So I do what I always do, even if I know it’s in vain: I fight. I struggle. I kick and punch and hit right and left.
And it’s just never enough.
So much for distractions and a fun afternoon. Shit.
Ash parks right in front of my building and turns to look at me. “Z-man. You okay?”
I’m wrapped in the picnic blanket, still in my soaked clothes and shoes. I sure as hell am not okay. And yet... just how sick is it that having seen Dakota lick her popsicle makes it all worth it?
“I’m fine,” I say, and even I wince at how dead my voice sounds. I open the car door. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Zane.”
The use of my full name from Ash stops me. He rarely uses it. I see his hand hovering by my elbow, but he isn’t touching me.
Of course he isn’t. If there’s one guy who knows me—who knows more about me than any other—it’s Ash. He’s been through his own hell. Back in high school, we hung out together talking when something bad happened to either of us. There were times I knew I wouldn’t have pulled through if not for him.
And then, when his dad went apeshit on him and almost killed him, when he joined an illegal fight club to escape home and was fucking stabbed and almost died in the cold, I refused to see the signs. Failed him. Found him at the last possible moment.
He says I saved him. I know better.
“Zane. Hey.” Ash is staring at me. “What happened back there? Man, I’ve seen you swim a thousand times. Why did you freak out like that?”
He has a darkening bruise on his jaw. I clocked him a good one, apparently, as I struggled with my flashback—memories that take over real time without warning. Guilt gnaws at my stomach lining. Which is why I stop and think about his question, instead of sending him to hell and climbing out of his car.
Because he’s right. He’s never seen me panic in the water before. Hasn’t happened in a while.
“I guess…I wasn’t expecting it.” My Mohawk is wet and dripping in my eyes. I wipe a hand over my face. “Caught me by surprise, is all.”
Ash is giving me the look, the one he reserves for me when he thinks I’m being a total idiot. “That’s bullshit, man. You don’t scare that easily.”
Or that bad. And that’s the problem. Ash knows me well—but he’s rarely seen me at my worst. Today qualifies as my worst.
“Not having a good day,” I mutter, being as honest as I can and prepare to exit the damn car and end this conversation. It’s dangerous. Leading way too deep.
“Zane…Who tried to drown you?”
The quiet question hits me like a punch to the stomach, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Memories crowd my head until I think my skull will explode.
“Hey.” This time Ash’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I jerk away.
“Don’t, goddammit.” I open the door and haul my sorry ass outside. “Just don’t.”
I pull the soggy blanket off as I stride to my building and unlock the door. Fuck, fuck. I run up the stairs, and when I try to open my apartment door, my hand shakes. I shove the key into the lock, and finally stumble inside.
What a fucked-up day. I grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf and sink into the sofa, not ready to take off my wet clothes and shower just yet. I just sit there, the bottle in my lap.
What the hell happened? I normally stay on top of this shit, don’t let it dictate my life. I guess it’s the mess with my sister. It fucked me up more than I realized, and then came the shock of the cold water.
Fucking trigger. I got a few of those. Like touching my back. Holding me down. Plunging me into cold water.
‘Who tried to drown you?’
Shit. I scrub my hand over my face, trying to push away the memory. It’s not very clear. It must be quite old, and I don’t like poking at it in case it becomes clearer. I have a few like that, that mess with my head. I don’t have a therapist, but I know one thing about triggers: you should avoid them.
Hell, all of us in the Brotherhood have triggers. Show Tyler a knife, and he’ll break out in cold sweat. Touch Asher without warning, and you’ll find a fist in your face. Dylan has a thing about smells I never quite understood, and Rafe… Well, let’s just say he probably has more triggers than me. That guy is seriously screwed up.
Like I’m not. Heh. I uncap the bottle and take a swig. The whiskey burns as it goes down, warming me up. I lean back and look around my living room. My drawings on the walls, my beaten-up second-hand furniture. My apartment.
Too quiet. Too empty.
Christ, Zane. I take a long gulp of alcohol and close my eyes. What I should do is change and go out, hit the bars and find a willing chick to fuck and blank out my mind.
So that’s the plan, but I don’t wanna move just yet. My lids grow heavy, and I’m caught in a twilight zone between waking and sleeping. I think I see more people in the room. They’re watching me, waiting to catch me off-guard. Their eyes glitter like mirrors.
Water is splashing. A bathtub, full to the brim. They’ll catch me and throw me into the water. They’ve done it before, many times. They’ll crouch around the tub, keeping me under as I thrash and scream.
They laugh, and it’s a singsong sound that chills me. I need to get up and leave. Why can’t I get up? And why won’t they stop?
I blink, and the paralysis leaves me. I sit up on the couch and manage to catch the bottle right before it crashes to the floor.
Not laughter. It’s the doorbell. Just the fucking doorbell.
I’m on my feet, weaving slightly, already half-way to the door, before I remember I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe Ash decided I’m acting too weird and came back to check on me? That’s not like Ash. He lets me have my space.
Ignore. Don’t open.
I hesitate. Glance around the empty apartment again. The faces and voices from my dream haven’t completely faded yet. A shiver wracks me.
This ain’t good.
Reaching the door, I glance through the peephole and make out a slight figure, dark hair with pink streaks. Dakota?
I frown. What is she doing here?
The question is moot. She’s here. As I open the door, and the faces and voices from the dream finally fade, something inside me unclenches.
This girl is big trouble…
Dakota steps into my apartment, her black leather bag swinging from her shoulder. She’s dressed in a yellow summer dress—the girl likes yellow, and the information goes straight into my Dakota file—and her dark hair is caught at the back, shiny strands framing her face and making those blue eyes look huge.
“Hey,” she says, and her low, musical voice does strange things to me. I get this sudden urge to grab her and crush her to my chest.
I take a step back, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“You left suddenly from the park,” she says, and I wait for the usual blather—how are you, Zane? Are you all right? Have you gone completely round the bend yet, or are you still thinking about it?
But she doesn’t say any of those things. She just smiles, turns and closes the door.