Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(89)

Her fingers brushed absently at a clump of gray cat hair on her jeans. “I know you pretty well, Nikki. We spend a lot of time together. Lately you’ve been walking around like a zombie, exhausted, like you’re holding up the world. How can you be trying to handle everything yourself? You’re up against an entire company, a huge conspiracy. People are being murdered. It’s too much for any one person. Even you,” she added pointedly.

“I have everything under control,” I repeated. “Trust me.”

The words sounded flat and forced even to me.

“This isn’t what you do,” Jess went on. “Going after some asshole tough guy who hits his girlfriend is one thing. This is completely different. I saw the man who came into the bookstore when I hid. I still have nightmares about him.”

“I don’t need help,” I said tersely.

“Are you making the right decisions? Are you sure that you’re not too deep in this to even know what the right decisions are?”

“Don’t worry. I can handle it.”

I knew I was just repeating the same forced words over and over. Jess stood, giving me a last look. She left. The door swung closed. I sat on the bed next to Brandon. Sweat filmed his skin and his eyes were filled with restless energy. I could see his ribs against his chest, and I put my hand on his forehead, startled by the intensity of the damp heat emanating from his skin.

“Brandon,” I said softly. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes snapped onto mine. “Nikki? Nikki, you have to get me out of here. You have to get me something. She wouldn’t—but you will. I know you will. You look out for me.”

“We’re going to stay here,” I said softly. “I’m right here with you.”

“No! I need something! You don’t understand—I’ll die!”

I tensed, startled by the surety in his voice. I went into the bathroom and found a clean towel. Soaked it in cool water and placed it gently against his forehead. “We’re going to get through this, Brandi.”

He thrashed on the bed and his fingers found my arm. “If you really loved me, you’d help me. If you cared that I was sick you’d help. You don’t give a shit about me, do you?”

I said nothing. He shouted more things and I sat there quietly, dabbing the towel against his sweat-filmed skin, holding him. I looked around the room, seeing the untouched bowl of grease-filmed soup on a dresser, bottles of Gatorade and water, the plastic bucket next to the bed. His voice went on, raving, crying. I sat there with him, saying nothing, stroking his arm or dabbing his forehead with fresh towels.

Eventually he calmed. I thought he had fallen asleep but then he spoke again, his tone gentler, less tortured. “Nik?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Mom and Dad can see us now?”

I sat up. “What?”

“Mom and Dad. Can they see us now? Or are they just gone?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have no idea.”

“Why don’t we talk about them more?” His green eyes were fastened on mine with the most extreme lucidity.

I spoke slowly, unbalanced by the frankness of the questions. “It’s hard to talk about. And I know what you went through—I’m scared, sometimes, of bringing them up. In case doing that makes it worse for you. Or maybe I just got used to not talking about them.”

“Dad tried to save her. Did you know that? It didn’t do any good, but he tried. I didn’t try. I didn’t try to save anyone. I just hid.”

Tears had filled my eyes. I squeezed his hand. “If they had gotten you, I couldn’t have made it. Honest. You being alive saved me. That’s always been what’s saved me.”

Outside, the engine of a tractor trailer started up. The very dimmest light had started to filter through the curtained windows.

“I wanted to kill them,” he said. “Both of them. That’s all I thought about, for a long time. How badly I wanted them to die. I pictured it—every part, every detail—how it would happen. How I wanted it to happen. In my fantasies I killed them both a thousand times.”

My fingers were over his, but that didn’t feel close enough. I lay down next to him, held him, put my arms around him, willingly, gladly, feeling his sweat soaking into my clothing. “I did, too,” I said. “That’s all I thought about, too. It’s okay to think like that.”

“Carson Peters. They locked him up for good. San Quentin, right?”

“Right.”

“Think he’ll ever get out?”

“I hope so. Badly. But he won’t.”

“Jordan Stone.”

“Yeah.”

“The other one.”

“The other one.”

“I didn’t see what they did to Mom. I was under the couch in the living room and they were in the kitchen. I couldn’t see, but I heard it. I heard all of it.”

“You never told me that.”

“She asked why. That was the last word she said. Why. After she was—after it had started. She screamed it while she could still talk. They never answered her. The last question of her life, and she never even got an answer.”

“You never told me that,” I said again. Holding him tighter. Choking on my own swollen throat, my own breath.