Page 8

Where is it? I sifted through the tall grass, looking for the trunk I’d tossed out there. It had to be there somewhere.

I shouldn’t have thrown that trunk away. If I’d known how obsessed I’d get with that stupid picture, I never would have. After tucking Boone back into bed, I’d spent all night staring at the one magazine I’d kept, and now I was desperate for more. That magazine had made a fucking addict out of me, and I couldn’t even explain why.

Maybe I was getting my sex drive back since Shepherd had decided I could cut back on the meds before my first injection of the new one.

Not that I’d ever had one before. They’d put me on the anti-psych meds pre-puberty, so I didn’t really know what it was like. Maybe if I’d known, I wouldn’t have asked for this. Random disorganized thoughts were bad enough, but invasive thoughts about sex? I already felt like I didn’t have control over my own mind and body. Popping random boners more often was not helping. Erections were such a rare occurrence anymore that when I got one in the shower that morning, I’d just stood there and stared at it like I was meeting my stupid dick for the first time.

I needed to get it out of my system, and the one magazine I had was getting old fast. I needed more.

Except I couldn’t find the damn trunk. I’d already been looking for fifteen minutes.

My foot hit something and I pushed apart the grass to find the trunk sitting on one side. It’d landed in one of the many perpetual puddles of questionable viscous liquid scattered around the junkyard. I winced and hauled it out, hoping for the best.

Most of the magazines inside were surprisingly still dry and, while none of them had covers as nice as the first one, I did find another that had a man in a collar as the centerfold.

A horn blew near the office, announcing it was five and the shop was closing. Anyone who was out in the yard was supposed to report in. Except for me. I wasn’t invited to hang out with the rest of the Junkyard Dogs because I wasn’t one of them. I was just Boone’s crazy roommate.

I sighed and rolled up the magazine, tucking it into my back pocket.

There were grocery bags on the counter when I came through the front door, and the shower was running. I frowned and shut the door behind me, absently petting the dogs as they ran up to greet me. Boone had obviously gone shopping and come back to shower. Why? He usually didn’t do the shopping himself.

I held my cigarette between my lips and went to sort through the bags. Ground beef, bread, beef broth? What was he planning on making? I’d never known Boone to cook beyond frozen dinners.

The shower shut off, the old pipes rattling from the effort. My heart sped up and, for some reason, I thought about Boone sprawled out in his bed in nothing but his damp underwear. That scene had been floating through my head all day, sending unfamiliar flutters through my lower belly.

God dammit. Don’t get hard again. Not for him.

My seduction act was supposed to be just that; it was never meant to backfire. I didn’t know what to do with things like attraction and desire. Most of the time, they were just dumb words and problems other people had. Now they were my problems too. Problems I had asked for.

I didn’t ask to be attracted to Boone, I reminded myself, though looking back, that was always the case. Maybe not like it was now. Objectively, though, he was… Well, handsome wasn’t the right word. Handsome men were tall, muscular, maybe a little imposing. They wore nice clothes and spoke a certain way. Shepherd was what most people would think of when they heard the word handsome. Not Boone.

Boone was… Rugged maybe? Though that sounded like too refined a word for someone like Boone.

Hard, my brain supplied, and I groaned, even though the word fit.

Trixie licked at my fingers and whined, snapping me out of my trance.

“All right,” I said with a sigh and trudged toward my room. “Let me drop this off and I’ll take you out.”

I hid the magazine behind my mattress and took the girls out to do their business. When I came back, Boone was in the kitchen with his damp hair down. He wore a plain white tank-top and a pair of sweats, but he’d shaved. Not completely, of course. Boone wouldn’t be Boone if he shaved off his scratchy red beard, but he’d cleaned it up with a trim.

I frowned and dropped my eyes to his chest, wondering if he’d shaved that too. Had my stupid comment about his red chest hair made him self-conscious? I hoped not. I kind of liked his red hair, even on his chest. It made him seem… exotic. Was that the right word? Dammit, why was I overthinking all this?

Boone plucked his cigarette from between his lips and let out an exaggerated mouthful of smoke toward the ceiling. “Hey, Pup. You hungry?”

There was a sudden swooping feeling in my stomach, like I’d just sped over a hill. Dammit. I was not allowed to start liking that stupid nickname. I wasn’t a dog. I certainly wasn’t his puppy. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I shrugged and let the dogs off their leash. “I could eat. What’re you making?”

“You mean what are we making?” He put his cigarette back between his lips and gestured for me to come over. “I’m gonna teach you how to make shit on a shingle.”

I wrinkled my nose. I had no idea what shit on a shingle was, but it didn’t sound like something I wanted to eat.

Boone made me wash my hands. I figured I’d be measuring stuff or buttering bread with a fork again, considering I wasn’t allowed to have knives or to operate the stove. No one was more surprised than me when Boone dumped a pound of ground beef into a pan and called me over to show me how to turn on the stove. It clicked a bunch of times and then flames jumped out so far that I flinched away.

Boone chuckled.

“Is that normal?” I asked, my heart still racing.

“On gas stoves, sure. You get one of them fancy electric ranges, and you won’t have to worry about it. Gas is better, though.”

“How come?”

He shrugged. “Just what my gran always said.” He handed me a wooden spoon. “Now, you’re going to keep the heat about medium and break up the meat. You need me to show you how?”

“Like this?”

He nodded. “Perfect.”

I turned back to the stove so he wouldn’t see how proud I was. It was just cooking ground meat. Anybody my age should be able to do that. Why did his approval matter to me so much?

Boone showed me how to make hamburger gravy with milk, butter, onions, and a little flour. We served it over toast with a side of eggs and, surprisingly, it wasn’t half bad. Better than most of the frozen crap we’d been eating.

We ate in the living room, like we always did, but instead of watching the news or whatever other boring thing was on TV, Boone dug out a VHS tape of Pulp Fiction and said it was the most important movie a great director ever made and I was going to watch it.

The dogs curled up with me on the couch while Boone sat in his chair. It wasn’t long before Boone was quoting the movie right alongside the actors.

“Just how many times have you watched this?” I asked.

“Almost as many times as I need,” came his simple reply. “Oh, watch this. This is the best scene.”

It was the fourth time he’d said that so far, and so far, every time he’d been right. The movie was dated as hell, but it was so Boone, it hurt. I could insert him into half the roles in the film and he’d fit right into their world.

I looked over at him, watching his lips turn up. He let out a light chuckle at whatever joke was happening on the screen, but I wasn’t paying attention to the movie anymore. His reactions to it were more interesting.

Back when I was in the psych hospital, they’d play the same movies for us over and over. Always G and PG-rated cartoon shit with limited violence and absolutely no nudity or cursing. They treated us like kids, and I hated it. I never understood how anyone could watch the same damn thing over and over and enjoy it. Was it comfort they were after? Knowing what was coming? Or were they chasing the high of having seen it the first time?

Boone wanted me to like the movie. That’s why he’d put it on, but why was he watching it?

He looked over at me, and when our eyes met, there was that swooping fluttering feeling. Boone’s smile faded, but he didn’t look away.

Had he been thinking about last night too? Had he replayed it in his mind until he memorized every word of our interaction like I had? Was that why he’d shaved?

Boone combed his fingers through his long hair. “You want another?” He used his empty beer bottle to gesture to mine.

He never let me have more than one. I wasn’t supposed to drink at all with my medicine and he knew it. Why was he bending the rule tonight?

I nodded and handed him the bottle. He got up, tossing the empties in the recycling. The minute he was up, Morticia jumped into his chair and circled, claiming the spot as her own. I knew I should’ve told her to get down, but I was too lost in my own head, trying to figure out what was going on with Boone.

Was he hoping I’d get drunk? Not on two beers. It took more than that, right? Would he make a move? If he did, would I stop him? Or would I sit there and check out, letting him do whatever he wanted to me just like I’d let everyone else do? Maybe, deep down, I’d liked what Harold had done to me. I must have. Why else wouldn’t I have fought back more?

“Morty, down!” Boone called, but the dog stayed where she was, giving him sad eyes. “Damn dog,” he muttered and held a beer bottle out to me.

I took it and held it, the glass cool against my sweating palms.

Boone sat down on the couch next to me. There was nowhere else to sit. I told myself there was no other reason, that he wouldn’t actually make a move.

But wasn’t that what I wanted him to do? I’d flirted with him two nights ago, tried to seduce him, and now I couldn’t stop thinking about his body. Did that mean I wanted to have sex with him? Did I want to kiss him? Did I want him to kiss me?

I’d never kissed anyone. I’d never done anything with anyone, at least nothing I’d consented to. What happened to me with Harold and the other men he brought in… That didn’t count, did it?

You liked it. That’s why you are the way you are.

Stop pretending, whore. You’re such a lying slut.

I grabbed Trixie and pulled her into my lap as if she could shut the voices out. At least with the dog in my arms, I didn’t have to worry about Boone touching me, even if I thought that was what I wanted. Was it?

Dammit, why was this so complicated? Shouldn’t I know what I wanted?

I looked over at Boone. I want you to tell me what I want. Tell me it’s okay, that you won’t hurt me, even if it’s a lie.

But he would hurt me. That was what people did. They used me and threw me away, so it was better if I did it to them first.

As long as I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, I’d have that awful feeling in my chest like I was going to explode. It was better if I forced it to happen. Then it’d be more like ripping off a band-aid. I’d be the one in control. At least if it hurt, the pain would be my choice.

I chugged half the second beer and put it down before I let my head fall onto Boone’s shoulder.

He went stiff and looked over at me with a frown. “You okay?”

I looked up at him and nodded without moving my head from his shoulder.

Boone studied me for another few seconds before going back to watching the movie, though he didn’t relax.

He knows. He knows everything.

You’re such an idiot.

I reached up to draw my fingers through his short, bristly beard. “Why’d you shave?”

There was a part of me that liked the way his breath caught, the way his eyelashes fluttered at my touch before he caught himself. Deep down, I wanted to be wanted, but I was afraid of what that meant. Where it would lead.

Boone’s throat worked. “Needed to.”

“No, you didn’t.” I kept running my fingers through his beard because I knew he liked it. I was sure if I put my hand between his thighs, I’d find he was just as hard as me.

Boone sighed and caught my hand. For a minute, I thought he might turn his head and kiss my palm, and my cock throbbed. I wanted that, the kind of casual affection that only really existed in books and movies. I wanted to live in those fantasies and never come back.

But he didn’t do that. He gently pulled my hand away from his face and said my name, which was worse. “Xion…”

When he turned toward me, I panicked. I couldn’t let him say whatever it was he was about to say. I couldn’t lose control of the situation.

I surged forward and pressed my lips to his.

Boone sucked in another sharp breath through his nose, but he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t touch me. We stayed like that for so long I started to get mad. Was this it? This was what songs and poems had been written about for centuries? This was a kiss? I didn’t see what the big deal was.

Until Boone put his hands on my face and kissed me back. Slowly. Intentionally. Like he was showing me how it could be, how soft he was somewhere deep down. That was a side of him I’d only ever gotten glimpses of. The Boone I knew was all rough edges and hard lines, but the way he kissed me was patient and gentle. Sweet, even.

Then, like glass, the moment shattered.

I was thrown back in time, back into a memory I thought I had buried.

Wrists and ankles bound, the sleeve of someone else’s shirt between my teeth muffling my screams for help. I haven’t yet learned that no one is coming. There’s no escape from what’s happening to me. No hope.

A big hand presses my face into the thin, plastic-covered mattress, and the metal groans under the weight of whoever’s on top of me. My insides burn, stretched mercilessly, but that’s not even the worst pain. The worst pain is the crushing feeling of helplessness in my chest, this sense of weakness, of knowing that no matter how strong I become, I will never be strong enough to stop this from happening because the drugs they’ve fed me will always be stronger.

I came out of the memory with a violent push away from Boone, my chest tight. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel anything except the same crushing weight of my own weakness.

My hand went to my throat while tears burned in my eyes. I wouldn’t cry. Not again. Not over this.

“Shit, Xion…” Boone reached for me.

At the same time, the dogs started barking.

Except it wasn’t Boone’s dogs, and I wasn’t in Boone’s trailer anymore.

I was back at the Laskin house six years ago, back in another memory I didn’t want to relive. It was summer and the cicadas were screaming. For the past six weeks, I’d been hearing sounds that weren’t there, thumping sounds and sometimes dogs barking. That was how it started. No voices. Not at first. Just sounds and a feeling, like I was being watched.

I was convinced the government was spying on me. The military was experimenting with a new genetic weapon and they needed twins and triplets to test it on. That’s why they were after me and my brothers. They’d injected me with something to spy on me. Everyone knew, but they were being paid to lie to us. That’s why they put cameras in the lunchroom at school, in our bedroom, in Xander’s new puppy. The microchip they put in her was a spy device, I was sure of it.

I thought I was protecting us when I picked up that brick while walking Buddy that afternoon.

I shook my head, forcing myself back into the present, and smacked Boone’s hand away before he could touch me, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever fucking touch me!”

I ran to my bedroom, shutting and locking the door without ever giving him the chance to defend himself. The crushing feeling in my chest got worse as soon as I was alone, and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling, even though I wasn’t sad. I was pissed. I was hurt.

I was dying, being ripped apart inside by the ghosts of the past and foolish hopes for a future. There was never going to be a future for me, was there? There was only this, only isolation and pain and the voices in my head to keep me company. They were screaming at me, drowning out the throbbing of my own heart.

I sank to the floor, pulling at my hair, sobbing and gasping for breath while I completely lost control and sank into a prison of my own mind.

Tears stream down my face. The weight of the brick makes my arm ache as I bring it down again and again and again until the dog stops moving. I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t have any choice. If they find us, they’ll kill us. I have to protect my brothers. It’s us or them, and I’ll choose us every time.

“Oh my God! Buddy! What the fuck, Xion?”

A hand closes on my arm and jerks me away so violently I fall into the grass.

“Buddy? Buddy!” Xander is crying as he falls to his knees in the yard. “You… you killed him!” He looks back at me, red-faced, tears and snot streaming. “Why would you do that?”

I push up on my elbows to look at him. “I had to. I did it to save us.”

But he’s not listening. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What did Buddy ever do to you? My poor puppy…”

I see it then, the unnatural way his face twitches like he’s wearing the skin as a mask. The longer I look at him, the more distorted his face becomes, stretching into unnatural shapes. Terror grips me as I realize I’m not looking at my brother. That isn’t Xander. I’d know my brother anywhere and that isn’t him. It’s some kind of monster.

God, they’ve done it. I’m too late. They found us and they’ve already replaced Xander with one of their lab grown freaks.

With a guttural scream, I launch myself across the yard at him. My hands wrap around the monster’s throat and I pin him to the ground. “Where is he? Where’s my brother?”

Teary eyes blink. The monster tries to look terrified, but I know it’s tricks. I can see right through its mask. “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you blind? I’m your brother.”

“Don’t lie to me!” I pull back my fist and punch the monster in the face.

Blood spurts and my fist aches, but I keep punching. Every time the monster says he’s Xander, I hit, and I hit hard. How dare he take my brother away from me? He deserves to die. Maybe it won’t bring Xander back, but I can’t let him keep impersonating my brother. I can’t let him get to Xavier. I have to save the one person I have left.

The monster isn’t fighting back anymore. His face is bruised and bloody. Small, pained sounds bubble up from his throat. But he’s not dead. Not yet.

The brick is right there.

I pick it up and stand over him, knowing what I have to do. I don’t want to, but I have no choice. It’s kill or be killed, and I have to survive.

“Ten, wait…” he chokes out, spitting blood.

“Only my brothers get to call me that,” I say and drop the brick on his head.

The memory ended abruptly, throwing me back into the present, into a world where I had to live with the consequences of what I’d done.

A world where I was alone and unwanted.

Except by Boone. He wanted me, and I thought I wanted him, but these ghosts in my head were determined to keep us apart. They were going to win because they were strong and I was weak. Too weak to fight them all the time.

So there was nothing to do but curl up and wait for the pain to become bearable again.