18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

I cherished the moments when Cassie and I were left alone. The ones in which we felt that we could abandon the chaos of the surrounding world and just sink into each other. I think we both knew that the privacy we were granted from whatever deity above was fleeting, and while I so wished that I could abandon all responsibility only to relish in our personal lives that had entwined with such beauty within darkness, I couldn't.

I told myself that, anyway, as we went about the day as normally as we could.

Grocery shopping.

Her accompanying me to the laundromat.

Finding a restaurant to eat lunch at while we were out.

Returning home and simply living.

It all passed far too quickly, and though we both relished in the occasional brush of our hands—a stolen kiss—an embrace that left us wanting to consume one another—I could see in Cassie's eyes that she was on edge. Every glance at her phone was with the intention of checking on Skylar. Brief texts were sent, read receipts were received, and her responses were quick and succinct, but Cassie continued to watch her screen with a narrow-eyed skepticism.

My questioning of it all was waved away, her muttered, "It's nothing," was continually repeated, and it lasted through the night—returning after ever-brief shared moments of peace until we eventually drifted off to sleep.

It was early. I knew it was early. The familiar feeling of being torn between reality and what occurs in the depths of my mind kept me in half of a trance. Physically, I was comfortable. Warm. I was well aware that Cassie was beside me in my bed, but for whatever reason, I was filled with dread.

My recurring nightmare attempted to cling to me, settling on my brain like a cloud of cigar smoke. Stale cigar smoke that lingers in your throat, burrows into your clothing, and coats your hair in such a way that it's damn near impossible to clean. The usual visions that I was familiar with were unable to be entirely recalled, and for that, I was thankful.

What did remain was water.

Water.

Covering me. Choking me. Drowning me.

It was new. It was terrifying. And I had no idea why .

"James?!" Cassie's alarmed voice rang through the haze, and I felt my body flinch in response, but my mind was not yet willing. "Wake up!"

I attempted to speak, but it came out garbled. I only managed to groan a nasty, guttural noise as I remained caught between two worlds. Oxygen ran through my lungs, but it seemingly did no good as I was starved for air, and I gasped desperately for its relief.

"Jay? Fuck… James!" Cassie's tone turned raspy. "Baby, please."

It was on her plea that my eyes were able to snap open. The ceiling of my room came into view. My breathing slowed to a normal rate. I slowly removed my right hand from my chest, finding my palm sticky with cold sweat, flexed my fingers into a fist and then released them, and rolled my head on my pillow to see her.

The moment that I was able to register her appearance through the dark, I inhaled sharply, sitting up so quickly that it dizzied me. The lamp on my side table was on in a flash, and the room lit up in an ambient glow.

Dark eyes red-rimmed, face damp, her tears were hot on my palms and continuing to fall down her cheeks as I rapidly swiped them away .

"Shhh-shh, what is it?"

She scanned me up and down, looking as if she had deduced that I was fully awake before hesitantly touching my upper arms. Cassie's breath caught in a quiet sob that eviscerated me, and she rushed out:

"Are you okay?"

"Am I okay? Cassie…"

I was certain that my expression was telling. That my nightmares had caused my heart to race—my skin to perspire in panic—my muscles to clench as if I were prepared to scream. I had woken immersed in them. Drenched in them. Yet the moment that I saw her, I attempted to whisk away the thought of being lost in my mind. The feeling wasn't gone, of course. The tremor of anxiety that followed my typical waking at two in the morning remained deep in my muscle tissue, but it didn't matter.

Well…it did matter .

But I was trying with all my might to push it to the back of my brain because the visions weren't real. Not at this exact moment of my life, anyway. And seeing Cassie with tears streaming down her face—whether or not she was trying to stem the flow of them with sniffles and rapid blinking—was nothing less than startling.

I had never seen her really cry. A tightening of her throat here or there, I had heard, sure. But crying—actual tears paired with a single sob— no.

"What is it?" I asked her again in a whisper. "Is—" My head whipped away from her and to the side table behind her where her cell was charging. "Shit, did something happen?" I looked back to her, assuming aloud, "Sky? Fuck— Liam? What's wro—"

"Jesus—no, nothing. Nothing happened." Cassie moved one of her hands to the left side of my chest as I sighed in relief, settling it in the exact spot that she does when she's seemingly trying to sense my anxiety level through her palm. More calmly this time, she inquired, "Are you good?"

"Nightmare. I'm fine, Cas. Are you?"

My thumbs brushed at the areas that had begun to dry, and she murmured, "Fine."

I shook my head. "Why are you crying?"

Cassie released me, reaching to usher my touch away from her cheeks. I let my hands fall to the little mattress space between us while she rubbed at her eyes.

"This is fuckin' backwards," she grumbled. "I'm good."

"Cassie."

"You just scared me, okay?" she blurted as she removed her palms from her face. "You looked like you were in pain, and I just…" Cassie looked to the left and right before landing on me and exhaling softly through her nose. "I didn't like that. "

I nodded, gently replying, "Okay, okay." Shimmying back down into bed, she followed me, and I muttered, "Come here."

Despite my cool sheen of sweat, she obliged, tightly holding me around my waist as she rested her head on me. It took quite some time for her grasp to soften—so long that my unease from my dreams had fully passed—so long that she could have gone back to sleep, though I knew that she hadn't.

Cassie eventually spoke into my pectorals, "What were they about?"

I understood the question without further elaboration. "Just bad memories. You know."

"Right…I do," she replied. Silence stretched between us, and I felt Cassie take a quick breath before stating, "I never really had nightmares."

"No?"

"No," she replied somberly, "but Liam did."

I found my hand stroking aimlessly up and down her back. "Oh?"

"Mhm," she hummed. "Teenage years weren't exactly the best. "

I whispered, "Right…I know."

"Always felt like he got the brunt of it," Cassie admitted. "After she left, we shared a room for a while. Sometimes he'd wake up screaming."

My insides coiled uncomfortably at the obvious, casual mention of her mother along with the confession of Liam's grief, and her reasoning for speaking of it sat heavy in my gut.

"Is that what you thought I was going to do?" I asked. "Wake up screaming?"

She shrugged. "Maybe."

The realization of the memories I had brought forth for her struck me deep, and I gave her a squeeze as I murmured, "I'm sorry you went through that."

Her shoulder bobbed once more. "It didn't last long. That was when he moved away."

The enigma that was her rough upbringing had consistently lingered in the back of my mind from the day that we had built the bench on her front porch. As much as I wanted to know her on a deeper level, it didn't feel right to ask about her formative years—more specifically, the time after her mother had died. I assumed we would speak of it eventually, and considering the depth of my feelings for her, I knew that it would hit me hard.

I simply hadn't expected that time to be now … and her words regarding Liam moving here to Salem caught me entirely off guard, for I had never considered the timing of it all.

I had automatically assumed differently before. That Liam had already left to start his life as an adult away from the town he had grown up in. That, maybe, he didn't have the financial means to return upon his mother's death…but that wasn't the case.

"Liam…left you?"

"Hmm?"

"You were fourteen," I recalled the information aloud. "Your mother died…and your brother thought it was a good time to up and pack his bags?"

"Oh." Cassie recognized my accusation and, as casually as she could, replied, "No, it wasn't like that."

"He left you alone with your abusive father," I noted, near-horrified. "I don't—Liam's so protective of you. I don't—I don't understand."

It exited me in a disbelieving tone, for it didn't sound like something Liam would do in the least. There were times that his overprotection of her resembled that of a guardian rather than a sibling, and try as I might to imagine the scenario, I simply couldn't.

She angled her head to look at me, sadness in her gaze as she audibly swallowed .

"This is a, um…bit of a band-aid rip conversation," she admitted. "There's no use easing into it. It just makes it…harder, I dunno. Are you sure you want to jump on this train?"

There was nothing but steadfast trust in her somber eyes, and my heart fluttered at the notion as I truthfully returned:

"I'm already on the train, Darlin'." Flexing my fingers where they had stopped on her waist, I said, "Just rip."

And rip, she did.

"She shot herself." My pulse slammed my ribcage. "In our home." My lungs burned. "Liam was the only one there, and he saw it happen."

My breath left me to the point that my, "Oh. God," was practically silent.

Voice a mere rasp, she said, "He didn't leave me. He stayed for months." Cassie rephrased, "He stayed in that house with me for months, but he wasn't…well. Begged me to go with him when he said he needed to go. We fought for weeks 'cause I knew he needed to leave for his own good, but he kept refusing to go without me. I just," she paused, "there was too much change at once for me, I think. I stayed 'cause I was young, y'know?"

"You were only fourteen," I whispered, perhaps more to myself than to her.

She just nodded, continuing somberly, "I don't think he'd be here if he stayed. After mom died, he spent more time bleeding than not. Carter was…he just didn't stop. He wouldn't have stopped."

The knowledge was gut-wrenching, and she watched me carefully as her words sank in. There was no misunderstanding them—she truthfully believed that their father, Carter, would have eventually beaten Liam to the point of no return. And while I knew through context clues within memories of months past that he was abusive—and it was clear that Cassie knew that I knew that—I hadn't fathomed the extent of it.

I don't think I could have without the explicit explanation.

For the second time in the last week, I thought back to the moment Cassie and I had met over the summer—when I had arrived at her home with the remainder of the group in tow. Liam's blond head was matted with red, a result of a car accident. She hadn't known—no one had explained the turn of events—and I recalled how she stormed across her front lawn. How her long, tan legs had marched up to her brother. How anger had contorted her pretty face as she roughly examined the injuries on his scalp.

She had thought that Carter had done the damage, then .

And it wasn't until now that I realized that it wasn't a stretch of her imagination in the least. There was no doubt in my mind that she had seen her brother in a similarly beaten state at the hands of their father, and I felt my stomach churn at the thought. Liam's face flashed in my mind: his smile lopsided and typically carefree, and an old, thin, white scar stretching over the left side of his lips.

I had seen it before, sure. It was just that I never considered it to be a trait that identified him. I considered what could have caused it— who could have caused it—and I knew there was no possibility that it would go unnoticed for me from here on out.

Cassie spoke once more, "He wasn't really gone when he moved, either. He drove back to check on me constantly…once a week, for the longest time until I was older. No idea how the fuck he afforded the gas for that."

She said the last sentence with a bittersweet chuckle, and try as I might to allow the sound to comfort me, it didn't. My throat was tight to the point that I wondered if the anguish would spread and I would cry on her behalf—on Liam's behalf. I didn't. I simply blinked as I let the reality of her past wash over me, and I debated my response for a beat before hoarsely questioning:

"Where did you live? "

As if she were unsure why I would ask that, she returned, "Hmm?"

"I mean…you didn't live with your father," I rephrased. "Right?"

"Oh…no, I did," she told me.

"Did he ever—"

"Hit me?" She bitterly hummed, "Mhm," but didn't elaborate any further. My teeth were clenched as she noted, "I steered clear of Carter if he was in a mood. It never really got bad for me. Got a lock for my door. I was fine, Jay."

I nodded, forcing myself to swallow any further remarks because she didn't need my sorries or my anger. I had plenty of it to give, but I knew that it was unnecessary. She also, remarkably, didn't seem to need my comfort. The story, even when coming straight from her own mouth, didn't cause her to crumble as it should have. Her tears from earlier were long gone, and it was just…her past. Lived so long ago that it was a simple fact rather than a sordid tale. I brushed her cheek with my thumb, she leaned into it, and I noted:

"You're such a strong woman, Cassie."

She smiled ever so slightly. "And yet…I feel like you could break me so easily."

The acknowledgment of whatever soft spot she had for me warmed me through .

I moved my head softly from side to side, murmuring, "Not a chance, Darlin'," because she was anything but breakable.

However, the walls that she naturally piled high for those who weren't close to her weren't symbolic of her strength. They were her defense…and that wasn't to say that her metaphorical walls were constructed of a sturdy brick that had inevitably crumbled to the ground. I hadn't chipped away at her, and she hadn't been bent so roughly that rock laid in a pile at our feet. No, instead, it was clear that she had willingly lowered them for me. Any vulnerability that she shared with me wasn't a slip-up or a crack in her armor…it was a gift. Something to be earned.

I knew this already, but the reminder made my chest ache, and I silently vowed to wear that badge with honor as I traced the edges of her cheek with my fingertips. She had broken me long, long ago…and truthfully, my body had begged for it. I needed to be disintegrated—splintered—shattered into glass pieces so tiny that I was turned to dust. I was a crystalline powder, and all of our hardships aside, it felt so goddamn good to be able to blow in the wind with her.

Cassie wouldn't break, though. I wouldn't allow it because she needed the control. She may have lowered her walls, but she was trusting me to keep her whole, and I would do just that.

I would keep her whole.

I pondered the thought while I should have slept. Kept the promise that I made to myself ripe in my mind as I laid beside her. Attempted to silently communicate the feeling through gently peppered kisses across her face to wake her when it was time for me to leave for work. Cassie had laid under the plush green comforter, the material pulled all the way to her cheeks. Her hair was splayed out on the pillows, tangles galore, and despite the fact that her eyes had fluttered open when I forced myself out of bed—despite the fact that she had given me a wistful smile when I kissed her good morning—despite the fact that I had murmured in her ear that I was leaving for work in approximately thirty minutes, and I had reminded her that she needed to go across the hall to her brother's apartment so she wasn't alone—she looked to have fallen back asleep.

"Cas," I whispered, but she didn't budge. I gently brushed the side of her face, and she nuzzled into my palm. I called to her again, "Cassie," and her only reply was a sleep-filled groan. A smile pulled at my lips. "Darlin', you gotta get up to go to Liam's. I have to get to work."

Eyes remaining closed, she nearly slurred, "Get back under the covers and call me Darlin' again."

"I would, but I have to go," I laughed. "Up. Dressed. Across the hall."

With a hefty grumble, she obeyed. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she haphazardly pulled on the comfortable clothing I had inevitably stripped from her the night before. I stole a last kiss from her before we opened my front door, we shared appealingly domestic adieus, and Cassie murmured that she would see me when I got home. She let herself into the apartment across the hall with the key Liam had given her long ago, I made a move for my car, and we went our separate ways.

It was unsettling being away from her. The daunting unknown that surrounded us—the mystery of whether Cassie was someone who could still be in danger—was an unfortunate constant…and the feeling of separation after deeming her presence a necessity squeezed my heart in a vice grip while I drove. But because it was, in fact, a constant— because there was no definitive yes or no to the question of her safety—because all we could do was stick together as a group, as we always did—normal life just…had to go on.

I listened to nothing but the sound of tires roaring against the highway pavement, and my attempt to will away my nervous meanderings was naught .

That is, until my phone lit up with a notification. Propped in its usual position in the mount to the right of the steering wheel, my eyes were off of the road for only a moment to glance at the screen. It read:

Cassie 7:43 A.M.: Have a good day. Analyze the fuck out of those spreadsheets. x.

The grip in my chest loosened as I let out a hearty chuckle; my cheeks heated as I quickly read it for a second time, and it was all I could do to unlock the screen with a swipe of my finger. I tapped on the glass face twice—first to access my call log and again to hit her name—and the ring only sounded through my car speaker twice before she answered.

"Long time no talk," she cooed.

"Just assuring you that my spreadsheets will be thoroughly analyzed," I said. "Vlookups and pivot tables are sexy, right?"

She laughed softly. "You don't use index match? Or Xlookup? We should see other people."

The only way I could describe the noise that erupted from me was a giggle .

"God, I like you."

Cassie hummed happily. "The feeling is very mutual."

My cheeks began to ache. "You're speaking pretty damn freely. I take it that no one else is awake yet?"

"Nope," she replied wistfully. "All by my lonesome. Lying on the couch. Wishing it was your bed."

"You know…it's dangerous to give a man an erection while he's driving," I remarked in a sultry tone. "Blood flow away from the brain impairs reaction time."

"Does it, now?" I could hear her smile.

"Mhm."

"That's too bad," she simpered.

"Thankfully, I'm a different breed of man," I confidently quipped.

"Are you really that exceptional of a driver?"

I was intending to respond with a joke referencing my ability to maintain a level head while my cock was hard. She would have disagreed because she knew as well as I did that that was a bald-faced lie. Our newfound filthy banter would have been a delight that yanked my head further out of the darkness that hung over me, and perhaps it would have even stretched on until I was pulling into the parking lot at work. I could see myself remaining in the warmth of my vehicle, minutes passing as we continued to chat away, and I would eventually stroll into work—guiltlessly several minutes late .

The red and blue flashing lights that illuminated behind me rendered all of that null and void, and all I could do was groan:

"I'm getting pulled over."

"So…no, you aren't that exceptional of a driver, then," she mocked.

I eyed a shoulder further up the highway in which I could pull over and flicked on my blinker to change lanes.

"Come on, Cas."

"Were you speeding?" she asked, gentler.

"I don't know," I checked my blind spot over my right shoulder. "Maybe."

"Not the best start to a Monday," she sympathetically noted.

I slowly braked. "It was going so well for a minute, there."

Cassie whispered, "Sorry, baby."

Shifting into park, the policeman filed behind me; the reminder that I had been pointedly avoiding people of authority for a reason flared my anxiety, and I was forced to mentally assure myself that I had no visible criminal record as I saw his door crack open.

I sighed, "I gotta go."

"Let me know when you get to work? "

I watched the man step my way in the rear-view mirror and muttered back, "Uh huh. 'Course. Bye, Cas," and rapidly ended the call.

Cold air hit my face as I rolled my window down. I reached for my wallet that was resting in my center console, and popped the glove compartment open to locate my car's registration. The policeman's steps were audible as he approached. I took a deep breath and righted myself in my seat as I let it out.

The first thing I noticed—aside from the gun holstered at his hip—was his lanky frame. He made no attempt to ease my strain to meet his eye, standing tall with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, and I had to crane my neck to the point that it slightly ached. Sunlight reflected off the mirrored frames on his face, he cracked a small bubble in the gum he was chewing, and he ordered:

"License and registration."

I nodded, opening my wallet to fish out my driver's license. "Can I ask why you pulled me over?"

The man's head cocked to the side, and the light glinted off of his sunglasses once more, flashing in my eyes and causing me to wince.

After a brief hesitation, he replied, "You were swerving."

"Swerving, really?" I returned. "When? "

His head moved once more. I flinched when the bright reflection caught me for a second time, and he asked, "You alright there, son?"

I was unsure as to why he was calling me son, as he only looked to be around forty years old, but I said nothing on that line of thought.

"Fine," I returned, pointing at his face. "Your glasses are catching the light." I extended a hand with what he had requested. "Here."

He took them from me but remained where he was, lifting his glasses away from his eyes. They sat atop his dark hair, the visible crispness of the gel in his short cut holding them upright. His gaze was skeptical as he squinted at me.

"You have anything to drink this morning?"

I was unable to hold back my disbelieving scoff. "As in alcohol?"

"Yes."

"It's not even eight in the morning, and I'm on my way to work," I noted.

"I'd appreciate it if you answered the question."

"No," I stated as quickly as I could. "Not at all."

His jaw worked on his gum. "Step out of the vehicle for me."

I blinked several times in succession. "Why?"

"Quick field sobriety test. "

I've always been staunchly under the impression that field sobriety tests can easily be failed. Trip on a rock while walking heel-to-toe? Fail. Wobble while trying to balance on one leg? Fail. The policeman thinks you could be under the influence regardless of the fact that you've passed everything they've thrown your way? Remarkably, fail.

"Respectfully," I nearly cut him off, "no."

"No?" he asked.

"I'd like to not be subjected to a field test," I stated. "Breathalyze me. I'll blow zeros."

He exhaled loudly. "Big guy, I don't have a breathalyzer. My portable one's on the fritz. If you're telling me that you'd like to deny a field test, I'm bringing you in under the suspicion that you're intoxicated."

The officer handed my items back to me, and I quickly stowed them in the center console.

Despite my nervousness at his presence, I shook my head and immediately unbuckled my seatbelt. "Then bring me in. Test me there. I'm telling you, I'm not drunk."

Snagging my phone from the holder on the dash, I placed it in my pocket along with my wallet that I had left in my lap. I turned my car off, pocketing the keys as well, and when I reached for the door handle, the policeman chastised:

"Slowly. "

I mumbled, "Okay, slowly, got it," as I stepped out.

"Face away from me, hands on the vehicle."

My eyebrows shot up. "For what? Are you patting me down?"

"Protocol, son, turn around."

The man then held up an index finger, twirling it in a circular motion.

I obeyed his request, but as I placed my palms on my car's roof, I quietly noted, "This doesn't feel like protocol."

His hands tapped along my ribcage and down to my waist.

"I'm assuring you aren't armed."

"I'm not," I replied insistently. A sharp pinching sensation on my right glute where his hand met my slacks made me whisper, "Ow."

"Apologies," he muttered, though it wasn't sincere in the least. "Spread your legs."

I did as I was told. He continued down either one of my legs, and once he seemed to be finished, I asked, "All good?"

"Set," he replied. "Hands behind your back."

"Hands behind my—why?" The clinking of metal sounded behind me, and realization snapped into place. "Am I being arrested? "

He reached for my right wrist, pinned it behind me, and made for my left. Either out of shock or compliance, I allowed him to do so.

"Yes," he said. "You're being arrested for being under the influence while operating a vehic—"

"You haven't tested me at all," I argued.

The handcuffs encompassed my wrists with a series of metallic clacks.

"You refused the field sobriety," he reminded me.

"Isn't that voluntary by law?"

He guided me by the upper arm toward his car. "It is. However, you were swerving before I pulled you over, you appeared impaired when I approached, and I can smell alcohol on your breath."

"I— Jesus, okay—one, I don't know when I could've been swerving. I was just talking on the phone. On Bluetooth, on my phone. My eyes were on the road. I didn't swerve."

The man tugged me along, and my steps faltered as my shoes scuffed a rock that was frozen to the ground.

"Watch your step."

"Two," I continued to plead my case, "I don't know how I seemed impaired, but the only thing bothering me was your sunglasses blinding me, and three," I powered on as he opened the rear driver's side door, "there's no way you can smell liquor on me. I haven't had a drop today."

He ignored me, placing a hand on the back of my head and saying, "Mind the door," as he ushered me to my seat.

I did nothing to fight him as I sat. The door was shut for me, I grumbled as I recognized a dull ache in my right leg, and I stretched it as much as I could to no avail. The moment the police officer returned to his own seat, I asked:

"What's your name?"

"Officer Dowler."

"First name?" I clarified.

"Randy."

We began to move after he fastened his seat belt.

"Officer Randy Dowler," I repeated his full name to myself in an attempt to sear it in my memory, "Is this when I'm told I have the right to an attorney?"

His eyes flashed to the rear-view mirror. "You're not getting brought in for questioning."

"But I do have the right?"

He watched me carefully, as if he were biding his time. "Yes."

It was then that I stopped talking. I assumed that we would arrive at the station, my belongings would be held for safekeeping, I would be offered a phone call or two, get tested for drugs or alcohol, and be subsequently released. I'd be late for work and cite having car trouble rather than going into the full story. I'd spend my free time during the day researching knowledgeable lawyers to seek legal action and report the fuck out of Randy Dowler because this felt like a massive abuse of power.

I pondered who I would call—whose phone number I had memorized. How long it would potentially take for me to get through this so I could return back to my car and go on with my day.

Officer Dowler performed a U-turn.

My feet began to tingle, and I internally cursed the hard seats and lack of space.

He peeked at me through his mirror.

Other thoughts in my mind muddled together, and eventually faded away when I realized that we were now headed away from the city.

He peeked at me through his mirror.

The tingle spread up my legs and to my hands.

He peeked at me through his mirror.

My limbs went heavy.

He peeked at me through his mirror.

My head nodded down to my chest.

Darkness took me.