Shattered by You Read online

  He reached out his hand, the ink on his tatted arm vivid from the rain.

  “Take it or I’ll throw you over my shoulder.” His hand was steady and strong. “Not leaving you out here, Haven.”

  If I laughed, which I didn’t, it would’ve been then because he’d never get me over his shoulder. Not before I had a gun in his face.

  And there it was, the set jaw, the narrowed eyes, the lowering of his brows—determination. I knew when someone wasn’t going to concede.

  Since I’d been on the farm, I’d kept my distance from everyone, but I watched, always watched. From what I’d seen of Crisis, he was laid back, playful and flirted religiously. But with that came confidence and perseverance.

  I suspected Crisis wouldn’t back down from much, if anything. And as he towered over me, a soaking wet mass of muscled strength, I knew he’d attempt to pick me up and carry me back to the house if I didn’t take his hand. So, my options were take his hand, or take out my gun. Option two led to my brother finding out. And that would lead to the tour being cancelled because he found out I carried a gun and was running in a violent thunderstorm.

  Ream would give up everything for me. He had. Even parts of himself he could never get back. But when I looked at him now, he’d found peace with what he’d endured as a teenager. I’d never take that away.

  I’d tackle my own demons.

  I reached up and Crisis’ hand grabbed mine. He pulled me to my feet to stand inches away from him. My eyes slid over his face as the lightning flashed across the sky. I looked for the familiar ease in his expression that I’d found myself searching for every time I saw him. It was comforting, warm, and radiated an energy that sparked something inside me.

  But it wasn’t there this time. Instead, his eyes were dark to match his harsh expression. I lowered my gaze to stare at the small space between our feet. Not because I feared him or gave into him, but because acting compliant led to an advantage over your opponent; it let down their guard.

  “Your brother’s home.” My brother and Kat had gone to Logan and Emily’s farm down the road. From what I’d overheard, the girls wanted to discuss wedding plans and the guys were working on lyrics for a new song. “He’ll freak if he sees you.” My eyes darted to his and my breath locked in my chest. Crisis knew I wouldn’t want Ream to see me like this.

  “Then why make me go?” Make was a strong word, used for his benefit. The reality was he couldn’t make me do anything.

  “Babe, I honestly don’t think anyone can make you do anything.” My eyes narrowed because he’d read my exact thought and obviously knew me better than I’d anticipated. “Especially with that gun in your pocket.” My breath locked and I put my hand on it. “Come on, we’ll go to the barn to get you dried off. I think there’s a raincoat in there to cover up the mud all over you.”

  I thought about it for a second, like five seconds, then nodded and a wet clump of hair fell in front of my eye. Crisis reached up and tucked it back behind my ear before I could react and back away. There was nothing in his expression that was the usual flirty charm he constantly displayed, although ever since he jumped off the cliff with me, he kept the flirting minimal. It may have had something to do with my knee jamming into his balls once we reached shore.

  Our hands remained linked, more because I was being accommodating since he wasn’t planning to tell my brother. My legs wobbled, the muscles protesting after the over-exertion of my run. He must have noticed because he let go of my hand and instead, put his arm around my waist to steady me.

  I stiffened, clamped my jaw and trudged forward. Why fight a battle that would do more harm than good? I’d learned that while handcuffed to a bed, unable to get away while some stranger hovered over me with lust in his eyes. Save it for when you knew you had a chance at winning.

  And I did. I fought before I was handcuffed. Unfortunately for me, they’d liked the fight.

  The barn door creaked as he opened it and the horses nickered. Crisis flicked on a dim overhead light and a few horses stomped their hooves and bobbed their heads over their half-doors.

  It was well after midnight, so night check had already been done by Hank, the elderly gentleman who lived in his own place at the back of the property. Crisis released me and walked down the aisle, stroking muzzles along the way. He grabbed a few flakes of hay from the end of the aisle and tossed one in each stall. When he was done, his shirt and wet jeans were covered in little pieces of alfalfa.

  He peered down at himself. “Fuck. I look like I rolled in basil.” He brushed himself off, green flecks falling to the cement, but most stuck to his wet denim jeans.

  I stood where he left me, watching him. His hair dangled across the side of his face in wet loose curls. It wasn’t long enough to sit content behind his ears, but long enough to look messy and dishevelled.

  His brows pulled together and it caused a crease between his eyes. Annoyed maybe, something I’d rarely witnessed from Crisis. Despite avoiding him and everyone else, I was still aware of each of them. But Crisis was the only one who was impervious to my cold and aloof disposition. My brother treated me like a piece of glass, and maybe I was, but I liked to think it was bulletproof.

  Water puddled at my feet as it dripped off my clothes and hair. I stood like a statue under the light bulb, an illuminated circle around me, bright at my feet then slowly fading out.

  The protection from the wind and rain eased my shivering, but goose bumps still rose beneath my heavy wet clothes.

  Crisis straightened and our eyes met.

  He stood ten feet away, but it felt as if he was next to me. I expected to see desire smoldering because that was what I was used to around men. It was what I expected from every guy, not that I considered myself beautiful or irresistible, but twelve years filled with men’s leering eyes on me, solidified the predictability of what to anticipate from them.

  But despite the trained response in me, Crisis was different. I was beginning to realize that in the few months I’d lived on the farm with him, Kite—the drummer in the band—my brother and Kat. Still, my mind fought against it, unwilling to let anything good in because good didn’t happen.

  I ran my finger over the scorched words Olaf branded on my wrist. I’d been an object. A possession. Not for Olaf to use, but for others. I’d made him a lot of money.

  “Come here,” Crisis said. He didn’t wait to see if I’d follow him as he turned and strode into an empty stall on the right.

  I hesitated, not because I was scared, more because I waited for the numbness. It was what I’d been searching for on my run, the embrace of the shield of detachment.

  I took several long deep breaths, the wind whistling but no longer haunting as I closed it off.

  I slipped my hand into my pocket, felt the comfort of the gun and then followed him, my muddy wet shoes leaving footprints on the rough cement. Clifford, Kat’s appaloosa horse, reached his neck out as far as he could, tilted his head and flapped his lips as he tried to grab hold of my shirt on my way past.

  I stepped to the side, ignoring him and entered the stall. Crisis held a handful of yellow straw in his hand. He nodded to the bales in the corner. “Sit.”

  “Why?”

  There was no grin and I didn’t like that. I liked his grin. I liked how it eased some of the tension in my chest. “Do you plan on arguing with me for long? Because if you are then I’m going to sit down for it.”

  I sat on the straw bale.

  He approached and I was unclear what he was going to do until I felt the roughness of the straw on my head. I darted to the side, my hand latching onto his wrist. “What are you doing?”

  “How do you think they dry off horses?”

  I frowned. “I’m not a horse.”

  He smirked and I saw that familiar flash of play in his eyes. I waited for his smartass remark; I’d overheard enough of what he said to know Crisis had a mouth on him. “No. But you’re wet.”

  I had no idea if he meant that as anything but
literal, but he didn’t chuckle or wink. He merely stepped close enough so his calf brushed against my thigh, then began to rub straw in circular motions on my head.

  I let him.

  I picked my battles carefully and this was one that didn’t need fighting. He was attempting to help me so if Ream saw me when I got back to the house, I’d at least appear half-decent.

  An odd sensation hit my chest and there was a slight twitch at the corner of my mouth as I thought of what he was doing. It was mildly ridiculous. No, it was utterly ridiculous.

  I sat in a stall, soaking wet while the bass guitarist of a hit rock band rubbed my head with horse bedding.

  But I didn’t smile, and laughter hadn’t passed my lips since I was sixteen. Since before Gerard. Before the drugs. Before Ream and I were separated.

  A few pieces of straw fell in front of my face and onto my lap and I stared at them, now damp and flimsy, having soaked up the water from my hair. Crisis’ hand slowed and I noticed he barely had any straw left in his grasp; it was his hand stroking my hair.

  I stiffened and his hand slipped away. I looked up and froze when I saw he was already watching me. The deep contours of his face were accentuated as he scowled, brows low, shadowing the magnetic blue in his eyes.

  “Don’t know what to do here.” He sighed then crouched between my legs, palms on either side of me, resting on the bale of straw. I kept my eyes on him, watching for any hints of lust.

  But it never appeared and my shoulders sagged, not enough for him to notice, but it was inside me, an inner relief that he wasn’t helping me in order to get in my pants. He looked genuinely concerned and that worried me too because he and Ream were like brothers.

  “Don’t tell him,” I said firmly, my voice steady, the shivering minimal.

  “Can’t do that.” I clenched my jaw and glared. “You’re his sister. He loves you and wants to help.”

  “I don’t need help.” His brows lifted. “I. Don’t. Need. Help.”

  “You rarely talk, not even to your twin brother who you haven’t seen in twelve years. You don’t smile and sure as fuck don’t laugh. I get that you went through some serious shit and I’m not going to pretend I know—”

  “Then don’t.” I had to give him something to chew. Something to convince him I didn’t need help because there was no way in hell I was going to sit on a couch and spill my life story to some pompous ass who probably had seen me naked at the club, then fucked me. “I’m starting university soon. I’m fine.”

  “Because you enrolled in school means you’re fine?”

  “It means I’ve moved on.” That was what I was trying to do. Move on. Get a degree in Sociology, do what I never had a chance to do before . . . live and make something of myself. I swore if I ever escaped, I wouldn’t waste my life, my freedom.

  “Moving on? Do you really want to go there? Because I’m standing in a barn in the middle of the night in a fuckin’ storm with a girl shivering, muddy and wet, with a gun in her pocket.”

  He was right. But I’d find a way back to the numb like I always did.

  He reached up and picked a few pieces of straw from my hair while he spoke. “You’re going to be alone for months. I don’t like it. I know Ream sure as hell doesn’t. We’ve been talking about cancelling the tour and—”

  “No.” I pushed on his chest and he lost his balance and fell to his ass. I stood, walked over to the back wall and leaned against it. “He needs this. He loves music. I see it in his eyes every time he talks about performing.”

  “Didn’t think you paid attention to anything we said.”

  I shrugged. I did. I always paid attention; I just acted like I didn’t. I avoided sitting and having meals with everyone, but on occasion I did and I listened. “He loves music.”

  “Yeah, he does.”

  When we were kids, he’d lie beside me in the closet and sing when I was scared. I felt his love for it and despite our screwed-up childhood, the music always made everything okay until it didn’t anymore. Until it died in him. It was after our mom sold us to her drug dealer, Lenny, to pay off her debt and I never heard Ream sing again. Lenny was the one who made Ream go to the basement with ‘clients’ in order to clear my mom’s debt.

  When Lenny died, probably from some drug deal gone bad, Olaf moved into the house with me, my brother and Alexa, Lenny’s daughter who was a couple years younger than us and obsessed with Ream.

  It didn’t take long before she took advantage of her father’s death and concocted a plan to hurt me, so that I’d no longer be my brother’s innocent angel. That was when Gerard came to my room at night. That was when he shot me up with heroin. That was when I knew my life would never be the same.

  Crisis stood.

  I hardened my grey eyes and curled my hands into fists at my sides. “You have no idea what he went through for me. He deserves to be free from the ugly in this world.”

  “Yeah, he does, but what do you deserve?” Not many met my glare head on, even Olaf. But then he’d just smack me if I ever looked at him like that. “I don’t know shit about what happened to you, but I do know Ream’s past was pretty fuckin’ bad. I also know yours is probably worse.”

  Nothing was worse than what Ream had been through. We were kids and he sacrificed his own innocence in order to protect mine. Again and again. Week after week forced to go downstairs into the basement so I didn’t have to.

  “He’s worried, Haven.”

  “I didn’t ask him to be.” It was a bitchy response, but I was struggling to find a way out of this. If Crisis told Ream, there was no way he’d leave. I crossed my arms over my chest and softened my voice as I said, “You’ll do more harm than good.”

  “Not so sure about that,” he muttered and ran his hand through his wet hair. Some of the strands were drying and were a lighter blond than the damp ones. There was no question, Crisis was good-looking and I saw why he effortlessly acquired chicks on the few occasions I’d been out with everyone socially—socially used liberally because I was far from social. He had a self-assured attitude that girls gravitated to.

  He gave a single nod. “Okay.”

  My brows lowered, suspicious as to why he’d given in so easily. “Okay?”

  He strode toward me and I braced, arms dropping to my sides and raising my chin. “Yeah.” He kept coming until he was inches away, his breath wafting across my face with a hint of mint. “I won’t tell him about tonight.”

  I tensed ready for it. My stomach churned as I realized that Crisis was like all the rest. He wanted payment for his silence.

  “If we go on tour, and that’s a big if, you’re going to promise to call him every day. And no more running in fuckin’ thunderstorms. Jesus.” He ran his hand through his damp hair again and a few strands stayed back while others fell forward again and dangled in front of his eyes.

  I hadn’t expected that. I expected what all men wanted. Besides, who was I? I may be Ream’s twin sister, but really I was just a girl who showed up in their lives several months ago who barely spoke to any one of them.

  “And I’m texting you. When I do, I expect a reply.”

  My brows lifted. “You?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because I know what you’re doing here, Haven. I knew Ream after you were separated and he was seriously fucked up. He hid, just like you’re doing. Music gave him an outlet and I suspect that is what you’re doing with the running, but he didn’t risk his life.” He moved a bit closer and my chest brushed against his wet shirt. “You can’t hide from me. I saw it out in the rain and I see it lingering like a shadow on your face right now. You’ve been pretty fuckin’ good at pretending you’re strong and perfectly okay with whatever fucked with you.” He paused. “And maybe our leaving is what you need. I don’t fuckin’ know. But what I do know is that if either of us sense something’s off, we’re back here.” He pushed away from me and the heat from his body went with him. “You will break. One day that cool ex
terior you’re hiding behind will shatter. It has to. It has nowhere to go. And when it does happen, I intend to be there to help you pick up the pieces.”

  I had nothing to say, because he was right. I was a time bomb, ticking slowly and steadily, waiting for another trigger to set me off, one I couldn’t run to bury again. I just didn’t know which way I’d go yet—destruction of myself or destruction of others.

  He walked out of the stall and I followed. He stopped to stroke Clifford, who nipped at his wet t-shirt. “You fail to answer one text, I tell Ream what went down here tonight and we’re back and you’re seeing someone.”

  “You can’t force me to see someone.”

  “You sure about that? Because last time I checked, it was illegal to carry a handgun in Canada.”

  Shit.

  I narrowed my eyes. “You realize this is blackmail?” Because I’d never give up my gun and Crisis appeared to know that.

  The day I showed up at the farm, I had a gun in my hand and I still do. Even with Olaf dead, I wasn’t giving it up. It gave me freedom and I’d never lose that again.

  He chuckled. “Baby, you can call it whatever you want, extortion, threat, bribery.” He shrugged. “Bottom line, I get to make sure you stay safe if we go.” He hesitated and the cockiness in his eyes returned. “And to make sure you stay safe, one of our security guys is staying with you. He’ll only report to me.”

  Double shit.

  “Your brother will be more likely to leave if one of our guys is with you.”

  True. Okay, it wasn’t a big deal; I could deal with those terms. “I’m not giving up my gun.”

  “Then follow the terms.”

  “I thought you were nicer.”

  “I am nice. I’m a sweetheart . . . most of the time. I rubbed straw in your hair, that’s nice.” He grinned. I frowned. “But if I asked you nicely to text me, to call Ream, to never run in an open field during a thunderstorm again . . . would you listen?”

  Triple shit.