Page 71 of Bitter Spirits

“Give it to me.”

She handed it to Locke, who tucked it away. Together, they manhandled the mattress away from the closet door. When they had enough room, Locke yanked the door open. Inside, curled on his side in the back corner, was a young man. His eyes were wide and unseeing, his dark hair a tangled mess, his arms wrapped around his knees, which were drawn up to his chest. Clothes were piled around him, as if they had been torn off hangers or tossed inside. Boxes were tipped over as if he had managed to shove them aside only to crawl behind them like a creature desperate for a burrow.

“Dammit.” Isa squeezed past Locke. “You’re not going to fit in there.”

His hands gripped her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

She shrugged him off. “Making sure the kid is okay.” She moved into the narrow space. “Find a light switch.” She pushed aside clothes and boxes until she could get to the kid and kneel next to him. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and crooned, “Hey, hey, hey.”

Overhead, the light came to life, and the young man flinched hard enough to slam the back of his head into the wall and yank away from her touch. Scattered whimpers interrupted his frantic chant of “No, no, no.” His voice was raspy, as if he’d been screaming.

“Shh… shhh.” She pulled her hands back, keeping them visible as she tried to get through the panic. “Isaiah, we’re not going to hurt you, okay? You’re good, I promise.”

Isa’s heart ached at the blind animal fear that stared back. She eased back onto her heels, folding her hands in her lap, as she continued trying to reach him verbally. She took in the scrapes, cuts, and ugly bruising misshaping the left side of his face and feared there was even more damage to be found once she could get him to relax from his protective ball. A ring of what looked like finger marks sat just under the ripped sleeve of his T-shirt, and more bruising and streaks of blood covered the only arm she could see. Someone had beaten the holy hell out of him.

Seconds stretched like taffy as Isaiah fought his way back. First, the whimpers eased off, then the repetitive chanting stopped. Eventually, the blind fear receded, allowing awareness to trickle in.

Seeing it, Isa managed a small smile. “There you are, Isaiah. Welcome back.” She lost his attention when his gaze darted to Locke, and he gave an involuntary jerk. Not as brutal as his initial one, but still… She moved just enough to regain his attention. “Hey, you’re good. We aren’t going to hurt you. We’re friends of Paisley and Micah.”

His attention shifted to Locke, and his eyes widened. “I… I know you.”

“You do,” he confirmed.

Isaiah looked back to Isa. “You’re a friend of Micah? And Paisley?”

She nodded.

He straightened himself and started to push painfully to a seated position, his arm trembling under his weight, as he looked back to Locke with fear. “Are they here? Are they okay?”

“They’re both someplace safe,” he told the teen.

“Are you sure?” Isaiah tried using the wall to get to his feet but couldn’t find enough purchase to make it. Isa caught him just before he toppled over.

Standing outside the narrow confines of the closet, Locke said, “Emilio has them both secured.” His voice was firm but kind.

“Cordova?” Isaiah asked. Locke must have nodded because relief slowed Isaiah’s frantic movements. He leaned into Isa’s hold, and she helped him over the mess in the closet. “Okay, that’s good. No way that asshole is dumb enough to take on the Cordova Family.”

“Which asshole?” Locke asked.

Isaiah stumbled over a box, and a pained hiss escaped him. Isa tightened her awkward hold around his waist as he wrapped an arm around his ribs. He managed to stay on his feet.

“Carter’s boss,” he ground out between pained pants.

Locke had moved out of the doorway to give them room and shoved the mattress aside, gaining a few more inches of passable space. The two adults managed to guide the lanky teen out into the living room, where Locke helped him sit on one of the barstools. Isa rummaged through the kitchen and found ice and a somewhat clean cloth. She brought them over to Isaiah and had him hold them, like a compress, against the side of his face.

She took in the blood-specked T-shirt and the raw cuts and scrapes marking what would normally be tanned skin but now carried a grayish tint. “How badly are you hurt?”

A hint of color managed to sneak into his battered face. “Hurting like hell, but I’ll live.”

“Ready to tell us what happened here.” Locke’s tone indicated it wasn’t a question.

Isaiah eyed him warily and swallowed hard. “Yeah, um, sure. I was hanging out, eating breakfast when Carter came barging in, all pissed and shit. He was going off about me and Leo screwing up some deal, but I don’t know what the hell he was talking about. I mean, I did their runs like they asked, and last time I saw Leo, he was crashing out hard with this girl.”

Isa exchanged a look with Locke, who returned a brief head shake. He wasn’t going to fill the kid in, so neither would she.

Isaiah watched them. “What?”

Lock stared him down, ignoring the question. “Tell me about these runs.”