Chapter 22

“These Pirates…” Deacon laughs, rubbing his temple as we listen to the Pirate and the Rebel go at it upstairs, above our heads. “Frickin’ rabbits,” he says, a lit cigarette between his fingers. “Just like her.”

Her.

He looks at me as I sit in one of our cushioned chairs in the living room, the headboard above banging against the wall.

We were standing in the kitchen when she ran in. We heard footfalls on the stairs, muffled talking, arguing, a sense of a struggle, so we stayed close, but then there were moans.

And something like screams, but they were the good kind. The kind men love to hear because they’re doing something right and not something bad.

We should leave now.

Dylan Trent cries out again, and I close my eyes, almost remembering the taste of moans like that. Almost.

Winslet MacCreary didn’t deserve the fun she had in this house.

“Just…like…her,” Deacon coos, smiling at me. “It was so dark in that room, I don’t think she knew which one of us was which most of the time.”

He looks away from Deacon, remembering the first time he and Winslet were in that very same room together where Dylan and Hunter are right now.

She knew which one was which. She always knew.

He descends the attic stairs, pushing the door open into the upstairs hallway.

Deacon sits up against the wall to the right, between the bathroom and our parents’ old room. He wears Army green cargo pants and no shirt, hanging one arm over his bent knee.

He rests his head back against the wall and grins at me. The house is dark, the storm killing the electricity and the streetlights outside. The moon doesn’t even pierce the clouds.

I jerk my chin, telling him to take a walk. It’s my turn now.

His smile widens, and he skips down the stairs, but he doesn’t leave the house. He wants to hear it.

I stop at her door, having only seen glimpses of her since she was traded to us in the prisoner exchange a few days ago. She knows I’m here, but I wanted him to have his fun first. He deserves it.

Opening the door, I stand in the frame, seeing her sit up in bed.

“Deacon?” she asks.

The night is so black, the rain can’t even find a speck of light to spread. It hits her window, and I make out my brother’s desk and bed. His pictures on the wall, and his nice curtains. He always took the most initiative with the house and making it look nice. His room is comfortable. She shouldn’t have it.

I walk in, pushing the door shut behind me, and stop at the bottom of the bed. I take her sheet and gently tug at it.

She lets it go, and I make out the shapes of her naked breasts, tummy, and the barest hint of panties in the dark.

I see her chest cave as realization hits. I’m bigger than my brother. “You,” she says.

She steps out of bed, but I’m there in an instant, grabbing the flashlight and tossing it behind me, into the fucking wall.

She covers herself with her arms. She doesn’t cover herself with Deacon. They’re both the same. Their hearts stopped working or maybe hers never did, but now that she’s old enough to pay for her crimes, no one holds her accountable.

I will. She’ll be destroyed when she leaves me.

Lifting her chin, she gazes up at me. “Everyone knows about you,” she taunts. “Your brain’s not right, is it? You used to be in a hospital? My dad said.”

I clench my jaw so fucking hard it hurts.

She steps around me, forcing me to turn.

“Everyone whispers about you like you’re a vampire or something,” she says, “But I think you’re probably just a little dumb. Can you talk, huh?”

I grab her arms and press her into the wall, bearing down.

She drops her hands, brushing a tit with her thumb. “Is this what you want?” she coos. “You want to make it with me? You didn’t have many girls in the psycho ward, did you?”

Fucking bitch.

I reach to the left of her head and grab the bookshelf, yanking it away from the wall. My brother’s books spill, the furniture toppling over.

I punch the door on her right and spin around, whipping the nightstand across the room.

“Oh, there’s the man of the house now,” she sings. “What a big man, you are.”

I charge her, holding her fucking little head in my hands, and all I have to do is twist.

“Come on,” she goads, but I can feel the shaking in her body. “Get it over with. Hurt me! I know you both want to. Hurt me!”

“I don’t want this to hurt,” I growl in her face. “I want this to be over for you very quickly, in fact.”

I don’t notice her hands are hooked around my biceps until she curls her fingers deeper.

We hold each other, and I wait for her to beg. To cry. To explain.

To apologize for what she did to him because the Falls always thinks that we’re shit to be dumped on and discounted.

But as I hold her and she holds me, I can feel it in her body. The heartbeat. The pain. And a head full of secrets, just like the rest of us.

But her pride, her ego, and her fucking mouth…

Why did my brother love her?

“How could anyone love someone so ugly?” I ask her.

She goes still, and when she speaks I hear the sadness in her voice. “They don’t.”

She doesn’t cry, and I almost drop my forehead to hers.

No, they’d don’t. No one wants damaged people.

I lower my hand, fisting the hem of her panties, and she doesn’t pull away. Her breasts graze my chest, and I curl my other hand into her hair, wanting her upstairs. In the attic. Tied in my bed.

But I kiss her forehead and release her. “Go to sleep.”

I walk out of the room, slamming the door behind me and leaving the house to stand in the rain.

“Did you see the blonde here the other night?” Deacon asks. “Quinn, they called her?”

The headboard upstairs has gone silent, but no door opens yet.

“I thought it was her from a distance,” Deacon says.

But it’s a joke because he knows it wasn’t Winslet.

I take his cigarette and suck off a drag. “She owns that bakery connected to Carnival Tower.”

I blow out the smoke and walk to the kitchen, extinguishing it under the faucet. I throw the butt into the trash can and see coffee grounds in the bag. She’s using the groceries I bought for her.

“She’ll be home again in May,” he says, knowing Frosted is only open in the summers.

I avoid his eyes, opening the stairwell door and pressing the panel to reveal the basement stairs.

“I want to get involved in this,” he begs, like he has a monkey on his back. “I want to play.”

“She’s too young.”

“Not as young as Winslet,” he points out, “and you had her crawling into your bed before school and after.”

“That’s enough,” I bite out.

We hear a door close upstairs, both of us staring at the ceiling as footsteps cross the hall and close another door.

“It’s not enough.” He lowers his voice. “I want more. And more. And more.”

I grab him by the collar.

“Our story’s not over,” he pleads, pushing me back.

I plant my hand over his mouth and wrap my arms around him, pressing him into the wall to shut him up.

Goddammit.

I listen for Dylan and the boy, not hearing anything coming down the stairs.

I stare at Deacon.

I’ve been able to keep him in check, but these fucking kids are opening up all of our boxes. It was kind of fun when Hawke found the tower. It was even nostalgic to see Weston get a girl in the exchange, especially with the kids here carrying on the legend. Like Winslet will live forever.

But…

Deacon wants to lurk. He wants to dial it up, and he wants to be seen.

He hums behind my hand, bobbing his head back into the wall. I release him and pull him away, so he stops.

He stands there, eyes locked with mine, and I notice his middle finger is threaded through the shackle of a padlock as he buttons his suit jacket. A chill climbs my skin, and I watch as the snake of a smile curls his lips.

“On Knock Hill, there goes a knocking, knocking,” he sings in a whisper, “and in the attic a rocking, rocking…”

He climbs down the basement stairs, his words drifting up as he goes and reminding me that this is all my fault, and once set in motion, Deacon will never stop.

“On the wind does bring a chill, the ghost of the girl…you did kill.”

I close my eyes, and I see her face. Always.