Echo Page 6

  It was real.

  I see Pike all the time. I even talk to him. But there’s never a smell, never a temperature to his touch. It’s how I know the difference between hallucinations and reality. But this is real. He’s alive, but at what cost? He doesn’t resemble the Declan I knew. That man was firm, yes, but he had light in him that shone through his emerald eyes. But this Declan . . . he’s hard and cold, and it’s all my fault. I knew pushing him to kill Bennett would destroy him, change him, take away his pure spirit.

  He looks as worn as I do, his frame more slender, a lack of color in his skin. I ache to touch him, taste him, make him see that this was all a terrible mistake. That loving him was my saving grace. Make him understand how everything changed and changed from a place of honesty I never knew I held inside of me.

  How am I supposed to live in the same world as him when he hates me so much?

  How do I right the wrongs of my past?

  How do I find a hope worth living for when my one hope would rather me dead than alive?

  TORMENT IS THE deep well I bathe in daily. It covers me entirely as I sink beneath the surface, feeling its particles soak into the pores of my decrepit skin. Seeping through me, it consumes, wallows, and dwells so I can feel every ounce of its torturous abuse.

  Black is the color that stains my insides. Declan used to color me in vibrancy, but that’s when he loved me for the lie he believed I was. I’m a sick woman. Deceit paints my rotten soul, and he now sees me for what I am.

  How could I destroy a man as wonderful as Declan?

  He was a good man, a loving man. His touch was firm yet tender. But now, after seeing him a couple days ago, he’s so different. Callous and filled with venom. Worst of all is knowing that I did that to him. I’m the culprit. I’m the cause. I touched him and turned him into a monster.

  But even as a monster, I want him. I’ll take him in any form I can because I’m so thankful he’s alive. That Pike didn’t kill him. Glory and joy somehow illuminate this bleak heart of mine and rejoice in the flesh and blood of his existence.

  Where do I go now? What do I do when all I want is what I know he’ll refuse?

  Another touch, kiss, smell, taste. But once I get it, I know I’ll want more. It’ll never satisfy, never be enough to feed the hunger I have for him. My soul is starved and he’s my sacrament.

  I want to skin him with my tongue, loving him with every lick.

  Alone is where I sit though, here in this bed and breakfast, in this room I’ve been calling home since I arrived. Too scared to go back to Brunswickhill for fear of what will greet me. Declan isn’t a man one can push. He thrives on utter control, so keeping my distance is the only choice I have right now unless I want to throw him over the edge. And I don’t. I want him to be able to see that not all of it was a lie, that I did love him, that it was real, and that I didn’t want to destroy him the way I wound up doing anyway. I need him to know that, to understand his heart was something I wanted to take care of—I still do.

  Hours pass as I sit, staring out the window at the snow-covered hills, wondering what my love is doing. It feels strange to be in a world where he exists and to not know, to not be a part of that world with him when we had become so enmeshed with each other. He was a part of me—still is. He lives within me; I can feel him in my bones—breathing inside of me, keeping me alive.

  He is all I have to live for.

  I grow impatient and anxious in this room, feeling like a caged animal. I grab my coat and scarf and head down to the car. As I drive the slick streets, I wind up on Abbottsford Road without thinking. It’s all I know in this town, it’s all I crave. I tell myself I won’t stay long, that I’ll just drive past, take a quick look. But when I make the sharp turn around the bend, I slow the car down and stop.

  Was it all a dream? A hallucination?

  Looking at the gate, I wonder if I was really on the other side.

  Did I just want it so badly that I dreamt it up?

  I know I shouldn’t be here. I know what I did to him was so awful that seeing me will only make it worse on him. I want to give him that space, the courtesy of staying away because I know that’s what he wants. But I’m too selfish. I want him too much, and now that I’m here, the energy collides inside of me. I want to jump over that wall, run up the hill to his front door, break it down, storm the property to find him, hug him, cling, paw, scratch, and ravage him like the animal I am.

  Tingles dance up my fingers, into my hands, and up my arms.

  I can’t sit still.

  Hopping out of the car, I rush over to the gates, grab on to them and shake them, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Declan! Please let me talk to you! Declan, please!”

  My voice strains as I plead and beg for him. Tears begin to coat my cheeks as I call his name, because simply having it on my tongue and lips feels like a kiss from him. So I scream even louder, a protest of my love, and my voice shrills painfully as I call out, “Declan!” over and over and over again.

  I don’t stop—I can’t.

  I’m nothing without him. I’ll die without him. He has to forgive me. He just has to. I can’t live with him hating me as much as he does. So I fight these gates, screaming and crying and breaking, falling to my knees—absolutely crumbling.

  I’m weak as my voice slowly gives out, and I have to catch my breath around my pounding, severing heart. Dropping my head, I weep while the damp ground seeps through the fabric of my pants.

  I startle and jump up when the gate begins opening. I turn to see the black Mercedes SUV he was in the other day coming up the road. Desperate to talk to him, I run out in the middle of the street, blocking him. He slows and stops, and with my hands on the freezing hood of his car, emotions overwhelm as I beg, “Declan, please. Please let me talk to you. I love you, Declan.”

  My words fall out in a blubber of panicky cries as I look at him through the windshield. The car shifts under my hands when he puts it in park and then opens his door. Menacing eyes greet me once again, but I’m frantic for his attention.

  “Declan, please, just let me talk to you.”

  “I thought you understood that I didn’t want you coming back here,” he snarls in his thick accent, stepping in front of me.

  In quick movements, he grabs my arms in both his hands. Faster than what I can fight, Declan drags me over to my car while I cry, “Please, stop. Just give me a few minutes to explain.”

  “There isn’t a goddamn thing you could possibly say to me.”

  He then yanks me around so I’m facing away from him and slams my front side over against the car, knocking the wind out of me and pinning me down. With my arms bound in his hand behind my back, he presses the side of my face into the hood with his other, needling against the ice. His body hunches over mine and his breath heats my ear as he seethes, “In case I didn’t make it clear, I fucking hate you.”

  “You don’t mean that,” I whisper, pissing him off even more as he grabs a fist full of my hair and snaps my head back. My neck stretches, sparks of pain shooting through the tendons, and the chrrrick of my hair, popping out from the roots, ripping flesh along with it, sears my scalp in pricks of fire. I scream, but he doesn’t let go.

  “You’ve got balls, darling. Coming here, knowing one phone call is all it would take for you to be arrested and extradited.”

  “Why haven’t you done it then?” I question through clenched teeth, and he yanks harder, ripping out more hair from my scalp. Gasping in agony, I push him, “Tell me why.”

  “You think it’s because I care for you? You’re fucking delusional.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because seeing your face makes me want to kill you. I thought you’d be smart and leave, never come back, yet here you are,” he says.

  “You won’t hurt me.”

  The sudden force of his hand shocks me, and I scream out in pure white, heated pain. My hand flies to the back of my head, trembling as I touch the bare flesh. Tears fall, and when I t
urn to look at him, he’s holding a chunk of my hair. I can feel the blood trickling down the back of my neck. He stares—no emotion—while my body pangs in agony, but I’ve dealt with pain and abuse my whole life. I’ve been beaten, whipped, tied up for days, and one thing I’ve learned: physical pain is much more tolerable than mental pain.

  Bruises fade. Blood dries. Scabs heal.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I bring my hand in front of me and it’s covered in blood.

  “You won’t hurt me,” I repeat, and it’s now that I see the torment in his eyes. There’s no doubt he’s furious, but there’s a void, a hollowness that didn’t used to be there.

  “You sucked the life right out of me. I don’t give a shit about you anymore,” he says and then drops the lock of my hair on the ground. “I pray you put a bullet in your head.”

  I let him go without saying anything as he turns to get back in his car. I bite my tongue, knowing I’ll only make him feel worse if I continue to speak. I’ll give him a reprieve, but I won’t back down. I’ll find a way to talk to him, to explain everything. I’ve manipulated my way around obstacles in the past; I can do it again.

  After I watch him drive past me and the gates close behind him, I walk to the side of the road and scoop up a handful of snow. My body tenses in preparation for the pain, and my hand shakes as I reach back. Flinching, I slather the snow on my bloody scalp, and hiss against the sting that singes my head.

  I scoop up another handful and pack it against my wound, and once my body stops quaking and numbs, I slip into my car and drive back.

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” ISLA questions urgently as I’m walking up the stairs.

  “Excuse me?” I respond when I turn around.

  Coming up the steps, she looks worried. “There’s blood all over your back, lassie.”

  “Oh, I . . . ”

  “What’s going on? Are you hurting yourself?”

  “No,” I quickly blurt out.

  “Do you need to call someone? The police?”

  “No. No, I’m fine,” I defend. “It’s fine.”

  Her eyes narrow in annoyance as I avoid her questioning.

  “It’s not fine. Now you tell me what’s going on or I’ll call the police myself.”

  “No police. Please,” I tell her, and decide to just lie. “It was a clumsy accident. I slipped on some ice and hit my head as I fell.”

  She gives me a suspicious look before nodding. “You should get yourself checked out by a doctor.”

  “If it starts to bother me, I will. It looks much worse than it is,” I try assuring her.

  Once I’m in my room, I head into the bathroom to check out the damage. The blood mats my hair, and the strands are dried to the wound. I peel some of the hair away, and it rips the forming scab causing my head to bleed again. I know I could wet a towel and clean myself up, but I relish the pain. It distracts and takes away from my annihilated heart.

  The misery inside of me swells and grows, so I continue ripping the scab apart, pulling my hair, and focusing on that pain instead of my internal pain. I can’t release it, but I can mask it, and so I do. When I feel the heat of blood seeping out, there’s a release of euphoria that delights me. I savor this momentary distraction and enjoy the blood tickling my skin as it rolls down my neck. It’s all I focus on as I sigh in relief and close my eyes.

  “DON’T FUCK AROUND, inmate. Five minutes,” the guard I paid off barks as he shoves the disposable cell phone against my chest.

  “I need the card.”

  “I already programmed the number in the phone,” he tells me and then hands me a small, folded up piece of scrap paper. “The verification code.”

  I nod and he scowls in return. “Make it quick.”

  Punching in the numbers, I don’t have to wait long for the call to go through.

  “Hello?” my longtime friend answers. The one I planted in my son’s life to ensure I have all my bases covered. A man who presents himself as a loyal entity to Declan, but whose loyalties de facto lie with me.

  “I don’t have long,” I say.

  “How the hell are you calling me? I heard you were locked up.”

  I was arrested before I could make contact with my associate after receiving the call about Nina’s whereabouts. Now I sit, here in jail at the Manhattan Detention Complex, waiting for my case to go before the grand jury.

  “I have my ways. Look, I don’t have time to bullshit. I need you to move the money from the offshore accounts and put it into Declan’s foundation.”

  “No worries,” he responds obediently.

  “Use his foundation to wash it and make it appear as clean as possible.”

  “Got it.”

  “I also need you to keep your eye on Declan. I want him followed. After the shooting, he’s been off, if you know what I mean.”

  “The kid is fucked up, Cal.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s his issue. You need to make sure my issue is the one you’re protecting, got it?”

  “Wrap it up, inmate,” the guard snaps at me.

  “That money needs to be moved yesterday.”

  “I’ll handle it,” he responds before the phone is snatched from my hand.

  EATING ONE OF Isla’s Scotch eggs I’ve come to enjoy and sipping on hot tea, I flip through a local Edinburgh publication. It’s been several days since my last run-in with Declan. I’ve been holed up in my room, crying and feeling defeated. Wondering what to do, where to go, and how to move on in this life.

  I was with Pike last night. He lay in bed with me; we haven’t done that in such a long time, and I forgot how very comforting it felt. I was finally able to breathe. He spoke to me, soothed me, and in that moment he was real. My head knows it’s a phantasm, but my heart refuses, so we talked, cried, and eventually he made me smile.

  When I woke this morning, he was gone, but somehow I still feel him here. I remember when we were kids, and even living in the vilest circumstances one could imagine, when I was in his arms, I was okay. He was magical in that way. So was Declan. Both of them loved me and healed me in entirely unique ways.

  Pike reminded me of my strength, and I showed him the back of my head, where Declan had ripped out my hair. I told him that I continue to pick at the scab and make myself bleed to feel better, proving to him that I’m weak, that I can’t handle the pain anymore, so I create my own. A pain I can control and use to mask the true ache that runs deep inside of me. But he assured me that what I’m doing is a symbol of strength. The fact that I refuse to let my emotions control me, and instead control them, is a testament to my vitality.

  I decided to take his words and apply them to Declan. Instead of letting him control me and keep me away, I will take the control to get what I want. I’ve done it before; I can do it now. Pike is right. I’ve been allowing myself to crumble and feel as if I’m nothing on my own, but he reminded me that I’m not. That I’ve always been strong. Reminded me that even though I no longer have him as my vice, I’m powerful enough to create another.

  “It’s so nice to see you eating,” Isla says as she walks out from the kitchen and into the dining room where I sit.

  “I’ve been a little under the weather,” I excuse my lack of presence.

  She sets down a bowl of mixed berries and eyes the magazine I’m flipping through.

  “I found it on the coffee table,” I offer. “I was thinking about getting out of town and going into the city for a day trip.”

  “Have you spent any time in Edinburgh?”

  “No. I drove through when I arrived, stopped for a quick meal, and then came here.”

  “It’s a great town,” she says and continues to talk, but her voice fades into the distance when I turn the page.

  She’s muted noise, and everything around me tunnels as I focus on the eyes looking up at me from within the grains of the paper. Dapper as always, in a vested, tailored suit, no tie, and top buttons unfastened. The very essence of Declan, unkempt in a classy way. His face, a couple days
unshaven, and I can remember the way the bristles felt against my lips when he kissed me. The way I would find comfort in running my hand along his jaw.

  Setting my fork down with ease, my pulse slows in admiration and shock. I hone in and examine every curve and line of his face.

  That used to be mine.

  No more though.

  He loathes my very existence, wishes me dead, prays for it. But that filters out and what remains is the lovingly harsh way his hands felt on my body. The good of Declan takes over my thoughts, and I rush back in time to when he would look at me with his powerful eyes that told so much in the depth of emerald. They would nearly illuminate and brighten when his emotions of adoration were on high, and dull out, blackening when desire and his need to claim and control would ignite. This man is built in impermeable layers, but I was the one he allowed to seep in. I guess the same could be said in reverse because I let him in as well.

  Isla’s touch on my arm pulls me away from my love.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say with a slight shake of my head.

  She nods to the photograph in the magazine. “No need to apologize. With looks like that, you can’t help but become distracted.”

  Laughing, I agree, “Yeah.”

  “He used to live in Edinburgh before moving to America years back. A perpetual bachelor that the lassies would fawn over.”

  “You know him?” I question.

  “Of him,” she clarifies. “The McKinnons were a prominent family here, but tragedy struck and they soon found assuage in the US. But recently, Declan, the son, returned.”

  “Hmm,” I hum, feigning nonchalance.

  “He lives here in Gala, you know?”

  “What happened?”

  When she gives me a wondering look, I clarify, “You mentioned a tragedy.”

  “Oh, yes. Declan’s mother was murdered in their home. Callum, his father, soon left, but Declan stayed in Scotland for a while. I think I read somewhere that when Declan finished his studies at University, he moved to the States and went into business with his father. They’ve both been living in America until Declan’s recent return.”