Wrong Kind of Love

“Aw, hell.” Marney snatches something from the doorknob. “Damn Jehovah’s witnesses leaving their message about saving my soul. I told ‘em last year I was going to hell, and I was happy about it.” He yanks at the door, the rusted hinges groaning when it finally pops open. “There are bedrooms upstairs. You should get some rest.” He gives Tor a weird look before he flips the lights.

The place hasn’t changed in my lifetime. A godawful pea-green couch sits on the far wall underneath about fifteen mounted deer heads, and the big-screen TV in the corner has to be obsolete.

“Go on now,” Marney jerks his head toward the steps. “Go to bed and get some rest.”

I shoot Marney a confused look when Tor heads upstairs. “What’s that shit about?”

“What are you on about, boy?”

I stand at the foot of the stairwell, watching him as he grabs a beer from the fridge and pops the tab. I know Marney, and he’s acting weird as hell. Then again, aren’t we all… He glances at me and scowls. “Get on up to bed and rest up. I need your ass on high alert.”

Shaking my head, I climb the rickety steps. When I reach the room, Tor’s already in bed, curled into a ball. As much as my life is fucked up, hers has been fucked a thousand times more, and all I want right now is to hold her.

I strip down to my boxers, slip into bed beside her, and wrap my arm around her tiny waist. “What are you thinking, doll?”

“What do we do now?”

And what exactly do I tell her? I pull her a little closer, burying my face in her neck. “I’m going after Tom.”

“I just want this over.”

“Me too, doll. Me too.”

We lay in silence while I stroke my hand over her hair. I waver between losing myself in grief over my brother and giving in to the anger, and when the emotions become too much, I focus on her. The soft, clean scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin, the crisscross pattern her fingertip weaves over my chest. Life is made up of a million tiny parts, but this right here—us—it’s what makes it worth living. While so much of my meaning has been lost, she is my meaning, and she always will be. She’s an anchor, a bright light in a pit of darkness. She is the only thing that matters. And that will never fucking change.

I wait until her breathing evens out, and she falls into a heavy sleep before I slip out from under her and go downstairs to make some calls. I need to know where Garcia stands on a timeline to get this shit taken care of because I need to get us out of here.

28

Victoria

A noise tears me from sleep, but the nightmare of Tom’s hands still clings to me. I reach beneath my pillow for the gun I placed there before Jude came up to the room earlier, then sit up, and aim at the shadowy figure standing by the foot of the bed. "Stay the fuck away from me!" The weapon shakes in my slick hands.

"Tor, put the gun down."

Reality and dreams blur and then pull apart. Jude. It's Jude. I almost shot him. I’m such a mess that I thought he was Tom. Shame and embarrassment chase the fear, and I can’t bear Jude’s pitying gaze. When he comes to sit beside me on the bed, I get up and go to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

After the door is locked, I press my back to the wall and slide to the floor. The chill of the cold tiles ground me, sweeping away the remainders of the awful dream.

"Tor.” The handle to the bathroom door rattles. “Please put down the gun."

I glance at the pistol I’ve forgotten is still in my hand. He thinks I’m going to shoot myself. Do I seem that unstable? I guess it would be an easy way out of this... Quick. Painless. But I will never give Tom the satisfaction of breaking me so entirely.

“Please. Tor. Put it down.”

Guilt eats away at me at the vulnerability in Jude’s voice. The man who would normally batter down the door now stands on the other side, pleading, as though he’s terrified of pushing me over the edge. And that feels like the real tragedy right now.

I stand, and the moment I open the door, Jude snatches the gun from my grip. He pulls me into a warm embrace that makes me feel impossibly safe, an embrace I wish was enough to chase away my demons.

“You okay?”

“I thought...” That he was Tom. I don’t say it, though, because I don’t want to hurt him.

His arm tightens around me, pressing my ear to his chest. The strong beat of his heart soothes my soul like it’s my own personal lullaby. “It’s okay, Tor. It’s okay….”