Vik (Shot Callers 2)

Had they forgotten I’d been through some shit myself?

Between my mother’s secret but frequent abuse of Lev and losing my dad to a heart attack when I was only twenty, one brother acting as mob boss while the other’s peculiarities drew the attention of those who could never understand the depths of his beautiful soul, I had experienced my fair share of hardships and heartbreaks.

I wasn’t fragile, but when they treated me like I was made of glass, it made me feel meager. Weak. Pathetic. Useless.

I wished they would let me be there for them as they had been for me.

By the time I retrieved the first-aid kit from above my refrigerator and hefted the box upstairs, the door to the bathroom was left slightly ajar, steam billowing out from the crack as Vik showered away whatever badness he’d somehow involved himself in.

Placing the box on the edge of my bed, I entered my closet and found the stash of clothes he’d left behind. I carried the entire stack, gently bringing it up to my nose and breathing in his spicy, male scent before reluctantly lowering it to its place by the white rectangular box.

And while he washed away his shitty night, I waited. At this point, waiting on Vik was second nature. A strangely familiar position.

Foolish girl.

The words were barely there, but I heard them so clearly, as if she yelled them directly into my ear.

The spray of the shower ceased, and a short while later, he stalked out of my bathroom wearing nothing but a tan-colored towel wrapped around his waist, his body covered in dew. I swallowed hard at the portrait he made. But when my soft gaze swept over the large reddish-purple mark at his ribs, an exasperated sigh left me. “You’re a mess.”

Vik grimaced as he attempted to lower his split brow. “I didn’t think before I came. I shouldn’t be dumping this shit on you. Not after—”

I didn’t give him a chance to finish. “She’s gone.” Then I dipped my chin and corrected, “She’s going. Every day, I hear her less and less. I’m fine, I swear.”

He’d been there for me. To deny me a chance to return the gesture would be an insult.

From my place on the bed, I shuffled back and crossed my legs, clearing my throat as I gently offered, “You can sleep here tonight.”

The walk to my bed was short, but he moved slowly, and although he attempted to hide it, there was a hobble to his steps. And my chest ached.

He was in pain.

With deft fingers, he dug into the pile of clothes, lifting, then examining each piece of clothing until he reached something that wasn’t clothing. Something I’d forgotten about.

He picked it up and examined it closely. “What’s this?”

My own brow creased as I leaned in to get a look at the item, and when I focused on it, my eyes widened, and my cheek flushed as I attempted to snatch it out of his hand. “Nothing.”

But Vik held it out of reach, further inspecting the item. “Wait.” He held the little plastic ball in his hands, and his tone held a small amount of disbelief. “I remember this.”

I thought about grabbing it and running, but it was too late. His deft fingers had already cracked the ball in two, revealing a small, plastic heart-shaped ring.

His stoic face harmonized his rough voice. “Venice beach. The pier.” When he tilted his head in thought, he muttered, “What year was that? Two thousand and ten?”

“Two thousand and eight,” I amended.

“Yeah,” he breathed in awe. “Jesus. Now that’s a flashback.” His lip twitched, but his brow pulled down. “I buy you platinum and diamonds, and this is what you keep?”

Embarrassment gave way to a deeper emotion.

Grief.

I couldn’t look at him then.

“I kept everything,” I confessed on a whisper, trying desperately to blink through the sting of unshed tears.

From the smallest trinkets to movie tickets. Lord. I even kept an empty condom wrapper from our trip to my family’s cabin in Piseco Lake. I dried flowers and bagged the petals. I kept notes and stole hotel room cardkeys. I had a jar of seashells from that very trip to Venice Beach. My photo albums were overly full, and I had no intention of halting my collecting, because every memory was as precious as the next.

His fingers slowly curled around the small plastic ball, holding it tightly in his grasp, and he remained quiet a short while. “I know you don’t want me here…”

Not true.

“…and I’m sorry for coming.”

Don’t you dare. Don’t cheapen this for me.

My gut clenched tightly.

And when he looked at me, there was a boldness in his heavy gaze. The bruise at his temple looked painful, and the cut at his brow seemed to wink at me as he uttered a low, “Do you want me to leave?”