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ALIX
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Idon’t know how I get from Swallowtail Cottage back to the house. I’m crying as I stumble down the path in the woods, and I can’t catch my breath. Part of my brain is chanting, “Trap, Trap, Trap…” and I want him and I need him and I can’t have him because he’s in New York getting the Herzogs out of our lives forever.
But even as I long for his arms around me, for his stern commands, for the absolute certainty that he loves me as much as I love him, I hear my brother’s nasty sneer:I don’t let a monster use me.
As I tumble into Trap’s house, I know my brother is right. I’ve whored myself out for a security system that will keep me safe from the nightmares that stalk the real world. I’ve spread my legs for the fifty-dollar bottle of water I gulp in the kitchen. I’ve traded my last shred of self-respect for the phone I check, looking for a message from Trap before I remember once again that he left his phone behind.
Folding my arms around my belly, I pace our bedroom. I can’t help but look at the bed’s iron headboard, at the footboard where I’ve been bound too many times to count. The tall dresser glares at me, daring me to open the bottom drawer. A pile of clothes slumps by the closet like a body, and I realize they’re the pants and shirt Trap wore when he said goodbye in the gallery.
He fucked me. He bound my hands with his necktie. He beat my ass with his belt. He pushed his cock into my pussy from behind and he pumped and he pumped and I let him, because I’d do anything for Trap—just the way he taught me.
Leo is right. Iama hypocrite.
My legs are shaky. How long have I been walking this path—bed to dresser to closet to bed? I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Impossibly, it’s 12:17.
Halloween is over. Trap should have dealt with the Herzogs by now. He should be back in the car with Charles. He should have access to a phone; he should be able to let me know he’s safe.
What if he’s not?
What if the Herzogs set a trap for him? What if they fought back? What if the Mercedes was T-boned by a drunk driver, and Trap was thrown into a filthy Brooklyn gutter?
If Trap is lying in a hospital bed, I don’t have any right to see him. We’re not family. I’m not his wife.
If a doctor asked, I have no idea what Trap would want—how long he’d stay on a ventilator, whether surgeons should take heroic measures. I don’t even know if he has a will.
1:08.
I’m getting way ahead of myself. Trap must be fine. Gage would have called if anything happened at the club. The police would be at the freeport gates if there’d been an accident.
Gage is a freeport client. He doesn’t have my personal phone number. He has no way to reach me.
Trap left the house without any ID. How long will that delay my getting news?
1:22.
I’m exhausted. I’m terrified. Every muscle in my body aches—not just the bruises Trap left, but my arms, my legs, even the bones of my fingers.
I’m still clutching Leo’s plastic bag. All this time, I’ve been gripping it, like I can hold onto my brother, hold onto Trap, hold onto everything in my crazy, screwed-up world.
The little slips of paper mock me with their cartoon bombs, their explosions and the word: Crash.
The only time I’ve taken Crash—taken any street drug—was when Herzog forced two tabs past my O-ring gag. Even as I was triple-teamed by all three Herzog brothers, I thought the Crash was the worst violation of my body.
It raped my soul. It made me complicit in my brother’s addiction, in what I thought at the time was my brother’s death.
But I was wrong.
Crash saved me. The drug numbed me. It took me away from the barbaric things those men did to my body. It kept me safe when I could no longer protect myself. It saved my sanity.
Is that what Crash does for Leo? Is that why he can’t leave it behind, no matter how much I’ve begged, no matter what it’s cost him?
All these years, I’ve fought to change my brother. I’ve paid for him to go to rehab. I’ve given him a place to stay when he comes back to the real world. I’ve fended off all the people who weren’t willing to give him another chance.
But I’ve never truly understood him.
Crash!say the little pieces of paper.
