Page 12 of Burned By Sin
The relief hits me like a gut punch. I swallow hard, fighting the sting in my eyes, because I know it won’t last. The clarity will come and go like flickers of light on the water, never enough to hold on to. I grip her hand, anchoring us both in a moment that shatters in the next second.
“Is your brother with you?”
My throat tightens. I don’t want to lie, as much as I cannot bear causing her heartache for what she has already lost.
“No, Mom. Just me.” I force a smile that feels weak and lead her toward the bed, my arm banded around her brittle body. She’s a shadow of the vibrant, confident woman I remember. The one who tried her best to shield us from the debt collectors banging on the door, and the gangs on the streets adamant on recruiting young boys. I don’t blame her for wanting to forget the past, even if it all seems worlds away from where we are now.
The room is small but clean, a double bed, two chests of drawers, an armchair by the window and a framed photo of the three of us beside an empty mug. I’m beyond grateful that she is somewhere safe and warm to stay, even if I had to resign to using Wavershit’s money to keep her here.
Once settled in bed, I sit beside her, filling the silence with mindless chatter. I tell her of my new job as a night porter, of the tiny room I rent, even of the girl who almost held my heart.
“It’s her loss,” she hums, stroking the back of my hand through habit. I rest my chin on her head, the stuttering of her breath surrounding us. I can almost hear her clarity slipping, the way she slumps and phases in and out of conversation. Forcing the tears back, my eye catches something out of place on the dresser and whatever fragile calm I had found suddenly collapses.
Slowly, I rest my mom back against the headboard, tucked in by cushions, and move across the space to pick up the light gray beanie. It’s a shade lighter than the one in my other hand, the one that’s still warm from my own head. A wash of cold dread runs through me.
“Mom? Where did this beanie come from?” Her gaze flicks toward me, pupils trying to catch focus, but I can already see the veil slipping back down.
“Jelly Bean! You found Clay’s hat. You know how much he likes to dress up like you,” she beams cheerily. Just another dagger to my damaged soul. I move back to her side, resting on the edge of the mattress.
“Stay with me, Mom,” I whisper, brushing my thumb over theback of her hand, willing her attention to hold on. For a heartbeat, her eyes shine with fleeting recognition, then soften again as confusion seeps in. She hums under her breath, the same little tune she always hums when she’s drifting, and I feel her slipping through my fingers despite I’m holding on. “Who’s hat is this?”
“It’s Clay’s hat,” she mumbles. My jaw clenches because she’s not wrong. Itismy hat, and that’s the problem. The cheapened fabric and foreign care label are part of a bundle I ordered online from a dodgy website.
“Mom, I need you to think. Who else has been visiting you?” The bright onyx in her eyes has dimmed, yet she smiles the way she always would when reminiscing.
“Do you remember that winter? The boiler broke and you spent all of your paper route money on hats and scarves from the corner stall. Clayton threw a tantrum over the color and you had to swap with him just to convince him to go to school.” She smiles fondly, but I don’t feel any fondness at the memory. Only dull acceptance that Jeremy always made things okay, and I wish he was here now more than ever. And no, I wouldn’t be seen dead in a Garfield orange hat.
“Mom, please. Who came here? Who wore this?”
“You boys know my door is always open,” she says and lowers her head into the cushions, humming that same tune. I’m sure it was a toothbrush commercial when I was little, but it makes her smile as her eyes blur out. There’s no use pushing her any further. Leaning over, I kiss her forehead and leave with both beanies in hand.
Rolling my neck, wincing at the settling scar forming on my collarbone, I head straight for the front desk with anger licking underneath my skin. I thought I’d left all of this shit behind, the games and the mindfucks. I took it when only I was involved, used to being bullied. People always try to break me into submission, finding I’m a worthy target because I’m immovable. I don’t have the emotional range to give a shit. But bringing my mother into this was a mistake. Someone hascrossed a line, sending a message loud and clear. They won’t let me run away, I need to deal with this head on.
Almost crashing into the desk, I slam my hand on the counter. The receptionist only briefly peers away from her screen, seeming used to agitated family members.
“You need to tell me who has been visiting my mom before I get the police involved,” I seethe, voice laced with venom. Rolling her eyes, she sighs as if I’m a menace she wants rid of. I’m not going anywhere without some answers. “I don’t have any cousins and since you don’t seem to have any CCTV, you’d better start painting me a vivid fucking picture.”
“He looks like you, but skinnier.” Her lip curls back as clicks aggressively on her computer, insinuating that I’m wasting her time. Reaching over, I rip the cables out of the back.
“You need to try harder than that,” I growl. A man in blue scrubs appears from the backroom asking what the problem is but she waves him off, snatching the cable back from my hand.
“It’s time you left before I ban you from returning.” There’s a stare off between the two of us, pure stubbornness clashing in the middle. Grabbing the pen, I write my number beside my name in the visitor’s book.
“The next time he comes, you call me,” I order. The receptionist opens her mouth, no doubt with some sarcastic retort but I hold up my hand. “Regardless of your opinion, I’m her next of kin. I have full legal capacity. You will call me or there will be an investigation into your lack of security.” At her pursed scowl, I toss the pen aside and turn away. If I hang around any longer, I’m likely to end up back in jail before nightfall. Throwing the glass door wide, I stomp back toward my truck when my eyes fall on the person I never wanted to see again. What the fuck is he doing here? Of all the places in the world…unless…
“You,” I rasp, my slowed steps ramping back up. From his position leaning against the Audi, Rhys lifts a brow, taking his attention off his cuticles to notice the man running at him full speed. I don’t stop, slamming my injuredshoulder into his chest and chucking him over the bonnet like a sack of shit. “It’s you, isn’t it?! You fucker!” Grabbing Rhys from where he ungracefully landed, I lift him by the lapels and pummel my fist into his gut. A figure jumps out of the driver’s seat, her pink-tinted hair whipping across her flawless face.
“Clayton, wait!” Harper cries out, her presence adding to my confusion but my fist is already swinging whilst my mind races. They’re in this together. Even though they got what they wanted, they’re still messing with me. Here, at my mom’s nursing home. The fresh gut of betrayal almost buckles my knees but my focus is on breaking Wavershit’s nose, blurring the red on my fists with the shade coating my vision.
“You followed me here,” I seethe through harsh breaths. “You want to destroy me. You’re succeeding.” Grappling against my hold, Rhys opens his mouth to spew some bullshit I don’t want to hear. I quickly whip the beanie from my back pocket and shove it into his mouth.
“That’s enough!” Harper pulls on my bicep uselessly. My fist raises again as a stupid smile curves around the beanie. For fuck’s sake, he’s loving this. I rear back, shoving Harper off me and head straight to my truck. Harper tries to call for me but I ignore her, slamming my door and peeling away as soon as the engine turns over. A screech fills the parking lot, the smell of burnt rubber trailing me as I fight to get images of Harper and Rhys out of my head.
Apparently they haven’t done enough damage. They want to flaunt their relationship in my face, to prove that I’ll never escape their taunting. And to bring my mother into this? Bile rises to my throat, the world collapsing around me. I manage to make it back to my drab room before keeling over, the breath wheezing in my chest. I need to be free of them for good.
Surrounded by the quiet, shrouded in the dark, I claw back at recesses of my mind. Reclaiming the traces of logic I hang onto. Next time they inevitably appear, I’ll be more prepared. If Wavershit wants awar so much that he brings it to my front yard, I’ll happily give it to him, and if Harper is affected in the fall out, then so be it.
Chapter Eight
