An hour passes like this. I don't move. Don't check myphone. Just listen to her drain and refill the tub twice, maybe three times. The pipes groan each time she adds more hot water.
My mind drifts like the steam seeping under the door, but it always circles back to one thing: Justin, Mr. Khaki Fuck Boy. The idea of his hands on her burns through my brain like acid. His fingerprints on her skin. The way her lip split when he?—
I dig my nails into my palms until I feel the skin break. The pain centers me, gives me something to focus on besides the all-consuming rage.
I could call Cope to help me, but I won’t. I should call Penn, but again I won’t. I want Justin's fear, his pain, his blood on my hands alone. I don’t want to share this. Every ounce of pain he feels will be because of me. Delivered by only me. He touched what’s mine. He hurt what’s mine and there’s no fucking way I’ll allow him to live after that.
I map it out in my head while water sloshes behind the door. First, I'll take his hands. Break each finger individually. Maybe with a hammer. Maybe with my bare hands. I want to feel the bones give way, feel the crunch of cartilage. I want him to watch as I destroy the things he used to hurt her.
"Ramsey?" Her voice, soft through the door, yanks me back to reality. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah." My voice sounds like I've been gargling gravel. "I'm here."
"I think I'm ready to get out."
"Okay, baby girl. I’m gonna leave your room now, but you let me know if you need anything."
"Okay." I hate how tired and quiet she sounds. It shreds whatever organ I have in my chest, and I want to claw it out, put it on a platter and hand it to her. As penance maybe. Maybe more like a sick token of love.
Leaving her bedroom, I shut the door behind me and walk downstairs to make her some tea.
Everything in me wants to leave right now and find him, but I won’t. I’m going to take care of my girl and give myself entirely too much time to plan. I want him unaware and cocky because it will make breaking him that much fucking sweeter.
Chapter 13
Ramsey
Four days of watching her bruises fade is four days too fucking long. Four days of planning, of waiting, of watching Reese slowly piece herself back together while I rage and die inside.
Tonight's the night. She's finally going to Reagan's, which means I've got a six-hour window to make this motherfucker disappear.
"You sure you're ready for hellfire Reagan?" I ask, watching Reese pack her bag. The purple and yellow under her eye has faded to almost non-existent, but I still see it. Still feel it like a brand on my own skin.
"No," she laughs, tossing her hairbrush in the bag. "But I can't avoid her forever. Penn's been blowing up my phone also, and the boys keep asking why Auntie Weese hasn’t come over in fourth-ever."
I lean against her doorframe, arms crossed,memorizing every detail of her. The way she moves, the slight wince when she reaches too far, the cautious way she holds herself. Like her body's still waiting for the next blow.
"I could come with you," I offer, knowing she'll say no, hoping she'll say no.
"And be the buffer between me and Reagan's interrogation?" She zips the bag shut. "No way. Besides, don't you have that thing with Cope tonight?"
Right. The "thing" I made up yesterday as my alibi. "Yeah."
The lie tastes like metal on my tongue. I've never lied to her before. Not about anything that matters.
"I'll be fine," she says, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "Reagan will fuss and hover, Penn will get all weird and inappropriate, and the boys will climb all over me until I'm too exhausted to think about anything else."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I want to grab her, hold her, tell her not to worry because by morning, Justin won't exist anymore. Not as anything but scraps of meat and bone.
I can't help myself. I drive her to Penn and Reagan's place, one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting with the radio dial. When we pull up, I leave the engine running as I get out to open her door. "Text me when you're inside," I say, watching her gather her things.
I pull her against me, one arm around her waist, my other hand sliding into her hair. I press my face against the top of her head, breathing her in.
"Rams?" Her voice is muffledagainst my chest.
"Just be safe," I whisper into her hair, allowing myself this one moment of weakness before I do what needs to be done.
She hugs me back, then pulls away with a smile. "You too, weirdo."
