Page 10 of Risk (Mayhem Makers: MMM #3)
CHAPTER
NINE
McKenna
Sleep evades me as I toss and turn in the bed.
Flashes of past betrayals swarm my brain.
It’s going to be hard to function tomorrow if I can’t catch a couple of hours of shuteye.
I blow out a heated breath as my legs scissor with restlessness and I kick the covers down to the end of my mattress.
Even with the air conditioner on, beads of sweat trickle along my temples and coat my inner thighs.
“Ugh,” I groan as I turn onto my side and face the window.
The streetlights glow through the blinds, and I tuck my hands under my head as I try to find a more comfortable position.
Sighing, I flop onto my belly and clamp my eyes closed.
I flip numerous times over the next hour or so before giving up the battle and crawling out of bed.
Not used to having a roommate, but trying to be conscientious about being respectful, I tiptoe out of my room and into the kitchen.
I’d devoured my bottle of water long ago and my throat is feeling parched.
I know this apartment like the back of my hand so I don’t need any lights as I traverse down the hallway, through the living room, and to the fridge.
Slowly, I open the door, glad that the light faces inward instead of outward so the bulb doesn’t light up the living room. As soon as my hand touches my target, a startled scream escapes me as I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder.
“Sorry,” Isla apologizes. “I thought you heard me come in behind you.”
“No, I didn’t. I was concentrating so intently on being quiet that I wasn’t paying attention. Couldn’t sleep?”
“I haven’t slept since the day Marshall took me,” she says, snorting.
“And I couldn’t stop worrying about you thinking you had a spy living amongst you even if I can understand you being suspicious.
I’m nosey, always have been and probably always will be, which is why I let my curiosity overrule my good judgment. ”
Grabbing the ice cold bottle from the shelf, I lift it up and place it against my temple to try and cool myself, all the while, buying some time so I can try to figure out where I want the conversation to go from here.
“Let’s go in the living room and talk,” I tell her as I pluck a second bottle for her and shut the fridge door.
She doesn’t say anything, just nods her head and turns around.
My mind is a whirlwind of activity as I follow in her footsteps and quench my thirst as I walk.
She sits on the couch, wrapping the blanket I gave her earlier around across her lap.
I toss her the bottle I grabbed for her before walking around the coffee table and sitting across from her in the well-worn armchair—it’s my favorite place to burrow and think.
Reaching around toward the back of the chair, I grab my fuzzy throw blanket and toss it over my legs.
Now that I’ve guzzled half of my water, I have a slight chill strumming through me.
“Tell me one of your deepest, darkest secrets that you’ve never told anyone about, Isla.”
“Why?” she asks, the lines above her eyes wrinkling.
Clearing my throat, I answer, “Let’s call it a trust exercise.”
She turns her head, staring at the wall while she decides on if she’s going to open up to me or not.
Tears leak from her eyes as she plays with the label on her water.
“I don’t remember much about my time before entering the foster care system.
But what I do remember is full of warmth.
When I imagine my parents, nothing bad comes to mind.
But there’s something there, something dark that I can’t remember.
It drives me crazy because whenever that feeling comes over me, I can’t breathe. ”
“Do you have nightmares about that ‘feeling’ afterward?” I ask, because if she does have childhood trauma, that’s the place it’ll rear its ugly head.
“I do, but it’s blurry. Like it’s distorted,” she remarks. “I catch feelings, but not images.”
I did my time with enough therapists to know that whatever she’s buried, it’s going to come back and bite her in the ass when she least expects it.
But I also am worried that this is a trick to try and gain my confidence, so I am taking everything concerning her and what she spews out of her mouth with a grain of salt.
“But if I have that warm, cozy feeling in regard to my parents, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. Right?” she probes, twisting her neck so that she’s looking at me directly.
“I honestly couldn’t say, Isla. In this case, it’s more about how you feel about it.”
“I don’t feel anything,” she chokes out.
“It’s like there’s a brick wall I keep hitting, blocking me from discovering what secrets my brain is hiding from me.
” I feel empathy for her, I really do, but what she’s shared doesn’t make me want to extend my trust in her.
I needed something big in order for me to stick out a helping hand.
I’m not sure exactly what I was searching for when I asked her to tell me something about herself that nobody else knows, but this wasn’t it.
Neither of us say anything, the silence between us growing uncomfortable. “I don’t know what you expect from me, Isla. I’m at a loss of what to think about you.”
“I’m a stranger, trust is earned not expected, McKenna.”
“I have a feeling we’ve both learned that,” I say before twisting the cap and taking a sip.
“I’m not sure where to even begin building trust with you, if I’m being honest. I don’t mean to be cold and bitchy, but if anything, I’ve discovered that if you don’t protect yourself, nobody else will.
I want to help you, but I’m not sure how to do that. ”
“You don’t owe me anything, McKenna. I get you’re in a sticky situation with me, but I’m not a spy. Somehow, someway, I’ll prove that to you.”
“We’ll see,” I say, standing up and heading back to my bedroom. “Get some sleep, Isla. Tomorrow will be here before you know it.”
My mind plays tricks on me as I lay in bed.
There are more shadows tonight than are typical since this town all but shuts down after ten at night.
A few times, I could swear that I hear scuffling and muffled shouts coming from the back of the complex, but when I tune in my ears and pay closer attention, it’s silent, eerily so—there’s no noise outside of my overactive imagination and the crickets chirping.
“Get a grip, Kenna,” I scold myself as I grab my pillow and toss it over my face.
I hear a pebble hit my bedroom window and jump out of bed.
Now that, I’m not imagining. I know I’m not.
Grabbing the baseball bat I keep in the corner of my room, I silently walk to the window, the pads of my feet barely touch the ground before I take my next step.
With the tips of my fingers, I lift up one of the slats and peek out.
“What the fuck?” I whisper as I take in the man standing beneath the lamppost, staring directly at me.
Movement behind him has me looking around him, I see several shadows disappearing into the dark, something large, like a body, tossed over three of their shoulders.
“Fuck you, Marshall.” My eyes snap back to the man standing solo and my fingers shake as our eyes clash. “Risk.”
His face is full of rage and he doesn’t end our stare off until another man comes under the light and taps him on the back. He leans in and whispers to Risk, and that’s when I get a glimpse of who it is. “Conan.”
It takes Conan some coaxing, but eventually, he manages to talk Risk out of his angry gaze with me and they twist around and leave.
I’m not sure what he was doing here, but he wouldn’t leave me unless it was safe to do so. Once I can no longer see his body’s outline, I let go of the blinds, walk the bat back over to its spot, and crawl back into bed.
I close my eyes and finally succumb to the sandman’s sleep dust. I can’t say it’s a peaceful night’s rest, but at least I know he’s taken care of whatever presence I felt lurking earlier and I don’t have to worry about the security detail Marshall left behind to watch over us.
My thoughts drift as I get that numb, floaty feeling that comes over me when I’m exhausted and before I’m no longer aware of my surroundings.
The one thought that keeps playing on an endless loop is the reality that we may not be together anymore, but he’ll never let me be in danger if he’s around to stop it.