Rush (Carolina Bad Boys, #5)(67)

“It wasn’t your fault.” My nostrils flared. My fists balled in my lap.

“The doors were wide open.” Her lips trembled, and my heart crumpled. “I walked in, and he didn’t even care I saw him straight away. I tried to run, Max! But this goddamn stump—”

Shy slapped against her leg, tears dripping down her face.

“Don’t, baby. Please, don’t.” I grabbed her hands, but she wrenched them free.

I backed off, putting another inch between us, a frown digging into my brow.

“He caught me, but I already had my phone out. I tried to get you! I wasn’t fast enough. I’m never fast enough. He knocked the phone from my hand, threw it against the wall.” She smeared her fingers across her wet cheeks. “Told me to shut the fuck up or he’d kill you on sight.

“When you drove up, I wanted to warn you. I started shouting, but he pushed his fingers into my mouth, Max!” She faced me, scrabbling with my shirt.

“I have to hold you. Is it okay if I just hold you?” My hands clenched harder, bone-breaking hard.

When she nodded, I eased her into my arms. I kissed the top of her head.

“After we left you, I begged him to let me pay him. Told him to just stop at a bank and it would be done. No charges. He said I’d pay him, all right. But no way was he letting me go.

“I figured out how I was supposed to pay a couple hours later. There were five of them, including Diablo.”

My hands stopped moving on her back. I froze completely still.

“He shoved a gun against the back of my head. I remember, all their faces, their insults, every night, Max.” Shy collapsed against me, sobbing and shaking.

With my face buried against her hair, I murmured to her over and over again, “It’s okay. I’m here now. No one’s ever gonna hurt you again . . . You don’t have to do this . . .”

“I do.” Her voice steadied for a brief moment, and she lifted her face. “He told me if I didn’t”—she bit her lip, releasing it when it was bright red—“if I didn’t take their cocks into my mouth he’d kill you.” She wailed.

“Oh, Christ. Shy. Shy, baby.” I curled around her, a protective mass of muscle even though I hadn’t been able to protect her that night.

“The floor was dirty.” She haltingly went on. “It hurt to be on my knees. They forced my mouth open.” Her eyes distant and bleak, she whispered, “They came. They all came in my mouth and on my face. One after the other until I was gagging and puking and crying.”

I wanted to slice D’s black heart right out of his chest then feed it down his throat. I wanted him raped in the ass. I wanted him dead.

“They all laughed. Smacking my face with their penises, spreading the rest of the . . . of their semen around.”

I pressed my knuckles against my mouth, close to vomiting myself.

The red haze, the insidious hate, was back.

Shy inhaled, speaking as if in a terrorized trance. “The chicken thing. I didn’t know how many hours had passed. All those people cheering, and I could hardly stand up. There was nothing but pain.

“But you came. You came for me!”

“Not soon enough.”

“I just had to hold on. I just had to hold on for you . . .”

We clung to each other, our tears melting together, our bodies pressed close. That motherfucking night finally losing some of its grip on us as we held one another tighter.

I swiped my hands across my face then used the bottom of my shirt to tenderly dry Shy’s, too.

“I’ll always come for you, baby. I’m just sorry I tipped him off about your leg. If I hadn’t—”

“Don’t you dare.” Shy clasped my face between her two hands.

“What? None of that would ever have happened if I’d paid him off earlier. If I’d never gotten mixed up in trouble when I was younger. You know it, Shy.”

“I don’t care. No apologies. We take each other as we are.” Her chin jutted up, and her silvery eyes turned flinty.

“You sure?”

“You’re the thing I’m most sure about.” She rested her head on my shoulder.

Bringing her fingers to my lips, I kissed the tips. “I love you so much, Shy.”

“I love you too.” She suppressed a yawn. “I’m so tired, Max.”

“I know.”

“I miss you.”

“You don’t have to, baby.”

“Will you . . .” Shy stretched out, almost on top of me. “Would you take a bath with me, Max?”

“Try and stop me.”

It was the first time we’d both been completely naked together. I dimmed the lights, filled the tub, tested the water, helped Shy in.

We sat at opposite ends, warm water lapping the edges, glasses of wine close by.

Maybe the act itself—being close, freer from our pasts, with fresh water slipping over us—was cleansing in itself.

We watched each other quietly.

Washed one another softly.

Played footsies beneath the water.

It was innocent. Mostly.

Because there was no rush.

Not anymore.

And there was less pain.

Than before.

When we went to bed there was nothing between us. No doubts. No guilt. No clothes. Wrapped around one another.