As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (24 page)

A small sound escaped my lips before I could contain it.

“Okay?”

I jumped as Clay’s hand settled on my knee. “Yes.” My voice squeaked, and I cleared my throat to try again. “Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“About . . .” My mind scrambled, and I turned my face to stare out the window so he couldn’t see my expression. “About . . . Darcy.”

“You think he’s avoiding you.”

“I know he is.”

“He’ll be at your parents’ tomorrow for the surprise party, won’t he? Then—”

A strobe of red and blue lights caught both of our eyes as we turned onto my street.

Two squad cars were parked in the apartment complex’s lot, lights flashing but sirens silent.

“What on earth?” I said.

Clay parked on the street, and his hand settled against the back of my neck. “I think that’s Darcy with the officers.”

I squinted to see better. “Shit,” I said before throwing open the door and hurrying over as quickly as my sprained knee would allow. “What’s going on? Darcy?”

An officer stepped in front of me. “You live here, miss?”

“Yes, in the apartment right there.” I pointed and felt Clay’s presence behind me.

“You know this man?”

“Yes, of course, he’s my brother.”

“He was caught breaking into your apartment.”

“It’s not breaking in if you have a key.”

“Be quiet, Darcy,” I snapped. “What happened, Officer?”

“Your alarm system was triggered. The young man here insists you told him to wait inside but that he forgot the code.”

My brother avoided my gaze as I stared at him. I blew out a breath and smiled at the officer. “Yes, that’s correct. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”

Once everything was settled with the police, Darcy followed me into the apartment, Clay right behind us.
 

“Why are you here?” Darcy asked him.

“That’s none of your business,” I said then turned to Clay. “Do you mind giving us a minute?”

He glanced at Darcy. “I’ll wait in your room.” He disappeared down the hall as I reset the alarm.
 

When I turned, I found my brother slumped on the couch, a sullen expression on his face.
 

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “I came to check on you.”

I held up a hand. “Don’t.” My voice was sharp. “Don’t give me that crap. What are you doing here? Were you going to ransack my home?”

He sat up straight. “What? No!”

“Destroy my belongings? Hide and wait for me? Attack me again?”

He stood. “Finch, no! You know I would never—”

“Damn it, Darcy!” I threw my purse at him, and it bounced off his chest. “
Damn
it.” The words came out on a sob. “Why? You’re my baby brother, and I trusted you. Just tell me why.”

His eyes were wide. “I . . . it wasn’t me. I swear to god, it wasn’t! You know I’d never hurt you like that. Never. Not for anything. Why would you think that?”

“Why? Because you took fifteen hundred dollars, that’s why.”

He paled. “You knew about that? This whole time? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Because I wanted to be wrong.” I dragged my hands through my hair. “Just . . . just get out.”

“No, you don’t understand. I didn’t do it. I mean, I did. I took the money, but that’s
it
. I came in, borrowed the money, and left.”

My laugh was humorless. “
Borrowed
it?”

He hung his head. “No, you’re right. I stole it. But . . . but here.” He dug into a pocket of his jeans and then thrust his hand at me.
 

I flinched away, and his throat worked as several crumpled bills fluttered to the floor.
 

“This is why I came today. To put the money back. I got a job at a restaurant and sold a few of my things to be able to pay you back. I felt awful after I took it. Even more so when Dad called and told me what happened.” He squatted and gathered the fallen money then stepped past me and deposited the wad of cash on the kitchen counter. The bills were in all denominations. “I never should have taken it in the first place, and I . . . I hope you can forgive me.”

My eyes burned. This was the little boy I had tutored and tormented and watched with admiration as he grew. This was the little brother I adored.
 

“Why did you take it?”

He gripped the edge of the counter with both hands and was silent for several long moments. “My friend’s name is Laurel, and she weighs eighty-seven pounds.” His indrawn breath was ragged. “I’ve convinced her to see someone, but because she doesn’t have cancer or AIDS, the doctor would lose his license if he wrote her a prescription for THC pills. They’re supposed to stimulate the appetite.”
 

“Anorexia?” I asked as I approached him slowly.

His back hunched. “Yeah. I don’t know if I’m helping or hurting her, but I know her situation is life threatening. I would have tried anything, so I . . .”
 

“The marijuana I smelled on you.”

He hung his head. “I convinced her to smoke it. I think it’s helping. I want to believe it is.”

I touched his shoulder, and his muscles jumped under my hand. “If you’d told me that, I would have given you the money. However much you needed.”

He straightened and scrubbed his hands over his face. “She made me swear not to tell anyone. Her family . . . they don’t support her. They’re not like you and Mom and Dad. I think they’re ashamed of her illness. And she thinks if they found out she was smoking marijuana they wouldn’t have anything at all to do with her.” His eyes were sheened with moisture when he looked at me. “I can’t lose her.”

I didn’t hesitate to wrap my arms around him, and he clung to me, his thin frame quaking. I glanced over Darcy’s bony shoulder to find Clay watching us from the dark shadows of the hallway.

Later, when Darcy declined the offer to sleep on my couch and left to drive back to his dorm, I grabbed a decorative pillow from the couch and heaved it at the wall. It hit and fell with only a soft
whomp
, but the motion was satisfying, so I picked up another and repeated the action. Then I snatched up the last pillow and did the same.
 

I was breathing hard, fists clenched, as Clay leaned against the counter, watching me.
 

“I am so
angry
.”

“I gathered that,” he said, his voice calm.

I raked both hands through my hair and then let out of ragged breath. “I was afraid of my own brother, Clay. I’m not going to be forced into a cage of second-guessing everyone. I can’t live like that. I won’t.”

“All right.” He pushed away from the counter. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where?”

He knelt and pulled a black case from under the couch.

“What is that?”

“My nine millimeter.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about him having a gun in my home without my knowing about it. “Is that legal?”

He grinned. “Yes, it is. I have a license. I also have a concealed weapon permit.”

I smiled sheepishly. “You
would
have it legally.”

He chuckled. “On the whole, I’m fairly law-abiding. Come on, I want you to get a feel for handling it, and we’ll see about getting you your own if it’s something you’re comfortable with.”

Dusk had fallen when we arrived at the gun club, but the firing range was indoors. We rented a lane and purchased paper targets.
 

We were the only ones in the well lit, large rectangular range.
 

Clay fastened a target to the carrier system and positioned it on the backstop at the other side of the room with ease and familiarity.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“My grandfather was the sheriff in the town I grew up in. Seems like I was raised around shooting and handling guns, but I didn’t fire one myself until my early teens. What about you? You said you know how to use your dad’s twelve and twenty gauge.”

I nodded. “He’s had them for as long as I can remember, but it wasn’t until after 9/11 that he got them out of the closet and taught my mom, Darcy, and me how to use them. He and I shoot trap a couple times a year together. I’m decent, but not great.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble with this,” he said as he unlocked the gun case. “This is a CZ 75b. It’s manufactured in the Czech Republic.”

“Why this one?”

“Just personal preference. You should test out a few before deciding for yourself. Check for comfort, weight, how the grip feels in your hand. Here.” He ejected the magazine and handed me the unloaded pistol.
 

I made certain to keep the barrel pointed downrange as I tested it in my hand. “It’s not as heavy as I thought it would be. How am I supposed to hold it?”

He took the pistol from my hands and held it out in front of me. “Put the fleshy part of your hand between your thumb and forefinger flush along this ridge here. Your index finger goes along the barrel, the others wrap around.”
 

I followed his instructions.
 

“Good. Now your other hand goes here,” he said, placing my left hand on the butt of the gun. “Line your thumbs up next to one another, and let the fingers of your left hand cover the ones of your right. You want to grip it firmly, but . . .” He tapped my forearm. “Don’t squeeze it in a death grip. Think of it like you’re pushing with your right hand, pulling with your left.”

I held the gun out in front of me. “Got it.”

“Straighten your arms, but don’t lock your elbows.” He moved behind me and settled his hands on my shoulders. “Relax. Don’t hold yourself so tightly.”
 

I found it difficult to obey, though, with his hard, warm chest against my back and the rough stubble of his jaw rasping against my temple as he leaned into me and reached around to adjust the tilt of the pistol.
 

“Take your aim. Now see those small greenish dots? Two at the back of the barrel, one at the front?”
 

I nodded, and he chuckled, pulling back to smooth my hair away from my face. I grimaced. “Sorry. It’s out of control, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. I love your hair,” he said. He pressed his face to my hair and inhaled, and I couldn’t breathe. “But I can’t talk when it’s trying to get in my mouth.”
 

I felt off-balance and could only half hear him.
 

“When you aim, make sure you line up the front and rear sights. Finch?”

“Right. Line up the sights.” I almost protested when he stepped away.

“I have two magazines,” he said, holding up the two chambers. “Both hold sixteen rounds.”

I placed the pistol on the high table and opened the box of ammo then handed the bullets to him one at a time until both magazines were full.
 

“When you have a pistol in your home for protection, use hollow point ammo. It’s less likely to go through and through who—whatever you’re shooting at.”

I swallowed.

He pushed the loaded magazine into the butt of the gun and then grabbed a pack of earplugs from the gun case. “Put these in.” He followed suit as I fitted the foam into my ears. “Ready?” he asked, his voice muffled. He handed me a pair of plastic glasses for eye protection and donned a pair himself.

“May I watch you first?” I asked.

“Sure.” He pulled the top half of the gun back until it popped forward and locked into place.
 

“Show me what you got, baby.”

He chuckled but turned and did exactly that, firing in quick succession until the magazine was empty. He held the pistol with such ease it seemed like an extension of himself, natural and lethal.
 

It made his charming exterior seem just that—a façade, the polish hiding a dangerous, formidable side, which I’d glimpsed when he’d confronted Jeremy. Clay was a layered man, who allowed others to see what he chose to show. It served only to further my fascination with him. I wanted to explore the depths and facets of him, and it seemed an endeavor that would take a lifetime.