The Deceivers, page 24
“I don’t understand. They’re supposed to help us.”
“Please,” he says, and it breaks something inside of me. “Please don’t say anything.”
I grip my knees to stop my hands from trembling. Hiding this is wrong—Caleb needs medical attention. But I know this game; I’ve played it with Mom when Pete’s gotten rough. Doctors ask questions we can’t answer. They draw attention we can’t risk. With Caleb, they’ll need adult permission to treat him, which we don’t have.
There’s a reason Henry isn’t down here now, or Sam, or Charlotte. Caleb called me.
With this, Caleb trusts me.
“I’m going to get some bandages,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
At the dip of his head, I sprint up the stairs, all the way to the supply closet in the girls’ wing. It’s late, and though no one’s in the hallway, I can hear Paz’s radio, and Bea talking to someone in her room. Geri’s door is closest, but when I listen I hear nothing inside. She’s either sleeping or pulling another late night on the job.
Easing open the closet door, I grab the first aid kit and a couple towels. I charge back down the steps. On my way through the kitchen, I snag a bottle of water and fill a cup with ice, then return to the pit.
Caleb’s exactly where I left him, sitting rigidly, staring at nothing.
I wrap some ice in a towel and pass it his way. He presses the cool pack against his lip while I twist the top off a small bottle of peroxide and drench a cotton ball. He watches my hands like I’m holding a prison shiv.
“Ready?” I ask.
He takes off his glasses, gathering the pieces on his denim-clad thigh.
“Brynn,” he says quietly.
The silence between us is weighted with shame. He says nothing else, leaving only his uneven breath and the too-bright images in my mind of a beatdown that never should have happened.
“It’s all right,” I say. For him. For me.
I will not let him down.
When the soaked cotton touches the cut on his jaw, he flinches only the slightest bit, training his eyes ahead on the black television. The white ball is quickly stained copper by his blood, and I discard it on the floor for another, cleaning the wound with steady hands. There are some butterfly bandages in the first aid kit, and I use those to close the wound as best I can, trying not to think of hours before when I touched this face for a very different reason.
I hand him the bottle of water, and he tips it back, hissing as liquid touches his split lip. He reaches again for the ice.
“How did you get back?” I whisper.
“I walked from the train station.” The towel against his lips muffles his words a little.
“Caleb, that’s got to be five miles.”
“Please,” he says. “Only like four and a half.”
“Ha.” My head falls into my hands. “Those guys did this, didn’t they? Who are they?”
“They’re nobody.” His words are edged with sandpaper.
I shake my head. “You don’t get to pull me down here and then pretend nothing’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“Why? You think I can’t handle it? You think this is the first time I’ve patched someone up? I’ve got news for you, Caleb—”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.” He’s facing me now, eyes not quite aligning with my gaze. He looks young without his glasses. Lost and unfocused. “Believe me, Brynn. They will hurt you.”
Icy fingers crawl down my spine. I grab for his glasses, steadying myself with the task of fastening them back together with medical tape from the first aid kit.
He sighs, leaning back against the cushions.
“My assignment was with the mayor’s daughter. Camille.”
His special friend, according to Henry. “I heard you busted her mom for meeting with sinister types.”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know. The men who did this are the people Caleb exposed.
My hands still on his glasses.
“I saw Camille a couple weeks ago,” he says. “She knew what I’d done. Not the details. Not everything. But that I was somehow the reason her mom was being investigated.”
“The night you came in late,” I say, remembering his wariness and distraction. “You were in a suit.” I hand him his glasses, which now sit a little crooked on his face.
“It was an event at the museum. I went to check in with her. Make sure she was okay. The press has been roasting her mom since the news broke.”
His head hangs forward, the genuine concern for his assignment bleeding through. A tiny prick of jealousy is overridden by understanding. Did I not feel the same in Grayson’s house earlier tonight?
These are our jobs, but not all of it is pretend.
I shift, so that I’m sitting closer, my knee bent beside his thigh. “How did she know?”
“I have no idea. I was careful. Brynn, I was meticulous.”
“She told her mom?”
“Worse. She said she’d tell the Wolves—the club her mom had made deals with. She said I’d better watch my back.” He exhales, one hand pressing against the side of his rib cage.
I picture the Brick Man and his oily-haired friend from earlier today, and the sheer gravity of it all presses me back into the cushions.
Caleb’s mark knows what he did.
Caleb’s twisted up with the Wolves of Hellsgate motorcycle club.
He scratches a hand through his black hair. “Maybe I deserve it, I don’t know.”
“You’re just doing your job.”
“I ruined her life. And her mom and dad’s. Even if the mayor somehow avoids prison, Camille will never get away from this.”
It would be that way for Grayson, too. If I find proof the senator killed Susan Griffin, Grayson’s life may not get better. The media is already on him all the time. They would never give him peace.
But his dad might be a killer, and that cover-up is worse than anything I could do.
“This is happening because the mayor screwed up,” I say. “What was she doing with the Wolves, anyway?”
“They gave her campaign money when she was running. From what I could hear, that came with a price. She’s been looking the other way while they’ve brought drugs and guns and whatever else into the city the last few years.”
“And now the Wolves are pissed because the deal’s off.”
“No more drugs, no more guns. The highways are all being watched as part of the investigation.”
“And they know you’re the reason why.”
“I didn’t confirm it, but yes.”
This is impossible. This cannot be happening.
But the bruises on Caleb’s body say differently.
“How are you still alive?” I ask, thinking of that man they hung from the bridge a few months ago. “These are the Wolves we’re talking about.”
“I told them I’d fix it.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. But I have three days to figure it out.”
CHAPTER 33
“You have to tell someone.” I know Caleb doesn’t want to go to the ER, but this is deeper than I thought. He’s involved with the Wolves. He’s got seventy-two hours to reverse the mayor’s investigation.
If he can’t—and he can’t—they’ll take this beating to the next step.
“Moore or Dr. O. Someone. Caleb, this is insane. You have to leave the city.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?” My voice cracks across the room. Fear heats my veins, swelling inside me with every rapid breath. I thought Geri was the worst thing that could happen on a job. This is a million times worse.
“They’ll kick me out. I’ll be gone. I’ve seen it happen.”
“With Margot?” The mention of his ex-girlfriend stutters our momentum.
“Yes.” He presses the heels of his hands against his forehead. “I need this.”
“You don’t.” I grab his wrist, pulling it until he looks at me. “This is your life we’re talking about. What does some stupid school matter?”
“This stupid school means more to my family than you understand.” He peels back my fingers. “I told you I’ll be fine.”
He’s closing off again. I’m losing him, and I can’t—he has to understand how important this is. His parents can deal with a little disappointment if it means he stays alive.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll figure it out. I don’t know. I just need some time.”
Time is something he doesn’t have. He has no clue what he’s doing. He probably made this promise just to get away. I get that, I would have done the same, but now he has to make a plan.
He’s screwing his thumb into his temple, his lips pulled in a tight line.
I doubt he has a plan for the next five minutes, much less the next week.
“Come on,” I say, putting away the contents of the first aid kit. “You’re coming to my room.”
He glances my direction.
“You can’t stay here,” I huff, standing up. “And you shouldn’t be alone in case you have a concussion or something. You can crash in my room until we come up with a plan. If anyone asks where you are, I’ll just tell them you’ve got the flu.”
The ice-filled towel drops into his lap.
“Thanks,” he says.
He tries to get up, but needs help, and as soon as he stands his shoulders hunch, and he grips his elbows. Slowly, stiffly, we head toward the stairs. His legs seem to be fine, but every move jostles his wounds, and by the time we reach the kitchen his eyes are bleary and his jaw is locked in a grimace.
This is nothing compared to what they will do next. The Wolves are lethal, and afraid of nothing. Pete’s careful never to sell in their territories for fear of retaliation. If word ever got back that he’d crossed lines, the Wolves would tear him apart.
What has Caleb done? What mess has Dr. O sent him into?
Will he not tell the director about the Wolves because this outcome was a calculated risk? It can’t be. Dr. O looks out for us. He helped Charlotte when not even her own parents would. He stood up to Pete for me.
But what happens if Grayson learns the truth of what I’m doing? Dark images fill my mind of a different night, where Caleb’s the one patching me up.
Would Grayson do that if I find the proof to expose his father?
I can’t think of that now. I have to help Caleb figure out a way out of this.
Even if that means telling Dr. O behind his back.
A soft squeak of shoes on the tile in the foyer halts my thought, and I pull Caleb down behind the kitchen island. His breath comes out in a strained push, his hand squeezing my forearm as we both listen.
The light switches on, and Caleb and I both duck lower. Steady, slow footsteps cross the carpet in the living room, and then pause.
We hold our breath.
Is it Moore or Belk? One of the other students? I chance a quick peek around the side of the island and see a long eggplant skirt through the legs of one of the stools.
Ms. Maddox.
What is she doing up right now? She normally goes to bed in her room upstairs just after dinner.
She hears everything, Charlotte said.
I meet Caleb’s gaze, find a new fear reflected back at me. His lips are pulled in a thin line.
Keep going, I will Ms. Maddox.
She moves a stool beneath the lip on the opposite side of the island, only a few feet away. I slide closer to Caleb, until we’re pressed against each other, my shoulder to his chest, my hip against his thigh.
The light turns off. The footsteps recede, and climb the stairs.
We wait until the house is silent before rising.
Ms. Maddox’s room is on the opposite wing, across from the girls’ hall, but the stairway is the same. We hurry up it, Caleb’s scowl tightening with each step. I keep the lookout for anyone in the hallways, but Ms. Maddox is gone, and at this late hour even Paz’s radio is silent. The floor creaks as we pass Charlotte’s door, and we both freeze and wince at the sound. Then I hurriedly usher him into my room, locking the door behind him.
Once inside, he straightens, looking around the space I haven’t yet decorated. He seems uncertain what to do with his hands and shoves them in his pockets. In the light, I can see the dark droplets of blood on his bright Equal Start shirt.
The last time he was in this room was probably with Margot.
Bringing him was definitely not my best idea.
“Sit down,” I tell him, a little gruffly. He makes it to the bed and sits on the foot, hunching over his knees.
There’s a bottle of Tylenol in my vanity, but that’s not even going to take the edge off. With a muttered curse, I hurry into the bathroom, grabbing one of the shampoo bottles from the back of the cabinet beneath the sink and removing a single white pill. I hold it in my hand, the small W gleaming up at me in the overhead lights.
Looks like I’m moving Pete’s product after all.
Back in the bedroom, I hand it to Caleb.
“What is this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, swallowing my irritation. “It’ll help.”
He’s in enough pain that he doesn’t argue. He takes the pill, and I hunt through my closet looking for something that will fit him. All I can find is the fuzzy white bathrobe, which I shove in his direction.
“You’ve got blood on your shirt.”
He frowns down at his chest, and then gives the bathrobe a wary look.
“Right,” he says.
But he can’t take the shirt off himself. He reaches for the hem, and tries to drag it up, but grunts when he can’t lift his arms above shoulder height.
“Here.” I step in to help him, my fingers brushing against his stomach and side as I lift the fabric. His sharp intake of breath makes me pause, and something shifts between us. The air thins, and warms. The inside of my knee presses against the outside of his. My fingertips still lie in the ridges of his stomach.
His gaze is on my lips; his hands cup my elbows.
I inch closer, pulled by some magnet inside him. His fingertips skim the backs of my arms, making my whole body electric, lightning encased in bone. The wanting in his dark eyes makes it hard to think.
I focus on his mouth, and the cut on his lip, and it shakes some sense into me.
He is hurt.
“Sorry,” I mutter, gathering his shirt in my hands.
He releases me slowly, as if thawing.
“This isn’t how I imagined it would go,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t imagine me taking off your clothes in my bedroom?” I try to make my voice light, but the words spill out too fast. I cringe as I slip the shirt carefully over his head.
“No, that part’s about right.” A grin whispers over his lips.
I try not to stare at his chest when I hand him the bathrobe, but it’s impossible. Even with the bruises and scrape, he’s built like an underwear model. My fingers itch with the urge to touch him again, to feel the soft warmth of his skin and the muscles that flex beneath. My mouth is too dry to swallow.
This kind of wanting is new, and it leaves me unsteady.
I’m relieved when he puts the bathrobe on and ties the knot around his waist. He toes off his shoes and smiles, and then blinks slowly.
“What’d you give me again?”
“You don’t want to know. Get some sleep.”
“I…” He looks back at the pillows, as if confused. “I should sleep on the floor.”
Every part of me warms.
“You don’t have to.”
His throat works to swallow. “I do if it makes you feel better.”
“It doesn’t,” I say.
I help him lay back, and turn off the light.
By the time I get back, his eyes are half closed. I take off his glasses and set them on my nightstand.
“Come lay with me,” he says, and every squeak of the bed as I crawl up from the bottom sparks a new cascade of nerves through my body. But Caleb is still, and finally comfortable.
I don’t get too close, but his hand finds mine in the dark, fingers curling over my palm in a way that makes my breath catch. This is the second time today I’ve been on a bed with a boy, but this feels so much different than it did with Grayson. Right, even if the reasons he’s here are dead wrong.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
And then his breathing slows, and he’s asleep.
For a long time, I lie there, unable to move, anchored by his fingers woven through mine. My thoughts won’t quiet, turning from the Wolves, to Camille, telling Caleb to watch his back, to Grayson, and his dad, and Susan Griffin, and the pills in the shampoo bottles beneath my sink. Louder and louder and louder my thoughts grow, screaming in my ears for answers I don’t have.
Getting out of Devon Park was supposed to make everything easier, but everything’s just become more twisted.
I slip off the bed, and tiptoe into the closet, reaching for my old phone to dial the number to Gridiron Sports Bar.
It takes two hand-offs, and me telling the manager it’s an emergency, before I hear, “This is Allie.”
Mom’s voice brings an immediate clench in my chest, and I’m eight years old all over again, afraid of the thunder rattling the windows.
I half close the closet door with my toes.
“Hey, Mom.”
She’s quiet a moment, and in the background, I can hear the clang of pots and pans and a man’s voice shouting “Order up!” She must be in the kitchen.
“You all right?” she asks. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Where do I even start?
“I’m okay.” I keep my voice to a whisper, though I doubt Caleb’s waking up any time soon. “Just checking in, I guess. I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
She groans.
“I’ve been training this new hire. Kid can hack the CIA on a phone but can’t work a basic cash register.”
I smile a little.
“How’s that fancy school?”
“It’s good.”
“You making friends?”
I picture Charlotte. Henry. Sam. Caleb, lying bruised and bloodied in my bed.
