Jersey Six(81)

As if his pain no longer mattered, he studied her, torturing her with that look—the one that made her feel like his whole world. But she wasn’t. She was his punching bag, his toy, his most tortured victim.

Ian coughed, trying to clear his throat. “I cut her hair so the police wouldn’t unfairly judge her. I cut her hair so her next foster parents wouldn’t belittle her and call her a girl. So they wouldn’t buy him feminine clothes, sodomize him, and stick tampons up his ass to absorb the blood. I cut his hair so he could play on the boys’ basketball team because he wasn’t a girl … G was a boy. His name was Christian Guardian Faulkner.”

Ian continued to obliterate Jersey’s world. “Mr. Fisher said he wasn’t worthy of the biblical name, Christian, or a protective name, Guardian, so he called the boy G. And since the boy had long hair, he treated the boy like a girl. And when the boy tried to correct him, or have an opinion, or say a single word to anyone, Mr. Fisher beat him and raped him.”

“N … no …” Jersey sobbed, the knife shaking in her hand. G was the first person to really care for Jersey—to love her. G kept Jersey alive. G told her to be brave and run fast.

G remained in the forefront of Jersey’s mind every day. When Jersey fought, she fought for G, imagining every face she punched was Mr. Fisher. Not a single day passed where Jersey didn’t think of G, wondered where she was, if she was even still alive. Not a day passed that Jersey didn’t silently thank G for saving her.

“I left that life,” Ian continued. “After two years with the Russells, playing basketball with my friend Kessler Lockwood and watching him blow a basketball scholarship because of drugs, I changed my name. I followed my passion. And a few months ago, I found the girl who has haunted my dreams for over sixteen years. I found the girl who mattered more to me than my own life. She did sixteen years ago, and she still does at this very moment.”

Ian swallowed hard, sucking in a sharp breath as he put his hand behind him and eased to sitting with a hard thunk and another painful “fuck!”

“I …” he seethed, his clenched hand covered in blood, “let that life go because I killed a man to save the girl with the bunny.”

“If he killed them, it wasn’t intentional. He’s not a killer and neither are you. I think you might take a bullet for me, but I don’t think you’d actually take a life for me.”

“No …” Jersey shook her head over and over, covering her face with her hands, just her tortured eyes peeking at him over her fingertips.

Ian was G.

Guardian.

And he took a life for her.

“No … no …” The tears flowed freely, blinding her, drowning her thoughts, blurring reality.

Reality … she had no concept of what was real.

“Jersey!”

Her gaze shot to the door, Chris’s voice and pounding footsteps drawing nearer.

“Jersey …” Chris stopped at the doorway, face swollen and bloodied.

Her vision blurred as her ears rang, bringing on a wave of nausea from her stomach tightening. She blinked several times before her gaze shifted from his face to Ian’s bloodied knuckles. Everything stopped. Jersey felt catatonic.

At first, Chris sighed with relief before he homed in on Ian and his bloodied ear and the knife impaled in his leg. “Jersey …” His wild eyes shifted to her as she slowly grabbed the knife again.

It felt numb in her hands. Everything felt numb. “Your name is not Chris …” she said in a lifeless voice, wrestling with disbelief and the shocking reality.

“It … it is.” Her friend pressed his palms to the side of his head, vigorously shaking it while stumbling over his words. “He’s … that person is … he’s … he’s a liar. Using … Jers, he’s using me to save himself. You were right. He’s known all along. He’s playing us. He’s playing you!”

Her pulse slowed and an ache settled into her throat as she witnessed her friend unravel. She gave him a sympathetic nod.

Ian used both hands to apply pressure to his leg. “Kessler drove a black Charger.”

“See!” Her friend pulled his hands away from his head and held them up in revelation. “Kessler … Kessler drove a black Charger. I told you, Jers … I told you.” He pointed an accusing finger toward Ian. “For the love of god, Jers … just finish it.”

She looked at Ian as he glanced up at her with resignation in his eyes. “He did.” He grimaced tightening his hold on his leg. “Kessler drove a black Charger. He was strung out on drugs. He killed Dena and Charles. He didn’t stop to see if they were still alive. Then he drove home to his parents’ estate, parked his black Charger in one of six garage stalls, and set the house on fire. They were inside, still asleep that morning. They didn’t make it out.”

“No!” Her friend pulled at his hair, bending at the waist, squatting into a ball. “No! No! No!” He tugged and pulled, pinching his eyes shut.

Jersey watched more blood spread into the faded fabric of Ian’s jeans.

“NO!” Her friend shot up, eyes bloodshot with rage, a jagged board grasped in his right hand. “It ends now,” he gritted through his clenched teeth, taking a step toward Ian. “I love you, Jers. You are mine. He killed them. He played you. You let him inside of you. But you don’t have to be a whore anymore.” He took another step toward Ian. “I’ll save you. We …” he wrapped his other hand around the piece of wood, cocking his arms back like a baseball player readying his swing.