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“Is this the battle you want to pick, boy?” Angelo’s voice was gravelly and persuasive, reaching into the delicate part of Bobby’s heart, the private place he guarded, the one that existed with one desire: to be safely held in Angelo’s arms.
“Yes. It is. She’d do this for me.”
“She’d do it for a stick of gum she found on the sidewalk,” Angelo replied. “The girl is broken, boy. She was lost long before either of us knew her. The only benefit to you rebelling over this is that you will get to feel me crush that rebellion.”
Bobby’s heart was pounding in his chest, not because of the physical exertion, but because he knew Angelo was not going to let this one go. Much had transpired over the past few months, and Angelo’s usually iron discipline had slacked to allow room for survival. Now the master was back, and Bobby knew it was going to hurt like hell.
Fighting Angelo was pointless, but some things in life you didn’t do because there was a point. You did them because someone had to do them. This felt like one of those things.
But neither one of them could maintain their anger for long because they were not angry. They were something far worse. They were sad.
“Do you remember what it used to be like…” Angelo spoke more softly than Bobby expected. “Just you and I. You hating me with every fiber of your being. Me thrashing you to tears again and again until you understood someone on this planet would do what it took to stop you from destroying yourself?”
“Yes,” Bobby mumbled.
“And here we are now, with a host of responsibilities and four people we are trying to keep safe. We are outnumbered, not by our enemies, but by our allies. We cannot allow ourselves to become split. Now come here, and let me beat you.”
Bobby’s submission had always come after a struggle, and he was not going to change that now.
“I’m not going to make it easy for you, old man.”
Angelo smiled, and for once, it was not a dark grimace but an expression of anticipation. He came over the bed, agile as any predator.
His escape was not long-lived. The room was small, and Angelo soon had him by the hair, lashing him with the belt he so very much deserved.
Bobby sobbed every time the lash landed, not just because the leather belt hurt, but because it was a reminder of that time Angelo had brought back to life in his heart and mind. A simpler time, when the world didn’t matter when his world contained only Angelo.
That time would never return. It could not return. The others had become a part of the fabric of their lives. Every moment that Mark, Tilly, and the infant they had never known stayed away was another moment they were somehow empty.
They would stay empty, too, because to reunite would mean suffering and pain. So there they were, the two of them, still locked in what would be an eternal struggle, hearts bleeding because their love could not ever be enough for all it had to heal.
Bobby cried hot tears, as he had not done since thinking Gemma was forever gone. This time he was crying for something that was truly gone. A united past, where peace was possible, and things could be easy.
Angelo laid down the lash while Bobby’s tears were still fresh.
“I will go talk to her,” Angelo acquiesced, rubbing Bobby’s head gently. “You get some rest, boy.”
Gemma sat alone in the darkness, hoping that it might swallow her up. She would never be able to unsee what she had seen today. It was a departure point, a strong demarcation that would forever divide events into before and after.
She had no idea how long she had been there. She sat there, and she sat there, and she felt blank and numb and…
“Gemma.”
Angelo stepped into the room, letting himself in as if he owned the place and held the power of life and death in his hands.
He came closer because he was arrogant enough to think that nothing bad could ever happen to him. He was Mr. Quick Draw. Mr. Merciless. Mr. Shoot A Woman Right In Front Of You And Act Like It Was Nothing.
“Gemma.”
He said her name again, and she wanted to scream.
She was not speaking to him. Not after what he had done. Not even with all the justifications and common sense and reasons why it would be understandable that he would have shot Willow for drawing a weapon.
“Gemma.” He said her name yet again and drew closer. She kept her arms wrapped around her, close tight to her body.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and she struck like a snake. Her hand whipped around toward his midsection, holding a sharpened plastic stake. Well, a toothbrush. A toothbrush she’d been heating with Bobby’s lighter and rubbing on the marble tile floor to try to make a point.
