The lock on the door turns and I tense up. I’m not sure if I’m better off alone or when Max comes in to chat with me. When he visits, he leaves the door unlocked, giving me a chance to escape. But I’m not stupid. How can I outrun him with my feet bound together? The knots in the natural fiber rope are too tight to work free and the room is stripped bare of anything I could use to cut through them. I can’t even chew through them—I’ve tried. Besides, my head feels odd, spacey—probably from all the chemicals Max makes me inhale.
“Time to eat,” Max says as if it were just any old day and we were a couple, about to enjoy a normal meal together.
“Max, you have to let me go. I need my medicine.”
Max puts the tray down on the bed and stares. He studies me for so long with those cold, almost reptilian eyes that goose bumps prick my skin.
“What medicine?” he asks.
I swallow down my fear. “I have seizures, Max. I can’t skip my medication. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”
“You had one seizure, Britt. At the fight in Vegas.” Those empty eyes narrow and another chill goes through me.
“No, Max. I had a brain injury, when I was fourteen. If I hit my head hard enough or skip my meds, I can have seizures. If it’s a big enough seizure, I can end up a vegetable or brain dead.” As strong as I’m trying to be, my hoarse voice trembles.
Max continues assessing me, unblinking. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”
“Check behind my left ear.” I tilt my head for him. “There’s a scar where I had brain surgery.” Max glances at the door and back. Fear jolts through me when I realize what he’s thinking. “You don’t need the cloth, Max. It might cause a seizure. Just look at me. I promise I’ll stay still.”
He approaches slowly, his gaze predatory. It takes all my willpower not to scream or flinch when his cold hands sift through my hair, parting it to see my scalp. I feel his fingers slide along the twisted tissue where the doctors removed the bullet. After an eternity, he sits back.
“I believe you.” I exhale in relief. Max moves back, standing over me. “I was whispering in your ear the entire time I was looking at your scar and you didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
I shake my head, too frightened to respond. He’s too close and his touch makes my skin crawl. With a sharp nod of his head, Max leaves the room, coming back a few seconds later with the cloth in his hand.
“No, please!” I scramble back, pressing against the headboard, the sheets twisted up beneath my feet.
“It’s for your own good, Britt. Until you love me back, it’s really the best way. If you want me to get your medication, you won’t fight me.” Max grips my head firmly and presses the cloth over my face. No matter how many times he does it, I still struggle against the pull of the fumes.
At least one good thing comes from it. When I’m sucked into the blackness, I’m not afraid anymore.
Keller
I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt. Here I am, big badass Killer, sitting in my car bawling my eyes out like a fucking baby. But the thought of something happening to Britt… the realization that something did happen to Britt ten years ago… it’s too much to not let it hurt. Even for a cold bastard like me.
With unfocused eyes, I stare out the windshield at the concrete wall of the garage, wanting Killer to make an appearance, wishing for the numbness I use to keep everyone out and emotions suppressed. Just a fraction of that strength could end the agony that plunges a fist into my heart, squeezing the organ in its icy grip until I can hardly breathe.
Just as quickly as I wish for Killer to return, I change my mind. If I didn’t feel this way—feel the searing pain in my chest, know that I have an actual heart to break—it would mean I don’t have Britt in my life. And above everything else, I want her in my life. The thought of losing Britt, the possibility of already having lost her, cuts me down at the knees.
My once dead heart falters at the thought. I can’t lose her. I love her.
Fuck. I love her. How did I let that happen?
It doesn’t matter. Right now, I can’t do a goddamn thing to find her and fix whatever she’s going through. It makes me want to tear something or someone to shreds. To break bones and shatter objects and throw a violent, rage-infused tantrum. The only thing that stops me is knowing it won’t help Britt. I take a deep breath and get out of the car. All I can do is wait for her to come to me, and I despise the feeling of helplessness.
Mentally drained, I head for the elevator, my head so full of “feelings” I don’t notice the cherry red coupe until I’ve passed it by. Doing a double take, I spin around and hurry to its side. Granted, it could be anyone’s car, but a beacon of hope sparks like a flicker of light in a dark ocean. There are hundreds of red BMWs in Atlanta, possibly thousands. Yet, somehow, I know this one is Britt’s. Circling the car, I cup my hands and look through the window. It’s immaculate, except for a glint of metal on the front floorboard.
I scan the garage for something I can use to break the window. Finding nothing, I pull off my shirt and wrap it around my hand. One hard strike and the glass shatters into a million tiny pieces. I reach in and pull out a silver chain with a purple crystal pendant.