NO!
I can't breathe. "Carter!" I wail, squeezing the door handle, tugging at it, hearing theclick click clickas I draw it back desperately, over and over. I need out. "Let me out!”
The Chrysler's headlights illuminate Max as he walks forward.
I start to suck at the air, as if it is somehow thick and sparse and I have to fight for it.
I will fight.
Pressing my palms to the door, I lean against the glass. Several uniformed bodies now surround my dangerous tall lover. The waves crash hard against the rocks. I inhale that salty air - that's the ocean. Wild. Free. Uncontainable. Like Max.
Helpless to do anything, I press one of my hands to my lower belly. "Daddy will be okay. He will. Nothing can keep him from us."
I watch as the officers approach him with caution.
As Max threads his fingers together behind his head.
As it takes three of them to kick his knees out and force him to the ground.
As they kneel between his shoulder blades, pinning him.
As they handcuff his wrists behind his back.
"Max Butcher, you are under arrest for the murder of Marco Cappelli. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . ."
Cassidy
“Everyone is made up of little contradictory pieces and you should never judge another person's decisions because you don't know the pieces they have to choose from.”
"I should goand check on him," Xander says, standing up quickly as something shatters. The sound of Bronson in the gym is riotous even from the couch I'm perched on in the living room. His roar is animalistic, raw, and pained, and I'm being drawn to it. It matches my insides. I want to go in there and hold him close. Have him hold me. Share our pain and anger and helplessness. But I'm just not sure that's a good idea. I've never seen him angry before and this is more like a manic blind rage. A flicked switch in his head. I wince when I hear a howl of fury, followed by a smash and a hiss of pain.
Stacey touches Xander's forearm, subtly persuading him to sit back down beside her and wait. In any other situation, she would arm herself and join his cause or. . .I don't know. But tonight, she isn't. I've never seen her so. . .passive.
"Leave him," Clay orders, leaning back into the single recliner. Aurora sits quietly on the armrest beside him. She is usually such a big personality; her lack of comments feel uncomfortable. I blink at her. At her appearance. She has just been dragged from her bed at 1 a.m. and still looks like CEO Barbie. With her long dark hair pinned back neatly and her black column dress somehow wrinkle free, she looks like she is on her way to an executive job in the city. She must be a witch.
"Leave your brother. He needs to blow off steam. You know what happens when he doesn't," Butch states, positioning himself on the chair opposite mine, offering me all his attention. "You should get some sleep, Cassidy." Leaning forward onto his knees, he says, "It's nearly two. You don't need to be here when Jimmy arrives."
"I'm staying right here," I mutter, my eyes downcast, hiding the blatant accusation in them. A feeling I can't drown. It is all their fault. It's Butch's fault for sharing his sons as if they were commodities. It's Jimmy's fault for existing.
I want Max.
Pulling my knees up onto the couch, I hold them in close and rest my cheek on top. Forcing a kind of mindlessness, I will myself to focus exclusively on my breaths in and out. I attempt not to let my mind wander to a future without Max. Where I raise this baby with his family and mine but without him.
Frick.Good attempt, Cassidy.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, settling into the red fabric of my dress. For every moment he is locked away, imprisoned in a cell that lacks warmth and softness and me, I'm fearful that his gentleness will die and the dark will take hold. Dig its claws in deep and pierce his heart and mine. I'll feel that cold room when I place my hand on his empty side of the bed. When shivers rush the length of his spine, they will also find mine.
I swear I can feel them now.
When Bronson stops hurling things around the gym, the house is left in a chilling state of quiet. The clock ticks intrusively and mockingly loud. While we may all want to fill the space and time with conversation, talking is exhausting. And the silence is noisy enough.
I shoot up with a start as the tall, tightly wound form of Bronson Butcher appears, his face flushed from exertion, his chest weighted with heavy breaths. As he clenches his fists, my eyes drop to the ripped skin at his knuckles. My core twists.
Max.
I'm reminded of Max and how much he needed me a month ago - his knuckles and face bludgeoned from boxing. How I'd turned him away. How the nights between this one and the next time I see him, he'll be dealing with his darkness alone. Just like that night. I cover my mouth quickly, forcing a sob down my throat.
I'm on my feet before I realise I'm moving. Dragging Bronson over to the kitchen sink, I pull his hands under the faucet and begin cleaning them. I focus on the butcherbird tattoo on his hand, scrubbing it over and over again.Max.