4. Reed

Reed

4

"I'm sorry, baby. It was an accident." A hand roams up my side, and my eyes flutter awake. "You know I've been stressed at work lately."

Carter wraps his arm around me and pulls my back to his chest. The room is still dark, with the sun not yet peeking over the horizon.

He was gone all night, and even if he's brushed his teeth, the smell of whiskey still permeates out of him.

"Reed, I'm sorry. I love you. You know that. I couldn't do any of this without you. I'll die if you leave me. I'll fucking kill myself. You're everything."

His hand moves over me, down my bare leg. Holding me closer like it can heal what he's already broken.

I'm still aching in the spot where he kicked me, but I don't flinch as he brushes a palm down the wound. There's no use feeding the guilt when I've stayed once more and accepted it.

My temples throb from how hard my head hit the tile when he pushed me off the bottom step.

Thump.

Thump.

I focus on the beat of my heart vibrating in my mind and try to forget anything else.

"It's okay," I whisper.

It's not, but maybe if I pretend, I can erase this. Maybe he'll forget and just go to sleep so I can return to my nightmares. They've become more comforting than reality lately.

"I love you." It's getting harder and harder to say that, but I don't stop. Maybe if I say the words over and over, it will remind him of what we were when we started.

Carter's love didn't used to hurt so much.

I know I should leave him, but every time I try, something holds me back. His pleas, his apologies. He's my first time, my first love, my first everything.

This was supposed to be a fairytale.

Everything got twisted.

Carter hugs me tighter, and I count the seconds with my throbbing headache. Not that time will help. Comfort won't. His words won't.

Every time he touches me lately, all I do is hurt. I'm not sure I'm capable of feeling pleasure anymore when he's inflicted so much pain.

"I love you, baby," Carter whispers against the back of my head, sounding halfway asleep.

Sinking into his dreams like he isn't the key to my nightmares.

I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

Maybe if I say it enough, I'll believe it.

The smell of coffee filters into my senses, and I open my eyes. The feel of Carter wrapped around me is still present, even if I'm awake now. My cheeks are soaked in tears, telling me I've been crying in my sleep again.

It doesn't matter that I finally ran; I stayed too long. I might never be able to completely escape him.

I wipe my wet lashes and try to remember what it felt like to feel loved. To feel good. To feel anything more than the ashes Carter reduced my heart to.

Rolling over, I curl the blanket up to my chin and glance at the doorway.

The apartment still smells like Lyla's incense, even if she moved out, and it's comforting. It's familiar.

I hope Mason doesn't mind me staying here because I can barely handle waking up in general, much less opening my eyes to be met with the Twisted Kings clubhouse.

It doesn't matter how much my brother's turned that place around; it reminds me of the girl I'm not anymore. A girl who still had a backbone. A girl who met and fell in love with a monster.

The compound is a reminder of all the ways I've failed myself and my family.

The sound of dishes clattering and the coffee pot sputtering comes from the kitchen. Mason must be in there getting ready to start his day. The walls are paper thin in this place, and that's strangely relaxing because it means there are no surprises.

It's one of the reasons I slept with the door open. Part of me expected Carter to show up in the middle of the night and drag me back. This isn't the first time I've tried to leave, but it is the first time I've made it out of San Francisco.

I pull the blanket up tighter to my chin.

Maybe if I stay in bed, I won't have to face this knot tightening in my chest. Carter will forget and move on. If I stay here long enough, maybe I can cease to exist. I might as well already.

If it weren't for Lyla coming over today to check on me, I'd roll back over and try to sleep some more. I don't like people fussing over me. I'm not their problem when I put myself in this situation.

I've survived this long on my own.

But if Lyla shows up and I'm still in bed, she'll just worry more. So I manage to climb out and skirt the corner into the bathroom without Mason seeing me.

The moment the door locks, I turn to the mirror, and I take a deep breath. I do what I'm good at—I bury the ugly parts no one wants to see.

They'd prefer pretty, happy, smiling Reed.

So I dig her out. I put on her face—her strength.

Wrapping my hair up in a bun, I let a few pieces fall around the sides of my face to cover what they can. I didn't bring anything with me, so there's no makeup to hide the bruises. My eye socket is darkening, and Carter's backhand was hard enough to burst a blood vessel, turning part of the white of my eye red.

The cut on my lip has crusted over with blood, and it's disgusting.

If Carter saw me like this, he might be tempted to beat me again for allowing myself to be unappealing to him.

When we first started dating after meeting in Statistics in college, he made me feel like the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. His praise was unmatched.

I didn't realize at the time that it was careful manipulation I didn't see coming.

He would hyperfocus on specific details to train me to wear a certain amount of makeup and style my hair in a particular way. If I accidentally skipped a meal, he'd praise my body. I was only allowed curves if I maintained a thin waist.

His attention was a constant battle of satisfaction and starvation. I was desperate for anything he'd give.

Staring in the mirror now, I'm the opposite of everything Carter found beautiful about me. Not that it matters anymore.

Making my way down the hallway, I find Mason in the kitchen. He's leaning forward on the kitchen island, skimming through his phone while he drinks his coffee. He's in nothing more than a pair of gray sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt that shows off every ripple of tattooed muscle.

It's not fair for someone to look like that. It's been so long since I've appreciated a man physically, but I'd be blind not to notice Mason's dark-blue gaze when it snaps to mine. He looks like he actually cares, and it isn't just a front to make me feel better.

Mason stands to his full height, where he towers over a foot taller than me. He's broad in all the ways that should be threatening, considering Carter wasn't anywhere near his size and still managed to toss me around like a ragdoll. But I'm not scared of Mason.

"You're awake." He doesn't leave his spot in the kitchen. Like he thinks one wrong move and I'll retreat to my bedroom. "How did you sleep?"

I wet my lips, not sure how to answer his question when the taste of blood is still fresh on my tongue. He doesn't want to hear that I dreamt about Carter all night. How I dream about Carter every night because my body might be here, but in my mind, he hasn't let go.

"Sorry, stupid question." He shakes his head.

"It's fine." I make my way into the living room. "I slept okay."

It's not a lie when I'm still here.

I don't think.

"Coffee?" Mason asks, holding the pot up.

"Yes, please."

He pours my coffee into the same green mug I used the last time I was here, reminding me how strangely observant he is. Just because he doesn't commit to women doesn't mean he doesn't care about anyone.

Mason walks over to the couch and hands me my cup, sitting on the opposite side.

I'm used to people avoiding my gaze if they catch a bruise I haven't covered properly. It's easier for them to pretend they didn't notice than to admit to themselves what might have happened.

But Mason doesn't look away. His gaze sweeps to the spots on my arms, to my cheek. To my darkening eye socket, and to my lip. He doesn't hide his agitation as he meets my stare and grips his coffee mug tighter.

Strangely, it's comforting to have someone face it with me. Even if all it does is remind him how broken I am.

"I bet the last time you saw me you didn't think this is how it would happen again."

"It's still nice to see you." He takes a sip of his coffee. "But yeah, I hoped it would be under circumstances where I'm not sitting here itching to get my hands on the shithead who did this to you."

"I'm not looking for a prince to save me, Mason."

"Didn't say you were, Sticks."

"Sticks?"

He shrugs. "Like the game: Pick-up Sticks."

"Guess you're right." I tap my mug with my finger, waiting for the coffee to cool down. "I'm a mess."

"That's not why I called you that." He shakes his head.

"Then why?"

"Because I get the impression you've been keeping a lot of shit in, Reed." He glances at me. "And you're finally letting it go. It's not about being a mess—we're all messy. But most people are too damn scared to face it. Not you. You opened your hand and let it all spill out. You're facing it, and that's the bravest thing you can do. You're strong."

"Have you seen me?" I wave up at my bruised and bloody eye. "I'm not strong."

"What he did makes him weak, not you." Mason turns to face me. "Surviving that… being here now… that takes balls and fucking strength. Falling apart is easy but picking yourself up one piece at a time, getting your shit together, that's the hard part. You're tough as nails, regardless of what you think. You're not here because you fell apart. You're here because you're picking up the pieces."

"Pick up sticks," I whisper.

"Yeah."

I'm not sure I agree with him. He's hopeful if he thinks that this is me keeping myself together. I'm so far from being one piece, I don't even know where I lost all the ones that are missing. But I don't mind if Mason holds onto that belief for me. Maybe someday, I'll be able to carry it myself.

"Well, if you can remind my brother of that, I'd appreciate it." I knit my fingers on my lap. "Because all he's going to do now is stew until he gets his hands on Carter, and I didn't come here for him to save me."

"Your brother's always going to worry about you, regardless of how many times you tell him not to."

Something about how he says it makes me think he understands.

"Do you have any siblings?"

"A sister." His gaze drops to the ground. "We were close."

"And now?"

His eyes meet mine, and that dark storm I've always sensed brewing just beneath Mason's surface finds its way to the edge of his expression.

"Now she's dead. And every day I wish I'd worried about her more." Mason stands up, walking his coffee mug to the sink. "Your brother loves you, Reed. Let him."

He glances over his shoulder at me, and the pain in his eyes is almost too much to face. I don't know what happened to Mason's sister, or why he's chosen now to open up to me, but for the first time since I met him, I see deeper into a man who doesn't easily let people in.

I see a secret—not that different from the ones I keep. And if I had any more of myself to give, I might stand up, walk into the kitchen, and hug him.

But I don't.