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The angle of the sun through the thin, faded curtains startles me.
I reach for the phone Nash bought for me yesterday, verifying my fear. We slept much later than we should’ve. I don’t exactly have a schedule to keep. There’s only one thing I’ve done consistently since being taken, and I’ve somehow managed to fuck that up as well.
My hands are shaking as I dial Alani’s number. It’s my first call since I regained my freedom. As much as I want to keep her safe from all the terrible things that have touched me, I also want to confide in someone I love.
I ache to leave the room, so I can finally have a conversation with her in private, something that was never allowed back at the compound. Cortez or Pirro would practically stand over me, a nonverbal threat to not give more information than was allowed.
After watching so many people get victimized in broad daylight yesterday, I no longer possess the courage I had when I left the room while Nash was showering yesterday.
I settle for the chair that we both took turns sitting in yesterday as the cattle tag tattoos were removed. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t seem to manage to look in his direction.
The call connects, but my sister doesn’t open the conversation with her thoughts like she normally does.
“Alani?” I ask, terror filling my blood that my rescue from Cortez’s compound was traded for her demise.
“You’re calling from a different number,” she says, her voice flat.
I hate that she doesn’t get as excited as I am each time I’m able to speak to her, but it’s the difference in our current experiences to blame for her lack of enthusiasm. I have no doubt she sees these calls as just one more way to keep her under my thumb.
“I’m using a different pay phone,” I lie.
“It’s from a different area code,” she challenges, irritation evident in her tone.
“We’ve moved to a different village.”
Her silence feels like a chasm I’m never going to be able to cross. I want to chide her, to explain that her attitude isn’t necessary, that it’s actually extremely disrespectful, considering what I’ve been through for her. But wasn’t protecting her from all of it the entire fucking point?
I did what I did so she could live her life in the dark, unaware of the horrible things people are capable of.
“Another one where you can only call once a week?”
“I think I’ll get to call more often here,” I say, my skin growing cold at her increasingly annoyed tone.
“Like between filming?”
I freeze, my hand the only thing seemingly alive as it trembles, the shake in it so bad, I nearly drop the phone.
“Wh-what?” I manage.
“Are you really going to act all innocent now, Ayla? I’ve seen the videos. I have no fucking clue who recognized you and sent them to me or why they were sent on a VHS tape like it’s the damn nineties. It took me a long time to find one to play it back on, and honestly I hate that I did. The sick shit you’re into? I can see why you’ve been lying to me about where you are.”
“Alani,” I manage.
“It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life, Ayla. Mom and Dad would be mortified.”
“I—”
I snap my mouth closed when she hangs up, unwilling to waste energy I don’t have, speaking into the disconnected call.
Tears rush down my cheeks as I bend my face forward, trying to muffle my pain.
Chapter 30
Nash
Tears are one thing. I saw them last night as she tried to fight the pain as I peeled the numbers from her body, but the sobbing draws me out of the bed.
The call to her sister didn’t last long, but it’s clear that it damaged her even further.
She turns away from me when I approach, and I hate the fact that she does it so easily. I know better than to think holding her last night formed any sort of bond between us, but the speed in which she makes it clear I’m not welcome is like a slap to the damn face.
I refuse to let her get lost in her head. There’s too much shit from the past in there, and I can’t let her ruin her present because of it.
I haven’t met her sister, but whatever the spoiled fucking brat said to make her this upset fucking pisses me off.
“What the fuck happened?” I growl, clenching my jaw when she jerks. I try for a different tone, not wanting her to take my anger at her being upset personally. “Why are you so upset?”
“S-someone recognized me online. Th-they s-sent her videos.”
Something akin to hatred grips my chest, making it difficult to take full breaths.
“Someone?” I ask, because the timing is a little too suspect.
