Lock You Down by Gadziala Jessica

Author:Gadziala, Jessica
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-23T00:00:00+00:00

-Present-

"Fuck," Nixon hissed, shaking his head, his hand raising to rub over the scruff on his face that was quickly becoming a decent beard. "Babe... I'm so sorry. I can't imagine."

I sucked in a deep breath, hoping it would calm the raw sensations inside.

Sammy's loss was always a fresh wound; it was never something I went a day without thinking about.

It was my first thought every morning.

I was sure it always would be.

I'd scoffed at the therapist had told me it would be the first thought for a long time, but then, one day, it would be the second thing, then the third. And that would be how I knew I was healing.

Maybe I didn't heal because I kept picking off the scab, because I didn't want to heal until I had some semblance of justice.

I was okay with that.

I didn't want to wake up and not think of Sammy first thing. Even if I knew my brother and my parents were already much further along in their recovery than I was.

"It's been rough," I agreed, hearing the thickness in my voice as I willed myself to hold the tears in. They'd been too easy to come by lately.

"I knew he was a motherfucker," he declared, voice fierce, the exclamation enough to make a surprised smile pull at my lips.

"Yeah?" I asked, finding myself pleased that I wasn't the only person who saw it, that he didn't hide his evil as easily as he thought.

"I didn't want to take the job. Tried to push it off on King. I fucking hated him instantly. He called his secretary a bitch to my face."

"I don't know how that poor woman puts up with him," I admitted, wondering how high her salary must be to put up with him day in and day out.

"That's why you turned to ice," he said, eyes a little far away, lost in some memory.

"What do you mean?"

"When we ran into him on the street. You clearly didn't want to be anywhere near him. But when he called you 'princess,' you fucking turned to ice-cold stone. I get it now."

I'd wanted to throw up. Right there on his shoes. I hated my mind for doing it, but it flashed with awful images, ones put there by the knowledge of what happened, what he'd said when he'd hurt her. I wasn't sure how I managed to keep the contents of my stomach inside my body.

It was the first time I'd had actual contact with him. I'd been watching him for months, following him from work to home, from home to bars or business meetings or charity functions.

But I'd never even heard his voice. Never spoken to him, stood next to him.

I hadn't been prepared for the pinpricks of fear, the hand-around-the-throat sensation of anxiety, the rolling revulsion in my stomach.

I always figured the next time I would be face-to-face with the man, I would be watching him be ushered into a police cruiser while I said something to the effect of Got you, motherfucker.

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