Page 85 of Quiet Protector
“Do you know who I am?” Hugo growls in my face, his spit sizzling on my cheeks.
“Yes,” I reply, ashamed. I know every sordid detail, and I didnothingabout it. Kind of similar to how I responded to Melody’s injustice as well. Madden is sitting in jail, awaiting his trial, but if I were a real man, he’d be dead. There’d be no question about that.
I recall the reason for my shift in focus when Hugo asks, “Do you know what they did?” An array of emotions flares through his eyes—anger, hurt, frustration, they’re all there—even more so when he repeats his question. “Do you know what they did to me?”
“Yes.” The simplicity of my reply doesn’t lessen Hugo’s annoyance. The redness on his cheeks doubles as he fights to maintain a cool head. I wish he wouldn’t. “But I'm nothing like them,” I assure, even with my confidence not as high as it once was. “I didn’t change my name because I didn’t want people to know who my father is. I changed it because I'm ashamed of it. I’m ashamed of them.” Him. My brother. The man who raped my girlfriend.
I want Hugo to crack. I want him to break. I want him to hurt me until my outsides match my hideously ugly insides, but instead of doing any of those things, Hugo proves what I’ve always known. He isn’t a monster like Madden. He’s merely a broken man—just like me.
After a final stare and an ashamed shake of his head, he stalks to his car, leaving me alone.
Again.
36
Brandon
My steps falter halfway up the stairs leading to my apartment building. A man is in the foyer, a man who shouldn’t be here. He’s undercover miles and miles from here. Usually, I’d be pleased to see him. That isn’t the case today.
Grayson isn’t here because he needs my help. He’s here to help me. The worried expression on his face is very telling, much less the lady standing behind him, backing up his campaign.
“Phillipa was supposed to show herself out, not let in strays.”
Grayson doesn’t scoff at my low, woeful tone. He uses it to fortify his campaign. “You need help, BJ.”
“Leave it alone,” I warn him, stepping past him and Phillipa. I jab my finger into the elevator call button in rhythm to the stabbing punctuation of my words. “I’m tired, restless, and I need to fucking sleep. That’s whatIneed.”
“Youneedto admit that you’re hurting. Youneedto admit your brother did you wrong. You donotneed to take the blame for him.Hehurt Melody, Brandon.He—”
“Raped her!” I interrupt, screaming. “That’s way beyond hurt, Grayson.” I step closer to him with my fists clenched and my nostrils flaring. “Ifyouhadn’t stopped me, he’d be dead, and justice would have been served.” I get up in his face as Hugo did mine forty minutes ago. “Just like ifyouhadn’t forced Tobias to intervene, she would haveneverbeen hurt. This is as much on your shoulders as it is mine, Grayson. You deserve just as much of the blame.”
“Yeah, it is, punk. It’s on my shoulders. I feel the weight. I feel your pain. But I’m not going to let that prick eat at my conscience until I don’t recognize myself anymore.” His eyes bounce between mine. They’re shimmering with tears. “I’m not going to let him win… unlike you.”
He slaps my chest before taking a step back, having no clue the thread I’m clutching is extremely thin. If the desperateness to see Madden punished for his crimes wasn’t keeping me motivated, I would have let go by now.
That’s how much it hurts.
That’s how ashamed I am.
I work my jaw side to side when Phillipa mutters, “We’re worried about you, BJ. You’re not yourself.”
“I’m fine.” I grit my teeth when my lie doesn’t come out as strong as I’m hoping. “I just need to keep my head busy.”
“And what happens when the busyness stops?” she asks, stepping forward, taking over the Brandon-is-a-wimp baton. “What happens then?”
I won’t answer her question because, in all honesty, I don’t know how. I’m barely holding on. I can feel the cracks deepening, they’re seconds from being exposed.
Since I don’t want that to occur in front of witnesses, I spin on my heels and dart up the stairwell. I’ve barely climbed half a floor when Phillipa shouts my name. She sounds worried about me. Or even worse, sorry for me. Both are as bad as the other.
“I’m fine!” As a big chunk of the wall around my heart comes away with a brutal sob, I race up fourteen floors like my fitness hasn’t gone to shit the past two months. “I’m fucking fine.”
When I burst through the front door of my apartment, I think I’m in the clear.
I think I am safe from additional pain.
I’m an idiot.
This hurt is different than the agitated restlessness Grayson and Phillipa’s exchange instigated. It is sore, remorseful, and catastrophic. It’s bigger than me—not in stature, we stand at almost the same height—but in sorrow, deep, anguish-filled sorrow.
