric collapse soundlessly at my feet.
Rhys goes still, utterly and beautifully still, the sawing of air escaping him dragging over the mic at his collar. With the light of the moon behind him and the lamp dimly illuminating his front, his tattoos pop starkly against his pale skin. His jaw works as he swallows, his piercing eyes just visible beneath his dark hair.
Behind me, Clayton’s size engulfs mine, his body radiating with a heat I yearn to lean into, but I’ve made my first move. Now, it’s their turn. For one suspended moment, no one moves, as if they’re afraid one wrong shift will shatter what I’m offering. Not sex, not a distraction, justmyself. Raw, shivering and trying so damn hard not to fall apart again beneath their scrutiny.
“Sweetheart,” Clay’s voice just about catches the mic’s range thanks to the tight confines of the room. “We don’t expect you to…expect anything from you.”
Clayton’s gaze drags over me, not hungry but reverent, like he’s cataloguing every inch to make sure I’m really here. Hesitation is also there, coiled tight in the set of his jaw as thoughts race behind his dark eyes. He thinks I’m vulnerable, that I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do. I’m living for the moment, relishing the present.
Taking a step forward, then another. Each one is slow and deliberate until I stop in front of Rhys. His hands grip the edge of the windowsill so tightly that his knuckles go white. I allow his eyes to flicker down my body and back up, the effort he puts into restraining himself appearing to physically pain him. Raising my hand, I lay it on Rhys’ chest to feel the steady beat within. He stiffens, breath catching as though my touch is both relieving and agonizing.
“You’re just trying to avoid your thoughts.” Rhys stares into my eyes so intensely, I know he’s seeing far deeper than the surface.
“Yes,” I reply honestly. “Can you blame me?”
