The mood shifts with each passing minute Simon lays himself bare to my art. Memories resurface to torment his soul “He was released from prison,” he suddenly says, sadness pulling his mouth downward.
My hand tremors, causing me to almost make a mistake. Placing the brush down, I ask, “When—when did this happen?”
Biting down on his lip, he waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. He can’t hurt me anymore. I’m fucking grown.” He waves a hand down his body for emphasis.
“How long did he get?”
Twisting the side of his mouth up, he jerks a shoulder. “Fifteen years for various offenses.”
I move toward him, taking his hand in mine. His eyes dart to where our hands meet, and his brows tug down. “How long has it been?”
“A decade.” His body twitches, unseen scars plaguing him. “I want to kill him. Just show up at the house of horror, pull out a bat, and beat the bastard until he’s nothing but mulch.”
“How do you know that’s where he is?” I ask, getting to my feet to pour us both a drink. Handing him a glass of vodka, he takes the glass and gulps down the entire thing, hissing when the burn ignites in his throat.
“I don’t.” He shrugs. “It’s just what I picture.”
“Do you think it will change things for you, if he’s dead?” I pour him another and take an attentive sip of my own. Pulling the throw blanket I keep on the back of the couch over his waist, he takes a couple seconds to think about my question.
“I haven’t slept without nightmares since his release. Every fucking sound makes me jump. An empty street makes me fear to walk down it. Like he’s stalking me without having to actually do anything. He’s in me—in here,” he growls, tapping a finger against his head. “I can’t fuck. I can’t take comfort in anything. He’s always there, in the back of my head, mocking, tormenting.” A tear forms in the corner of his eye and leaks to his cheek, sending a wave of sorrow coursing through me.
I put down my glass, then take his and place it on the coffee table before moving beside him and pulling his head into my lap. Stroking his hair, I soothe his gentle sobs.
“It’s okay. You’re safe here. Sleep, Simon. Let me keep you safe,” I murmur, my heart aching for him. Someone needs to put an end to his stepfather—the man who destroyed the boy he once was.
Chapter Seven
Adams
A loud pounding jolts me awake. It takes me a few seconds to come around and remember where I am. Another rapping sounds on the window, and I silently curse myself for falling asleep. I couldn’t leave her last night. I had to wait and see Simon leave, but he never did. Now, the fucking cunt is standing beside my car looking in at me like I’m a crazy person. Opening my door, I step out and stretch my limbs, straightening my spine to my full height, which is taller than his by a few inches.
“Can I help you?” I growl, pissed I was so sloppy. Looking him up was the first thing I did when I got back to the car last night, but there was nothing on him. He’s a ghost.
“What are you doing out here? Is there something going on with Lola? Is she in trouble or in danger?”
Looking to her apartment door to be sure she isn’t looking out at us, I narrow my gaze on him. “What business is that of yours?”
Barking out a short, humorless laugh, he scratches the back of his neck and steps away, putting a little distance between us.
“Does she know you’re out here?” he asks, but it sounds like more of a threat than a question.
“Why did you lie to me last night?” I flip my jacket back to place my hands on my hips, deliberately flashing my badge and gun.
Baulking, he shakes his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Taking a step toward him, I fold my arms, looking him up and down. What the hell is she doing with someone like him? She’s out of his league. “Your last name was a lie.” I punch the word at him, and he appears to shrink before me. “It’s against the law to lie to law enforcement, Simon.”
“How do you know Lola?” he has the balls to ask me.
“How the fuck do you know her?” I counter.
“Oh my god, you have a thing for her, don’t you?” He smiles like we’re schoolgirls discussing a crush.
Reaching out, I grab him by the lapels of his jacket without thought and slam him against my car face first. Gripping his wrists, I pin them behind his back and crowd him with my body. “You know how easy I can make a nobody like you disappear?”
“Please let me go,” he begs, his eyes closing and a weird humming noise coming from him, almost childlike. “Please, let me go. Get off me. Please, please, please.” Trauma. This guy has suffered trauma. He’s hysterical as he ruts against me, trying to get free. Releasing him with a shove, he trips, crashing to the asphalt, and skitters away from me, his hands raised in defense.
“What’s wrong with you? Get up,” I demand, checking around to see if anyone is looking. He’s on his feet in seconds and takes off in a sprint down the street.
Fuck. I hope he doesn’t tell Lola about this. Slipping back in my car, I’m about to pull away when her front door opens, and she steps out in workout gear. She puts earbuds in and begins walking. I hate that she’s wearing something that will block out the sound of someone coming up behind her. She should know these basic risks. Starting the engine, I follow her, making sure to stay far enough back. In my head, I know what I’m doing is wrong, fucking stupid and immoral, but
