“Caleb,” Jax snaps, and finally Caleb seems to wake up.
He blinks like someone just dragged him out of a coma, then slowly nods, but it’s Nix that eventually has to guide him out of his chair, and I scramble a second later to follow.
When we approach the curve that will take us out of sight, I pause. As desperately as I want out, my chin finds its way over my shoulder to see if Jax is following, the idea of leaving him alone with James filling me with fear.
The last thing I see before Nix yanks me ahead is Arnold pointing the barrel of the gun to his head.
Chapter Forty-Two
Kira
Ishake my head in disbelief at what I’ve gotten us into. I’m holed up in the corner of Caleb’s room, too afraid to go back to my own, while he and Nix watch a movie from his bed, the room dark. But, to be fair, it’s not a bad corner, considering his room is the size of our whole burnt-down house. I’m curled into a massive suede beanbag that swallows me whole, with my hands pressed together under my cheek, replaying the night over and again. The movie glow paints the room in flickering blues and sickly reds while Nix and Caleb watch from his bed, and the three of us are positioned like we’re in some bizarre sleepover where nobody is actually having fun. I keep asking myself, for the hundredth time, why I haven’t grabbed my sister and hauled us to Bell’s backroom.
But the answer is simple. Nix won’t go.
At what point did I lose the ability to put my foot down? Was it when she killed Marshal? Or was it when I was too weak to shield her from his body being burned? Or maybe it’s because of the days I spent in the hospital, leaving her to be on her own. Truth is, though, it probably came long before any of this.
Either way, she won’t leave Caleb, and despite my oh-so-alluring offer to let him come to Bell’s with us, he says he can’t leave, that if I think James is bad, I haven’t seen anything yet.
Nix took this tidbit without surprise, and it’s slowly been coming to me that she knew about James, probably from Caleb. I didn’t ask him if this was the first time James had raised a hand to him. I thought that might make him embarrassed. And I think I already know the answer anyway—if the way Nix acted tonight is any indicator. The more I sit here, the more it hits me that Nix knew a lot more than I did. She didn’t look surprised at dinner the way I did. She looked angry, like she’d been carrying it around for a while now.
I may have raised a wind-chime-stealing, fishnet-wearing, sharp-tongued teenager, but I definitely instilled better manners in her than that. I should have known her anger was coming from somewhere. And I should have noticed myself with how Caleb spoke about James in the hospital.
A bloodcurdling scream comes from the TV, and I flinch. Jesus, I don’t know why they would want to watch a horror movie after the one we just lived through. This is the second one in a row, and I still don’t know if Jax is okay. If a gun went off downstairs, I don’t know if I’d hear it, not with the size of this house and the silencer on the end of Arnold’s gun. Caleb says not to worry and, to keep up with my habit of listening to a high schooler, I try to believe him.
The welt on his cheek didn’t split, but in a few hours, I’m sure he’ll have a nasty bruise. I try to think back to if I’ve seen any other bruises on him, but I don’t think I would remember even if they were there, and the guilt of that sits heavy in my stomach. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own panic, and my own fear, and my own heart trying to kill me that I didn’t even consider that Caleb could be living a nightmare. I even considered him a privileged rich kid, but if this is his life… it’s far from rich.
There’s a light rap on the door, and my entire body goes rigid. I bolt upright, swiping at my cheeks because I realize too late that I’m crying, and the tears are hot enough to embarrass meeven in the dark. My heart climbs into my throat so fast I nearly choke on it, and for a split second, my mind supplies James as the person on the other side. Then logic kicks in. James wouldn’t knock. Men like him don’t ask permission.
The door cracks open, and the silhouette that fills it makes relief flood my chest so hard it almost hurts. Jax steps inside, and the glow from the TV catches the angles of his face in a way that makes me warm.
I push to my feet as fast as I can, no thought in my head except to make sure he doesn’t have a bullet hole. He barely gets out a word before I ambush him.
“Are you okay?!” I keep my voice to a whisper as I run my hands down his shirt, feeling his chest for punctures. Frantic, I scan his face, his arms, his hands, doing the best I can in the dark. His skin is hot to the touch as I slide my palms over him, not trusting my own eyes.
“I missed you too,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
I narrow my eyes, giving him one more pass over before I decide he’s not hurt, that he’s sturdy and alive—and then I throw my fists against his chest.
“What thefuck?” I hiss, still whispering, afraid of being heard by anyone not in this room. “What was that? Why did you make us do that? That was horrible. Your father’s a horrible, horrible man.” I keep whacking him, though I’m not even sure that it’s in anger. Whatever it is, though, Jax doesn’t stumble and instead keeps his shoulders back and chin raised, taking it.
“I know,” he says after a moment. “I’m sorry.”
I’m so stunned by his apology that my hands freeze, and I look up to find him staring down at me, a shadow behind his eyes.
But the shadow isn’t new.
Suddenly, all I see is seventeen-year-old Jax. He’s pure without tattoos, popular and golden and always laughing in thehalls. I resented him. The money and ease and free time. I thought people like him floated through life untouched. It was such an affront onmylife that he got to keep his chin high while I scraped myself raw just to survive that I never bothered to look any deeper. But now, faced with the truth, I can see what I missed.
The quickness with which his smile always faded when his friends weren’t looking. The subtle flinch when someone would move too fast at him. That shadow behind his eyes… But he’s gotten better at hiding it, so much so that it’s only now I realize that his life was never more golden-spoon than mine. Not then and not now.
The weight of it crushes me. It’s in my ribs, in my throat, in the sudden burn at the back of my eyes. The thought of Jax, indestructible Jax, standing there having taken hits from his own father wilts something inside of me, wilts the anger in me.
“No,” I whisper, my voice splintering. “I’m sorry.”
I find myself cupping his jaw. His stubble is soft under my palm, and he leans into it like it’s the first gentle hand he’s ever felt. I wish I could take away the years he must have endured. His brow smooths, but it’s only a moment before it furrows again. Slowly, he clasps my wrist and pulls my hand down.
“Don’t cry for me, buttercup.” He drags a thumb across my cheek, catching a tear before it falls. His voice is low, but not even the movie in the background can drown out the pained plea in his tone.
