Page 80 of Resist

As she made her way to the exit, all she could think was how much she wished Coulton was there with her.

* * *

Ainsley trudged up the steps to her apartment slowly. When she reached her floor, she paused for a moment, blinking several times to make sure she was really seeing what she thought she was.

The door to her family’s apartment was hanging open. And not because she’d forgotten to close it after the EMTs had carried Mick down to the ambulance. Nope. The door had been kicked in, the frame cracked, with sharp shards of splintered wood sticking out.

“Fuck,” she muttered, reaching into her messenger bag, feeling around until she found the can of pepper spray. Stepping forward, she glanced into the apartment. The quiet stillness told her whoever had broken in had already come and gone, but she kept a firm grip on her pepper spray anyway as she walked inside.

Peering around the living room, she wasn’t surprised to discover the television was missing, as was the old record player Mick kept around for some unknown reason, considering she’d never once heard him play a record on it. The drawer in the end table next to Mick’s recliner hung open and, as she stepped closer, she cursed under her breath when she realized the gun Mick kept there was gone as well.

Excellent. They had armed their thieves.

Glancing into the kitchen, she saw a square of grease on the counter where their microwave used to sit and the refrigerator hung open, the half case of Mick’s cheap beer gone as well.

She pushed the fridge door closed, then braced herself as she walked down the hallway to her room.

Ainsley gasped as she stepped inside, struggling to take in the utter destruction surrounding her. Her initial suspicion when seeing the door kicked open was that some asshole neighbor had seen her and Mick leaving in the ambulance and realized their apartment would be empty.

Now, it was obvious this was the work of Mario and Luigi. They’d finally gotten their vengeance.

And then some.

They’d taken a knife to basically everything in the room—her bed, pillows, curtains. All her clothing was in the middle of the floor, shredded to ribbons. Her beloved Stingrays jersey from Coulton lay on top, slashed and laying in three pieces. As she stepped closer, she wrinkled her nose at the stench, because they’d obviously pissed on everything as well.

Her picture frames, mirror, and makeup were broken, shattered glass all over the place. They’d overturned her dresser and nightstand, smashing them so that now the only thing they were good for was kindling. The handful of books she’d had on her dresser were shredded, ripped apart, and strewn across the piss-covered mountain of her ruined belongings.

It was total annihilation.

A complete loss.

Ainsley wasn’t sure how long she stood there, looking at her destroyed possessions.

She’d thought Mick had delivered the knockout punch back at the hospital, but she was wrong.

This was the true KO.

Walking back to the living room, she perched on the edge of Mick’s old recliner, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands.

Briefly, she considered calling the cops, then decided why bother?

God, she was tired.

Ainsley remained there, head in hands, for…she didn’t know how long. When she lifted her head, blinking in pain, her eyes drier than the Sahara Desert, she tried to clear the fuzz in her brain, tried to figure out what to do next.

Coulton.

She wanted to talk to Coulton.

Pulling her phone from the bag still crisscrossed over her body, she opened it. It was early, not quite seven a.m. He was getting back this morning, but she didn’t know exactly when.

Several notifications had popped up from her various socials. One from the Stingrays Facebook page caught her eye. Coulton would be way too pleased if he knew she—the self-proclaimed non-hockey fan—had started following the team on all her socials.

She grinned when she saw a picture of Tank in his Stingrays uniform, leaning on his hockey stick in the arena, looking like a total badass. According to the post, he was thankful for ice. When she glanced at the second picture attached to the post, she shook her head. It was of him at Pat’s Pub with a glass of bourbon in his hands, one of those huge single pieces of round ice chilling the liquor.

Sliding down the thread, she realized all the players had a post about what they were thankful for. There was a picture of Blake and Erika together, holding their adorable puppy, Corky. In another post, Victor posed with a tiny girl perched on his shoulders. She assumed this was Pip, the niece Victor was thankful for. It was the greatest picture on earth, because both the young girl and her uncle were missing the same front tooth, and Ainsley couldn’t help the crushing weight on her chest as she wondered how different her life would have been if Mick had carried her around on his shoulders, laughing with her when she was little.

She continued scrolling until she found the one she most wanted to see. Her heart gave a tiny lurch when she saw the photo of Coulton with his hands resting on Slade’s shoulders, the two guys looking at each other with genuine affection. She might have been more moved by the shot, but she was too distracted by the second picture.

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