“We’re tired,” Chevy says. Simple. To the point. I like it.
“We’ll be right outside.” I can’t tell if that was my mom or Chevy’s mom and I’m honestly too tired to figure it out. Instead, I study Chevy’s jaw. There’s a bruise and I don’t like it. I wish I could wave my hand and he’d be healed.
Shuffling of footsteps on the wooden floor, then Chevy calls out, “Eli.”
“What do you need?”
“I need sleep.”
So do I.
I angle my head so I can witness Eli’s response, to see if he understands what Chevy’s really asking, what I need to know before I can let myself drift.
“We’ve got every entrance and exit covered. No one’s coming in here if you don’t want them. You’re safe to rest. Get some sleep, we’ll get you both home soon and we’ll take care of you there, as well.”
“Thanks,” Chevy says. Eli leaves and I watch as the door to Chevy’s room closes.
Silence.
There’s silence.
Not really silence.
There’s the sound of my breaths coming in and out. The sound of Chevy’s breaths coming in and out.
Chevy shifts so he’s under the covers with me, moving so that I can nestle exactly where I want to be—my head on his chest, my arm around his stomach. Chevy holds me tight, his fingers tunnel into my hair and then eventually discover my temple. He starts that slow circle massage and my eyes eventually close.
“I’ve got you, Violet. I swear to God I’ve got you.”
And there’s no more thrumming.
Just his heat, warm covers, his heartbeat, his promise, the rise and fall of his chest and my body wrapped around his.
This. Just this. I’m finally home.
CHEVY
Violet: You look tired.
Me: I am.
Violet: Have you been able to sleep?
Me: Not since the hospital. Only when I slept with you.
Violet: Me either. There’s this buzzing in my head that keeps me awake. I wish there would be silence. Everything seems too loud now. Like a TV with a broken remote.
Me: I get it.
Violet: I thought you would.
“SHE’S QUIET,” SAYS OZ. “I don’t like it.”
I pocket my cell, wanting to keep the messages between me and Violet private, then pick the football up off the ground. I glance over at the wraparound porch. Violet’s on the porch swing and she places her cell on her lap, but doesn’t look in my direction. Doesn’t let on at all that we’ve been chatting back and forth, sharing secrets via short words on a screen.
Her legs are propped up and she’s listening to her younger brother, Stone, who is in the Adirondack chair next to her. He’s telling her about some movie he and I watched last night.
In fact, he’s told her about every movie he’s watched while Violet and I were gone and while she was in the hospital. As long as he has her attention, he’ll keep talking, and knowing Violet, she’ll sit and listen. Even if we hadn’t been kidnapped, Violet has always given Stone her time.
I make a mental note that one of us will have to swoop in and give her a break. “Violet’s listening to Stone, that’s why she’s quiet. She doesn’t interrupt him unless she has to.”
“It’s more than that,” Oz says.
It’s a warm day. Sun’s shining. White clouds. All the poetic shit. Fall’s like this in Kentucky. Rainy and cold one day, warm and sunny the next. Keeps going like this until December and then it’s nothing but gray clouds and balls-fall-off freezing until mid-March.
I’ve been here at Cyrus’s for a few days. Violet was released from the hospital last night. Right before they were about to release both of us, she hobbled to the bathroom and vomited.
Hospital kept her until she could hold food down. Some doctors thought it was a stomach bug. A few thought it was an allergic reaction. Others thought it was some sort of Acute Stress Disorder. After she got over that, the specialist kept her in for her knee. First they thought they were going to do surgery, then the MRI showed the damage wasn’t as bad as they thought. They ended up giving her physical therapy for treatment.
Either way, I hated being away from her.
“Razor’s quiet.” I motion to our best friend, who’s walking across the field, away from us. “You don’t complain about him.”
“He was born quiet. She was born to tell us what we’re doing wrong.” Oz takes after his mother with black hair, and like his father, he’s tall, has fists like a brick wall, and he’s a patched-in member.
He’s a year older than me and, like Razor, I consider him a brother. Violet, Razor, Oz and I grew up together on this property. Slept in the old log cabin house that Cyrus calls home. His wife, Olivia, used to help us catch fireflies in this field on late summer nights.
Across the yard is a two-story three-car garage that was converted into the clubhouse for the Terror. The day is nice enough that the garage doors are rolled up. Some of the guys inside are watching the TV over the bar. A few are playing pool in the corner.
The four of us learned how to crawl on those sticky floors, played tag in the crowd during the hundreds of family dinners the club had as we grew up. Hell, I first found the courage to take Violet’s hand on the picnic table Pigpen’s currently sitting on as he drinks a beer.
He’s been Violet’s shadow since Eli left town with Cyrus a few days ago.
“Violet’s talking,” I say.
The look of utter disbelief is warranted. Violet is talking again, but she’s not herself. Spends more time silently watching than letting her thoughts roll off her tongue. It’s making every guy in the club, including me, edgy.
But then again, I only got to see her in a crowded hospital room, and since she’s been home, her brother has been stuck tight to her. As much as I want a few minutes alone with her, Stone deserves this time with his sister. He needs to know she’s okay and that it’s not his fault we were taken.
“Leave her be, okay?” If Violet wants to stay quiet, she can stay quiet. If she wants to run through the clubhouse like a crazy person and break every glass in sight, she can do that, too. “Violet saved her brother’s life. Saved mine, too.”
“I’m not coming down on her, I’m concerned. I know Violet and I haven’t gotten along lately, but I still love her.”
My gut twists because that’s how I feel about her silence, too, but Violet’s got too many people in her face hoping and praying she’ll return to normal. Each hour that passes, I’m beginning to realize they want her to act normal so they can start to feel better about what happened. It’s how people are also acting around me.
They smile too big. Pause for too long. Can’t seem to find easy conversation. It’s uncomfortable and it doesn’t help this strange sensation that I’ve had since leaving the hospital. Like the rest of the world is moving in fast-forward and I’m creeping along in slow motion.
Fucking sucks.