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Chapter Seven
Malcolm
Almost a week after Nala dropped me off at home and I acted like an asshole, she hasn’t been back.
I can’t decide if I’m relieved or irritated, since the first three of those days found me on my back while I elevated my leg and prayed for the incessant throbbing to go away. That was the reason I was pissy with her in the first place—I’m finally home, finally ready to win my girl, and I can’t make it off the fucking couch without the help of a pair of sticks and the possibility of nausea.
Rose Jackson stopped by on day two, bringing me soup and a warm smile. She’s gained weight back since last winter when she ended her chemo treatments. Her skin has color, and though she looked a little older than I ever remember seeing her, she was happy. Like Jacks, her personality is a quiet and thoughtful one; so while I ate the soup on the deck, she sat next to me with a glass of wine.
She filled me in on her cancer, still dormant, and Vanessa’s first semester at Cal Poly. “An engineer?” I blew out a breath, wincing when I tried to shift and it jostled my leg. “Impressive.”
Rose nodded, clearing my dishes and waiving away my attempt to help. “You need to go in and get that leg elevated.”
My response was automatic. “It’s fine.”
“You forget I’ve known you since you were little, Malcolm. You’re not nearly as good a liar as you think.” Then she made my heart turn over when she reached out and placed her hand on my forehead in the universal gesture of all mothers. “No fever, which is good. How bad is the pain?”
The lie was on the tip of my tongue, but one glance from Rose and I couldn’t let it fall. “A five.” More like a twelve.
She helped me get settled on the couch, much to my dismay, fluffing pillows around me and making sure my leg was elevated to her satisfaction. Before she left, she kissed my forehead and made me feel like a pussy for the millionth time because shit, my eyes actually closed. “Don’t let the pain get too bad, Malcolm. You don’t deserve to hurt.”
Rose Jackson, man slayer.
I broke down and took some Ibuprofen after day three, and then the pain went down enough I even managed a shower, though wrapping the cast was awkward and I was appreciative that no one was here to witness my childlike inabilities.
Which was probably a good thing, since Isa’s family kept their word and all descended on me for day four, bringing with them more food, and the noise I can only guess is just a byproduct of so many people in one place.
“This is pretty tame,” Felipe, Isa’s twin brother, says, sitting down in the chair and handing me a beer. “We’re at half capacity, with Hunter missing; Javier and his family in Arizona, Mari off saving the world, and Jaer up in San Fran enriching minds.”
I look around at who is here, from Isa’s father, Juan Carlos, to her mother, Carmen, and older sister Valentina—the only person more gorgeous than Isa—and her nephew, Teo, already a heartbreaker. And for a second, I feel something other than annoyance and anger, other than pain. Maybe, looking at these people so willing to take me in and make me theirs when they already have a pretty great gig going—what I feel is a little bit of envy.
“Hey, Mal, you any good at that PS4?”
Teo, Felipe, and I spend the rest of the afternoon shoved together on the couch and passing controllers between us, battling in every game I have, and then redoing some until Carmen and Isa pull them off and make them go home. Teo signs my cast, apologizing for my injury before assuring me that I’m still number one.
“No one else would even think of throwing a seven-twenty like that at the end.”
His words, they aren’t true—I knew a lot of guys who would, who would land them, too. But the way he looked at me, like he believes it…I might have had to look away for fear of embarrassing myself because this kid, Jesus, he grabs hold of someplace inside of me and makes me want things I’ve never had.
+ + +
Fifteen Years Ago
“Get off the couch. Katarina and her daughter are going to be here any minute.”
I don’t move, my eyes glued to the screen where my avatar is currently kicking the ass of everyone else’s. “In a minute.”
I should know better. In eight years of life, I can’t remember a single one when my dad ever accepted anything less than exactly what he asked for. I’ve had thousands of bruises that prove it, even a few scars from times when he lost his head more than normal. And still, something inside of me makes me challenge him, makes me force him to be that guy.
Hunter calls me crazy. It wouldn’t surprise me if I am.
“The fuck did I just say?” His hand cuffs me on the side of the head—a place he’s learned doesn’t bruise or leave visible marks, but can make my head ring for hours—before he says it again. “Get off the couch and answer the door when it rings, Malcolm.”
And then he’s gone, because Preston Brady knows one thing: it usually only takes a warning hit for me to succumb these days.
Asshole.
I stay where I am, not even aware of the game in front of me anymore, but refusing to move until I know he’s upstairs again, because somehow, I can’t let him win. Not all of the time. He wins eventually, but lately, there’s a small piece of me that’s begging him to lose it, to be the abusive prick that he is, so I don’t forget everything he’s done.
