Page 168 of Reaper
“Reap, I know you want to help him, but let him do this,” he whispers.
My gut twists but fuck he’s right. I don’t want to make him seem like less if I offer to carry him upstairs, but I’m still fucking pissed that he didn’t get to use the room I’d redesigned for him.
Chris lifts himself off his chair and pivots with practiced ease until he’s seated on the stairs. It’s then that I realize how muscular his upper body has become and my heart breaks because I’m almost positive I know why he’s now that muscular. He collapses his chair and then attaches it to a couple of hooks I hadn’t noticed were drilled into the wall before. Hooks that allow the wheelchair to take up no more than a few inches and allows it to be mostly out of the way of others.
Then, my breath catches in my chest when he pulls two small pillows that were wedged between the wall and the railing. I watch him carefully attach them behind each ankle. He places his hands on the stair on either side of his hips, lifts himself up, and then he leans his weight on one hand while the other grips the stair behind him and he lifts himself up. The pillows he strapped on must keep his ankles from bruising as they bump repeatedly against the stairs.
My eyes burn when I realize he’s regained a small amount of range back and I couldn’t be prouder of him for accomplishing that. That small amount of range allows him to tilt his hips just enough that the edge of his ass is able to rest on the step. It’s not much, and I fear he’s going to slide down off the step, but then he does a little shimmy that allows him to scoot back to the back of the step only to do it all over again and again until he reaches the top of the steps.
He swallows thickly as he undoes the pillows around his ankles and stuffs them in between the wall and the railing. Deciding not to draw attention to how he has had to get around, even though I’d really love to go pound on the fucker downstairsuntil he wound up in his own wheelchair, I climb the stairs just as he’s pulling himself into a second wheelchair that must be solely for up here.
It takes a moment, but he finally meets my eyes and when he does, I give him a chin lift and squeeze his shoulder. A shuddery breath escapes him as a look of relief comes over him, but if he thought I’d be mad at him, he has nothing to worry about.
Turning, I frown when I spot the door to his old room. The doorway is covered in boards that have been nailed to the frame, some of them with nails that aren’t fully nailed in and look like they’d be easy to catch yourself on.
Wait.
I look from his door up to the attic stairs and back to his door.
Mother fucking asshole!
“They hurt like fuck, and he had filed down the edges so whenever they caught my skin, I’d be cut. A friend had to take me to the doctor to get a tetanus shot the first time it happened because they were rusty nails. After that, I waited until he wasn’t home and hammered them in just enough that I’d stop catching myself on them. I think he caught on to what I did though, because every now and then, he’d redo the nails when I wasn’t home, and I’d catch myself on them again. It’s not too bad if it’s my arms, but I don’t always notice if my legs catch on them. It’s gotten to be so bad that my friend helps me look at my legs each day to ensure I don’t have new cuts or that ones I did get aren’t getting infected.”
I take a deep breath and turn toward Smithy. Without a word, he gives me a chin lift and heads out to his truck. He’ll have the door unbarred within minutes. He runs our metal forge, and I know he also keeps a set of tools in his truck.
I pull on the cord for the attic door and am surprised that the old wooden ladder has been replaced with a custom metal ladder with padded stairs. Turning toward Chris, I cock an eyebrow athim in question and am surprised when his cheeks turn a little pink.
“My friend made this for me, and when Roger was gone one day, they came and installed it for me.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting this friend.”
Surprisingly, Chris’ cheeks turn a little pink but then I hear a door slam downstairs, and a look of fear comes over his face. He pivots in his chair and quickly wheels to the top of the stairs right as we hear a feminine voice.
“Where is he? Who are all of you? Chris!?”
The panic in the girl’s voice twists my gut and I quickly stride back down the hall to find a short, thin, young girl frantically looking around and trying to see around my brothers.
“Sway, it’s okay. They’re my uncle’s club members.”
She spins and when she sees him, she races up the stairs and damn near throws herself onto his lap as she wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. He must be used to it, because he quickly gets the brakes set before she even lands in his lap. Smithy follows her up the stairs and Chris moves back so he can get past.
“Hey, Sway, what’s wrong? What is it?”
The girl shakes her head and by the tremble in her shoulders, I’m guessing she’s crying. “She promised. She promised he’d never be back, but he’s back, Chris. I can’t stay in that house another night.”
Chris’ arms tense around her and he murmurs something quiet to her. After a few moments, she sits up and dries her cheeks, cheeks that turn red when she sees me and my brothers in the hallway.
“This is my uncle Reaper. Behind him are Cannon, Loki, Razor, Punisher, and Smithy.”
She gives us a small wave along with a small, tight smile, but then that smile wavers and falls.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asks him in a small voice.
“Yeah, Sway, I am. I’m not going far though.”
I crouch down next to them. “What’s wrong? Are you in danger?”
Sway nibbles on her lip as she looks up at Chris in question who nods in response.
