Destructive (Combative Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  “No.” I kiss his mouth, his jaw. “Don’t be sorry, Nathaniel… just be—”

  “Fuck,” Kyler snaps, dropping Nate’s arm. “Maddy, you need to give him mouth-to-mouth.”

  I look up at him, my eyes wide. “What? Why?”

  “Can you do that or not?” he yells.

  “I don’t… I don’t…” I look back at Nate, his eyes closed, and for the first time since we were reunited, his features are relaxed… as if he’s finally found peace.

  My heart… he’s my goddamn fucking heart.

  “Nooo, Nate…” I kiss him again, my heavy tears landing on his cheeks. “Noooo!”

  49

  BAILEY

  Tiny rides with Nate to the hospital.

  Ky calls Jackson.

  I call the agents.

  We take separate cars there.

  Ky doesn’t ride with me.

  When we get there, Tiny’s pacing the waiting room. The agents flash their badges, giving them full access behind the sliding doors of the ER. They give clear instructions to the nurses behind the desk: no one else is to enter. Not Tiny. Not me. Not even the detective.

  Tiny stands by the door; Ky and Jackson are sitting against a wall opposite. I sit in the middle. No one approaches me. Because everything’s changed and nothing will ever, ever be the same.

  The minutes feel like hours as we wait and wait. And then the doors open and Ashton walks in. “Tiny!”

  “Ash!” He’s quick to catch her in his arms, embracing her, shielding her. “We haven’t heard anything yet.”

  Ashton looks around the room, and when her eyes find mine, they narrow. “Do you know what happened?”

  “No.” I shake my head, attempt to sit taller. “He just came in and… and…” And I can’t say anymore, not only because I don’t know any more, but because the giant knot in my throat prevents it. I stare down at my lap, unable to look at her any longer.

  “You should sit down,” Tiny tells her. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”

  It doesn’t take long. A doctor comes out first, followed closely by the agents. “Nathaniel DeLuca?” the doctor calls, looking around the room.

  Ashton gets to her feet. So does Tiny.

  “You’re immediate family?” he asks them.

  “I’m his wife,” Ashton says through a sob, then motions to Tiny. “And this is his brother.” She glances at me but doesn’t say anything more because I…

  I am no one.

  “I’m Dr. Christoferson,” he tells them, leading them to a room just off the waiting area. A window to the room allows me to see inside, but the barrier’s enough that I can’t hear what they’re saying.

  Ashton and Tiny have their backs to me, and I watch the doctor’s mouth move, ignoring the arm that slips around my shoulders, pulling me into him. I can tell by his aftershave that it’s Brent’s chest my cheek’s pressed against. I don’t look at him. Can’t. Because I can’t take my eyes off the doctor.

  It’s strange… that a single intelligible sound can mean so much. Ashton’s cry pierces through my chest, directly into my heart, creating a void, and I watch her collapse, fall into Tiny’s arms. My sob is silent and I turn into Brent, let him be the one to hold me. “I’m sorry, Bailey.”

  The door behind me opens, and Ashton’s cries drown out my own. I turn to her, just in time to see Tiny holding her back by the arms, her legs kicking out. “You motherfuckers!” she screams.

  “I’m sorry, Ashton,” Perceval says. “If there’s anything we can do...”

  She lets out a laugh, cynical, and Tiny releases her. “Haven’t you done enough?” she yells. “You put all of this on his shoulders, and what did you get from it?” She swipes every fresh tear that falls from her eyes. “You got no closer to anything… and I—I got a dead husband!”

  A sob bursts from my throat.

  “And you,” she spits, stopping only feet away. “You have no right to cry! You did this to him!”

  “I’m sorry,” I cry.

  “He gave you his heart, Bailey! And he died because you broke it!”

  “That’s not fair,” Brent tries to step in.

  “She’s right,” I whisper, glancing over her shoulder at Tiny. I look right into his eyes and see the pain he carries. And of everyone here, he would feel it the most. He just lost his best friend, his brother. “I’m sorry, Tiny.”

  He nods once, the only response he’ll give me. He won’t talk to me. Won’t look at me. He saves it all for Ashton. “Come on,” he says, taking her hand. “Let’s get you home.”

  I watch them leave, her cries never-ending. I lower my gaze, my mind, my heart, my entire body numb. I’d never been close enough to anyone to actually feel loss, and now it’s here, and I don’t know what to do with it.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Brent tells me. “You did nothing wrong. People’s sadness can come out in anger, and grief—grief is the saddest, most unpredictable emotion of all.”

  “That’s a nice speech and all,” Jackson says, and we all turn to him. He’s on his feet now. Next to him, Kyler’s still in his seat, his head in his hands. “But when exactly is anyone going to tell us what the fuck is going on?”

  Brent heaves out a sigh.

  It’s Perceval who answers: “Clear an interrogation room at your precinct. We’re going to take Bailey home, and we’ll be right there.”

  Kyler groans, lifting his head just enough to glare at us. “Who the fuck is Bailey?”

  50

  BAILEY

  “If anything happens, or when I know for sure that all of this is coming to an end—good or bad—I need you to do something for me.”

  My mailbox is empty. No matter how many times I open it, it’s always empty. I’d spent weeks pulling away from him and now… now all I want is to see him one more time, to hear his voice, to feel the way he looks at me. But I can’t. He’s gone, and my mailbox is empty, and I don’t know what to do now.

  It’s been three hours since the agents left me here, and now they’re in a room with Ky and Jackson, and they’re going to tell them everything. Everything. And Ky—he’s never going to want to see me again. But, I need to explain things from my perspective. I need him to know that what I felt for him was real, even if the circumstances that led me there were a lie.

  I sit on the chair in the lobby, determined to speak to him. People come and go, ignoring my disheveled state and the tears that don’t stop flowing.

  Another hour passes before Ky walks through the door, Jackson only a step behind him. They look like they’ve been to hell and back. If only they knew what it was like to live that hell.

  I get to my feet, my heart hammering against my chest, my mind filled with the words I’ve practiced. Kyler approaches, his eyes locked on mine, and relief washes through me. I open my mouth, his name right there—ready to be spoken—but then he walks past me, bypassing the elevator and taking the stairs, and all I can do is stand there and watch because this is who I am.

  Who I’ve always been.

  Discarded.

  51

  KYLER PARKER

  I refuse to look at Doctor Aroma when I ask, “You said your parents were on crack?”

  “Yes, I did say that.”

  “Were you serious?”

  “No, Ky. It was a metaphor. They’re just loopy.”

  “My parents were on crack. No metaphor.” I uncross my arms and look around her office. “They your parents?” I ask, looking at the framed picture of her in a graduation gown with an older couple. “Yes.”

  “I could have been you,” I mumble.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I found my birth dad. He’s straight-edge. I could’ve gone to college, gotten a degree. I could have been you.”

  “And why do you think you didn’t turn out that way?”

  “Like I said, my parents were on crack.”

  “And it affected you how?”

  “I’m allowed to be bitter, right?” I ask
, ignoring her question.

  “You’re allowed to feel however you want to feel, Ky.”

  “As long as it’s not angry?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because it leads me here.”

  “To my office?”

  “No.” I look back at her. “To the edge of destruction.”

  “Huh.” She sets her pen and paper down on the table beside her, no longer needing to take notes. “Do you think you have an anger problem, Ky?”

  I shrug.

  “Are you always angry?”

  “No. Not always.”

  “So, when?”

  “I don’t know,” I huff out. “When bad shit happens.”

  “So…” Her eyes shift from left to right. “When bad shit happens, you get mad?”

  “I guess… this is stupid. Can we talk about something else?”

  “We could,” she says, “but let me clarify before we move on from this. Bad things happen to you, and you get mad?”

  “Yes.” Jesus. I hope Jax isn’t paying for these sessions out of his own pocket, because clearly, she’s not worth it.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, both hands raised in front of her. “I’m struggling to see how that’s a problem. Everyone reacts to bad experiences, and yours is anger. Others will shut down, or get upset, sad, devastated. You get angry, and that’s okay, Ky. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  I open my mouth to speak but then clamp it shut.

  “No, no.” Dr. Aroma sits taller. “Tell me what you were about to say.”

  I sit down opposite her, my head between my shoulders. “I had a pretty messed-up childhood, right?”

  “To say the least, yes, Ky, you did.”

  Nodding, I tell her, “I could get the shit beaten out of me, and it never really… I don’t know. It never got me worked up to the point of anger. I was just… I was more sad and disappointed, I guess.”

  Her lips kick up on one side. “So when do you think it started?”

  I sigh. “When Jeff died.”

  “And Jeff is…?”

  “Jackson’s dad. He was the only real father figure I had, so it hit pretty hard. For a long time, I blamed his death on myself, and that guilt… that guilt turned to anger, turned to rage.”

  She’s quiet a beat, her eyes downcast. “Losing someone important to you is… There are no words to describe it.” She looks up at me now, her eyes right on mine. “Did Jackson and his mother help you through it?”

  “They tried. Definitely.”

  “That’s really all we can do to be there for someone in their time of need, Ky.” Her smile is sad. “We just try.”

  52

  BAILEY

  Madison: Are you there?

  Madison: Nate?

  Madison: Call me when you get this.

  Madison: NATE!!

  I hold the phone to my chest while sob after sob wracks through my body. It’s been an entire day of feeling like this. I try to fill my mind with something else, something more, but the emptiness keeps outweighing it.

  Madison: Hey!

  I stare at the phone, waiting for a reply. When nothing comes, I pick myself up off the floor, start pacing the living room. I need to do something, anything. I go to the kitchen, open the fridge, but everything makes my stomach turn. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. And then my phone rings. I’m quick to answer. “Nate?”

  “Madison?” It’s Debbie. “Is everything okay?”

  I hang up because I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone. All I want is Nate, and Nate is…

  I pick up a bowl of leftovers and throw it against the wall. I do the same with the carton of milk, and then I do it again, one thing after another, tear after tear falling from my eyes. I need the fridge empty, as empty as I am.

  I laugh hysterically when plastic cracks, when glass breaks into shards. I like the sound of my laughter, the warmth that floods my insides. And so I find more things. The lamp in the living room—I smash that into the TV, cackling when sparks fly in the air. Then I empty the kitchen cabinets, searching for something big, something heavy. A rolling pin! Perfect! I take it to the bedroom, smash the TV there, and I’m no longer empty. I’m excited! Elated! I go to the bathroom: my perfect escape. The shower door doesn’t smash into shards. It crumbles. That’s not fun. And so I take on the mirror, give myself a moment to look at the woman staring back at me. There are still areas of void, but not for long. I smash the mirror. Again and again, my breaths short, my heart racing. I scream, flinching at the sound. So loud. My throat burns. I step on a shard, not feeling the pain. And that’s when I notice it. The tiles. So many tiles in such a little space. So much perfection in such a horrible world. I sit on the floor, my back against the wall, and I count them. One by one. These tiles are different. Nate’s were rectangular.

  “One, two, three, four…”

  These are hexagonal.

  “Five, six, seven, eight…”

  It’s harder to count these…

  “Nine, ten, eleven…”

  The patterns play tricks on my mind.

  “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”

  A loud bang sounds from somewhere outside, and I curse under my breath, wipe the tears from my eyes so I can see clearer. I lost count. Fuck. So I start again…

  “One, two, three, four…”

  “Jesus Christ.” It’s Kyler. He’s here, but he’s too late.

  “Shhh!” I tell him. “You’ll make me lose count.” I raise a finger in the air, use the tip to guide me. “One, two, three, f—”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  My eyes drift shut, irritation swarming my airways. “I’m waiting. And you’re making me start all over again.” I lick my lips. “One, two, three—”

  “Madis—I mean, Bailey… what are you doing?”

  “Just counting the tiles while I wait…”

  “Wait for what?”

  “For him to come home. Or at least message me.” I raise my finger again. This time, I count in my head. One, two…

  “Waiting for who?”

  I drop my hand, annoyed. “Nathaniel!” I look up at Ky. “When I was in his basement, it was all I could do to pass the time until he came home. His tiles were different. These are harder. In the other basement, the one with the drugs, it was just concrete. There was nothing to count besides the drugs, so I did it a lot. But the more I did it, the more time would come where there’d be nothing to do so I had to space it out or I’d go insane, you know? He only came once a week, so if I did it too fast, I’d just…” I take a breath. “I’d do nothing for days. He was a bad man. Scary. But I’m pretty sure Nate killed him, or at least he had someone do it. I’m not sure. But he was a bad man. Scary. I was afraid he’d touch me. Rape me. But he never did. It was only that one guy. Pauly, I think his name was. He tried. I killed him. Benny’s gone missing. Brent says there’s blood. I wonder who killed him. Ashton’s his daughter; I didn’t know. But Nate hasn’t responded to my messages. Maybe he’s busy. Do you think he’s busy?”

  Kyler doesn’t respond; he merely looks down at me, his eyes red. He chews his lip when he squats down in front of me. “Bailey…” he says, looking around the room. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re sad.

  I tilt my head. “Why are you sad?”

  A heavy breath leaves him. “I’m sorry, Bailey, but Nate’s not coming back.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I scoff. “He’s just busy, that’s all. He probably had a—”

  “Bailey,” Ky cuts in, wiping his eyes, leaving a trail of wetness across his temple, “Nate’s dead. He’s not coming back.”

  My gaze drops, confusion spinning. “No, he’s not… he’s just…” A sob breaks free, and I look up at Ky, at a man who taught me what it was like to love freely. “He’s dead?”

  He cradles my face in his hand, his thumb wiping my tears. With a nod, he says, “Yeah, he is.” He heaves out a sigh. “Have you slept?”

  I s
hake my head, grasping his wrist to keep from going under.

  “Come on.” He picks me up off the floor and carries me to my bed, tucking me in gently. He doesn’t join me. Instead, he pulls a chair from the kitchen table so he can sit beside me. “Try to sleep, okay?” he says, brushing the hair away from my face. “You need it.”

  And then he takes my hand, holds it in his, those sad, sad eyes on mine. “I’m tired,” I whisper.

  “I know,” he mutters.

  “Will you stay, just until I fall asleep?”

  He hesitates a beat before answering, “Yeah. I can do that.”

  I hold on to his hand until the emptiness takes over, and the world turns dark, and sleep may be my favorite thing in the world. Because sleep is the only way I’ll ever see Nate again… in my dreams.

  53

  BAILEY

  I wake up to the sound of male voices. Two of them. Both of whom I recognize. I have no concept of time, but the sun’s out, filtering through the closed curtains. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but I force myself to get out of bed.

  It’s time.

  I start at the closet, reach for the duffle bag up on the shelf and fill it with a few items of clothing. Not the nice ones, I’ll leave them here—just the bare necessities. Then I go to the bathroom, cringing when I see the aftermath of what I’d done. I grab my toothbrush and a stick of deodorant and shove them in the bag, too.

  I stop with my hand on the bedroom door, take one last inhale before stepping out. Brent and Ky turn to me the minute the door opens. They’re both in my kitchen cleaning up the mess I’d made, while Perceval speaks quietly on his phone in the living room. “I’m sorry,” I tell them all.

  Perceval ends his call, pockets the phone. “You okay?”