It holds its secrets tightly furled, locking out the wind
Each leaf has a map, each river points the way
But the jungle is too good a host.
You really must stay.
So lay your body on the dirt,
And make not a sound.
Only when you rest you’ll find,
The key is underground.
I read the poem again, imagining walking into a forest. Being afraid and lost. It’s not a foreign feeling even though I’ve rarely left the city. The jungle is where I lived most of my life, in the mansion I wasn’t allowed to leave, where the trees are made of marble, where the leaves are gilded gold. I may have finally broken my way out, but sometimes I wonder if that’s an illusion. Maybe I’ll wake up and find myself back there, that my time at the Grand was all a bad dream.
Or maybe I’ll realize I died in that mansion, that freedom is just ghostly wishful thinking.
Kip comes back with tweezers and a bottle smelling of rubbing alcohol. He glances down at the book, a strange expression on his face.
“Did you write this?” I ask, gesturing to the poem.
He shakes his head. “My mother.”
“Oh.” I look again at the last line, the final escape from the jungle. Underground. She’s talking about death. “It’s pretty. And sad.”
“That was my mother. Pretty and sad.” He pours some of the rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab. “No more stalling now. I hate having to hurt you, but the sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”
It’s disturbing how like Byron he is… “Do what you have to do.”
He sits beside me and places my hand on his thigh. “When it hurts, squeeze.”
He feels like a denim-covered log in my hand. “I don’t think I’d be able to squeeze—oh shit, that hurts.”
It turns out I have more hand strength than I realized, especially when a man with large, gentle hands carefully uses tweezers to extract glass shards from my face. I must be leaving five dents in his leg, even through his jeans, where my nails dig in. He doesn’t flinch or jump, even when I hold on for dear life, even when I can’t hold in a little whimper.
Little pieces of red glass line up on the towel he laid out.
“That’ll stain,” I whisper.
“Let it.”
The couch is old but comfortable, lumpy in the way you can sink into. It’s too feminine a house for Kip, though. Everything is rose gold and sunshine yellow, corduroy softness and old brass fixtures. And dust. The house doesn’t feel lived in. Nothing like the hard man in leather and grit. “You grew up here?”
He doesn’t answer. His lack of expression tells me he did. “I don’t stay here much.”
“Why are you here now, then? Is it just a convenient place to stay while you hunt me down?”
“If that was true, I would have taken you back to Nevada when I first met you.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He pauses after the next sliver and looks me in the eye. “It’s complicated.”
“This isn’t a relationship status.”
“We don’t have a fucking relationship.”
I suck in a breath. It’s like he’s slapped me. No, it’s worse than that. It never hurt this much when Byron bent me over and fucked me dry.
Then his head lowers, before I’m even aware of what he might do. I’m braced for more pain. More lies. His lips are featherlight on mine. I hold still, allowing his mouth to move over mine, corner to corner, finding every square centimeter of my lips, kissing away the hurt.
When he reaches a little too close to my cheek, I can’t help but flinch.
He pulls back, regret on his face. “We need to get moving.”
“There is no we,” I say softly. “You made that clear.”
His eyes turn hard. “Let me finish cleaning your wounds. Then we’ll go.”
I’m looking at Kip, but all I can see are Byron’s eyes, his nose, his mouth. My heart slams into my chest as I remember that face looming over me, fucking me. Hurting me. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it before. Of course they’re brothers. They’re the same.
I have to leave without him. I can’t trust him at all. He’s been kind to me at times, but he’s also been rough and crude and cold. For all I know he will drag me back to Byron out of family loyalty. Delitto d’onore. An honor killing. That’s what it will be.
I need to get out of here. I need to get away from him.
I can’t trust him, even though I want to. God, I want to.
He leaves the room again to put away the supplies, and I know this is my chance.
I get the Taser he gave me and follow him into the bathroom. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. I smile that fake, seductive smile I’ve perfected through hours onstage. One hand slides up his back, meant to distract. To disarm.