Page 65 of Dropping In

Chapter Thirty-One

Malcolm

I need to chase after Nala—check on her and tell her that there is never a question of me loving her. Jesus Christ,nevera question. It’s because I love her so much that I can’t see straight right now, can’t come to terms with what she told me.

Nala, my Nala, a victim, helpless at the hands of…I shut my eyes and try to block out the rest because while she needs me to be strong, I’m weak. So goddamn weak with the knowledge of what happened to her.

She was right—I might not be able to handle knowing—because I can imagine too clearly what she went through from the picture she painted that girl tonight. That combined with the story the girl told, and the time I spent watching and listening at the hospital, have made it all but impossible to ignore the images in my head.

It’s selfish, and unfair, and so fucked up, but when I figured out what Nala had been keeping from me, when I put those pieces together in the police station, heard her tell that girl everything she was going to have to deal with—everything Nala already dealt with—it cut me in half. I couldn’t respond and think of her, because all I could think of was me, and the fact that somehow, I wasn’t there for the one person I would die without.

Worse, it made me look at myself, how I’ve treated her in these brief weeks of truly being together, how rough I’ve been, and wonder if she somehow thought of him when I was inside of her.

Jesus Christ.

That thought doubles me over until I sick up everything in my belly, heaving out the pain and anger and goddamned uselessness until I’m empty. Spitting, I stay where I am, hands on my knees while I draw breaths into my lungs and try to pull my shit together.

I should go after her, but I can’t, because the rage and need for revenge, for physical pain, building inside of me is a dangerous combination, one that usually gets me into trouble. Instead, I limp through the sand, hauling my cast and aching leg behind me until I get to the front of the house and my Challenger. Coding the locks undone, I press the start button and let the engine roar to life, the sound biting through the still night air and speaking to my current mood. Then I peel out at a speed that leaves rubber on the road, and head toward Brooklyn’s.

I know without a doubt he’ll have the answers I’m looking for.

+ + +

I pound a fist on the outside of Brooks’s door, keeping up a continuous rhythm even when I hear his voice tell me to hold the fuck on.

When the door is wrenched open, Brooks stands on the other side, a baseball bat in one hand, a T-shirt in the other, and a menacing look on his lumberjack face.

“You gonna beat me and then wipe me down with soft cotton?”

I push my way inside, barely sparing a glance at Jordan, who’s sitting up in bed, the sheet held close to her chest. “Get dressed. I need to talk to you—both of you,” I say, aiming a pointed look at Jordan before passing through the sliding doors and onto the sandy beach outside of Brooks’s house.

It takes them both less than two minutes. Brooks flips on the living room light and opens the slider again. “Come inside.”

“I want to be outside.” I’m challenging him, angry because he fucking knew this entire time and didn’t tell me, angry because somehow, he couldn’t save Nala any more than I could. And because I know—I fucking know—this story isn’t done yet. There are missing pieces, and he better fill me the fuck in.

But Brooklyn’s no pushover, and he might be one of my best friends, the brother I was given by fate and school zones, but he won’t pander to me when I bust in and yell at his girl.

“Too fucking bad. It’s windy, and late, and Jordan’s not fucking standing on a concrete slab near the ocean so you can throw a temper tantrum.”

He walks away from the open door, and I’m left following him, because I know he won’t give in and I don’t have the time to engage in this pissing match.

When I slam the glass door behind me, it rattles on its hinges. Brooks only raises a brow, but I see Jordan’s eyes widen. “How long were you going to keep this from me?”

I stare of both of them, and it only flames my anger more when they look confused. “How long,” I stress again. “Were you going to keep what happened to Nala from me?”

Now I see it—the horror, and the fear. But goddamn if Red doesn’t react first. “Where is she?”

“Answer my question.”

“To hell with that,” she says, shoving off the couch, Brooks following her. “If you know, it means you were with her. Where is she?”

I see the panic in Jordan’s eyes, the fear, and something pinches in my chest because I can see how much she hurts for Nala, how much she worries for her. If I was in a retrospective mood, I might even be grateful that fate played a part and gave Nala a roommate that was strong and loyal like she is.

But I’m not feeling gratitude right now—I’m feeling fucking irate. Not even irate. That’s too tame a word. I need answers, so I can go find the motherfucker who hurt my girl, and make him pay in a way he will never forget.

“I don’t know, she ran off.”

Jordan’s face pales, and a portion of my anger dies off and is replaced with worry. “And you didn’t follow her? You didn’t help her? You didn’t check to make sure she got somewhere okay?”

---