Page 30 of Addicted
“I’ve never wanted—no, craved anyone, as much as I crave you. All of you. I should fear you, but I’m not scared. I feel safe for the first time in ten years and have had nights unplagued by fucking demons. For what happened to Mom, I should hate you all, but I don’t. I can’t.”
His body quivers, his hand tightening around my own which is still against his temple. He brings them between us, moving his head back so that he can kiss each of my knuckles.
“Whenever I hear a gunshot, I go back to that day. To holding the other half of me as she died in my arms,” he confesses in a strained tone, his ocean eyes swirling like a stormy sea.
His image wavers as warm wetness spills onto my cheeks, leaving a trail of anguish.
“Me too,” I choke out, gripping his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat. “My childhood ended the day she died. I often wondered if she kept them away up until then.”
“I’m so sorry, Nightingale,” he whispers, his neck corded and throat working. “So fucking sorry.”
I take a shuddering inhale.
“Me too, Jude. Me too.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“MR. SANDMAN” BY SMYL
JUDE
Iwatch as our beautiful, broken Nightingale falls back asleep, Tarl’s drugs doing their job and giving her some rest. Wrapping her in my arms, I pull her tightly until our bodies press so closely together that not even a sliver of air is between us.
It’s funny really, in a fucked up kind of way, anyway. We have a lot in common; both losing our mothers to violence. I mean, Mom isn’t dead, just holed up in a nice, cushy mental health facility on the west coast with top-notch security. The Soldiers fucked her up, literally, but it wasn’t until the murder of my sister that she broke completely. She couldn’t cope with the loss of a child, kept talking to June like she was still there, and wouldn't let anyone touch her room back home.
It was six months later, the second time that we found her in the bath with slit wrists, that Pops admitted she needed help, so sent her to Mount Pleasant. She seems to get along well there,Aeron and I are due for a visit as we try to go once a month just to check in on her. Perhaps we could take Nightingale this time.
Light fills the room as the door cracks open, and I look up to find my brother standing in the doorway.
“Family meeting, Dad’s on the phone,” he says, his voice low as his eyes trace over Nightingale in my bed.
My stomach drops, just like when you’re on a rollercoaster but not nearly as fun.
“Shit,” I mumble, carefully untangling myself from our broken bird. Getting up and out of bed, I bend back down and tuck the blankets around her. She doesn’t stir, her breaths even and deep as she sleeps on.
I hesitate, something pulling me back down, and I press the lightest of kisses on her temple, eliciting a sigh from those sweet lips of hers.
“Come on,” Aeron mutters from next to me, and a smile lifts my lips when I straighten up, only for him to lean down and kiss her too. She’s definitely ours to keep.
We leave our sleeping beauty, quietly closing the door behind us—a brand new one that I had a couple of our members put in after Aeron blew the last one off. Still worth it for a taste of my Nightingale’s sweet nectar.
“So, what does the old man want?” I ask as we make our way down the stairs, and Aeron gives me this look that tells me I just asked a stupid fucking question. “Alright, don’t get your balls in a twist. I’m guessing it’s something about Nightingale?”
“I imagine so,” he answers as we reach the bottom of the stairs, heading towards a door off the main living area that leads to our office. My chest tightens as he confirms my suspicions.
I hear Pops’ deep voice as I open the door, his laugh warming me as it always has since I was a child.
Unlike my Nightingale, our father always showed us love and affection. Yes, he was hard on us sometimes, but family is veryimportant to him, always has been. As he likes to remind us, we are his legacy, the future, and he wants us to be men that can hold our heads up and defend our home.
“Hey, pops,” I say as I spot him on the enormous TV screen mounted on the wall. He’s in a lavish hotel suite in the Middle East somewhere, if the modern yet tribal decor behind him is any sign.
Adam Taylor is who I will be in thirty years. If I need to know what I’ll look like when I’m in my fifties, I just need to look at my Pops and there’s my answer. He has thick, dark hair, longer on top and slicked back–that’s currently covered by some sort of patterned head cloth–and deep blue eyes that have a darkness in their depths that only comes from gang life. Overall, pretty fucking handsome.
“Jude!” he exclaims, the lines around his eyes prominent as he grins at me. “How are you, my boy?” There’s an edge of concern in his tone as he checks me over, no doubt trying to see if there are any fresh scars on my bare torso. He knows my need for pain when my emotions run high, and although he hasn’t pushed me to seek medical help, I know that he worries.
“I’m fine, old man,” I tease, and his grin grows wider.
“Careful, boy, I can still whoop your ass!”
