Stay (17 page)

“Addie!” Phoebe yelled. “Stop!”

My body went still when I realized I was putting her in danger as well as myself. Jackson took advantage of it and scooped me up with ease. He hurried back into the shed and pushed the door shut. He gently set me down and brushed snow out of my hair. I jerked away from his touch.

“What the hell was that?” Rochelle spat and reached out, hitting my shoulder with her fingertips. “You want to get us all in trouble?”

“If trouble gets us out of here, then yes,” I said slowly through clenched teeth.

“You look scary,” Lily told me.

I moved my glare to her and softened my expression. I wasn’t mad at Lily but I wasn’t sure she could make the distinction. “I want to go home,” I reminded her.
 

“You can’t go home, dipshit!” Rochelle said. “We went over this, remember?”

“Fine,” I spat just to shut her up. “I want out of here. I want to get us
all
out of here.”

“Whatever,” she replied and flicked her hand in my face. “If you’re so high and mighty, make sure you tell Nate that
you
were the one who threw that snowball so only
your
ass gets beat.”

I looked at Rochelle and nodded. Melted snow dripped down my back, making me uncomfortably cold. I took off the jacket and wiped away what I could. I moved closer to the space heater and turned around, wanting to dry the wet spot on my butt before the dampness sank into my bones and caused me to get sick.

No one dared to speak, let alone move, until the minivan disappeared down the driveway about five hours later. I was cold, stiff, and still angry, but I was also sad, tired, and scared.
 
Very scared. I knew Nate would be beyond pissed, and part of me regretted throwing the snowball at the house.

Jackson walked into the house first. Nate and Zane were waiting for us in the kitchen. Jackson stepped to the side and stole a glance behind him. His eyes met mine, and he gave me a tiny nod. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell me. Was he reminding me what I was in for?

Nate held his left out in front of him and removed a gold watch. He handed it to Zane and then rolled up the sleeves of his light blue button-up shirt.

“Who is the fucking idiot who hit the side of the house?” he began, the calmness that he usually carried was gone. The vein in his head was already prominent and pulsating. He eyed each and every one of us. My heart began beating faster and faster. Nate’s hands moved to his waist and he unbuckled his belt.
 

Oh, God, not again.
My stomach protested in fear, grumbling and churning. My cheeks grew red and sweat itched under my arms. I tried to open my mouth and failed.

“Oh, so none of you know what the hell happened out there?” Nate went on. “Very well,” he said and whipped his belt through the loops in his pants. He folded it over and snapped it. The cracking of the leather echoed throughout the house. “You can all be equally punished.”

There was no way I could let the others get punished because of me. I took a deep breath, ready to confess. But Jackson beat me to it.

“I did it,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“YOU?” NATE ASKED, disbelief in his voice.

“Yes, me.” Jackson looked Nate right in the eye.

“Why?” Nate leaned forward and slightly narrowed his eyes.
 

Jackson’s cheeks reddened. “I was knocking down icicles. I was bored.” He shrugged.

“Well,” Nate said, his unnerving calmness back. “That boredom cost you.” He flicked his eyes over us. “I want this kitchen clean by the time I’m done,” he ordered. “Come with me,” he told Jackson.
 

I could feel my pulse bounding through every vein. A sick cold feeling washed over me as I watched Jackson slowly walk out of the room. Whatever they were going to do to him was going to be horrible.

Zane pulled out a chair in the breakfast nook and sat at the table. He scooted a plateful of snickerdoodles in front of him and stuffed two in his mouth. Despite his full mouth, he grinned, and I knew he was gloating in his ability to eat while we had to clean.

I turned to Phoebe, my expression pleading. She quickly shook her head. Lily’s blue eyes conveyed the same don’t-even-think-about-it stare. Rochelle tipped her head, looking at the spot Jackson had been standing in. She looked utterly perplexed, as is she couldn’t understand why he took the blame.

And I couldn’t either. Was he actually trying to help me? Or was he going to want something from me later? Zane smacked Phoebe’s butt hard when she picked up an empty gravy bowl from the table. A lump of fear formed in my throat. Jackson was going to expect me to pay him back, I was sure of it.

The sound of leather on skin resonated through the house. My stomach tightened. I turned my back, not wanting to look into the dining room and see Jackson getting the shit beat out of him. For covering for something I did. I clenched my jaw and took quick, sharp breaths through my nose. My feet were glued to the floor with fear.
 

Nate whipped him again. Lily flinched at the sound. Jackson grunted in pain when the belt cracked. My head fell to my chest. This shouldn’t be happening. Not to Jackson. He was innocent.
I
was the one who should be getting the beating.

Phoebe turned on the sink, drowning out the noise. She walked past me, bumping into my arm. I caught her pleading stare and shook myself. With trembling hands, I picked up a plate and scraped the left overs into the garbage. Zane picked up another cookie before getting up and joining Nate. Unable to control myself, my eyes flicked to the dining room. Jackson was on the floor. I saw Zane kick him in the ribs. My entire body was on fire with fear. Were they going to kill Jackson right then and there? There was enough blood on the floor already.
 

Every punch, every kick, every time the leather belt cracked against Jackson’s skin made it hard to breathe. Guilty tears stung the corners of my eyes.

“I have to go in there. I have to do something,” I whispered to Phoebe.
 

“No!” she whispered back. “Addie, it be suicide! And Jackson get in more trouble for lying.”

She was right. I sucked in my breath and shook my head. The world was spinning again and I was stuck on this nightmare of a ride. There was nothing I could do to stop it so I could get off. Phoebe nudged my arm and looked behind us, reminding me that we had to finish cleaning or else we would also feel the wrath of Nate. I picked up another plate and put it in the sink where Lily stood washing dishes.
 

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the glass serving trays against the wall and scream at Nate, telling him that he was a spineless psychopath who would get caught and arrested someday, and I hoped his cellmate was a large man named Bubba who would make Nate his bitch.

But I didn’t.
 

I set the serving tray on the counter next to the sink and went back to the table to get another bowl. The cold mashed potatoes still smelled wonderful, but I felt too ill to even think about eating. I put the bowl down and grabbed the remaining dishes off the table, scraped the food from them into the trash, and put them on the counter next to the sink.
 

I wiped down the counters while Phoebe filled the dishwasher and Lily washed what wouldn’t fit. Rochelle dried the dishes, carefully stacking them on the counter when she was done. When the counters were clean, I stood in the kitchen, not knowing what else to do. Crumbs littered the floor. If I had known where a broom, was I would have swept.
 

Before I could ask, Zane came back into the room. Blood had splattered across his white polo shirt. To say I was scared was an understatement. I backed up against the table, fear causing my skin to tingle. I wanted to run away and hide.

Then I saw the knife on the counter.

“Meet me upstairs in five minutes,” he said to Rochelle and opened the fridge. He filled a cup with eggnog and took a long drink. I could smell the alcohol in it.
 

“Okay,” Rochelle said, her voice breathy. She stared at Zane as if he had just slayed the dragon. She wiped her hands on a towel and immediately started fussing with her hair. Zane downed the rest of his drink, refilled the cup, and went upstairs.
 

I took a shaky breath and pushed off the table. I crossed the kitchen and wrapped my fingers around a butcher knife.

“Ever heard the expression ‘don’t bring a knife to a gun fight’?” Nate’s voice came from behind me. I squeezed my fingers around the handle of the knife and whirled around. Nate leaned against the doorframe with one foot against the wall. He casually wiped blood off his hands. “Try it. We’ll see who is faster.” He took the knife from me and walked away, clicking his tongue. “Jackson, you know better than to leave the knives out. I guess I need to remind you.” He held the knife up, light reflecting off the blade.

I imagined running at him, raising my arm, and driving the knife down into his shoulder. Blood would spray in the air and splatter across my face. I’d bring the knife down again, this time hitting him in the spine. It would be a slow, painful death, and I would enjoy watching it.

I stood rooted in the spot, shaking with fear and anger. I watched as Nate stepped over Jackson, walking through the dining room, into the living room, and up the stairs. Rochelle brushed past me, practically skipping, and hurried up the stairs to get to Zane.
 

Lily scuttled to a closet and came back with a broom and a mop. I bit my lip and looked at Jackson. My heart began to flutter with nerves. Without a second thought, I left the kitchen and went into the dining room.

Jackson lay unmoving on the floor. Blood soaked through his shirt. For a split second, I thought he was dead. Then I saw him breathing. I took another step toward him. The floor creaked. I closed my eyes and winced before stealing a glance at the stairs. I let out a breath when no one on the second level left their rooms. Jackson tried to open his swollen eyes. His gaze met mine.

I knelt down next to him. “Why?” I whispered. “Why did you take the blame?”

He closed his eyes and flinched. “You’re the only one,” he mumbled and coughed. Blood dripped down the side of his mouth.
 

“The only one?” I questioned.

He tried to nod. “The only one who got stronger from being here. You’re still you.” He curled his knees to his chest, groaning in pain. “And you made it past the fence. I couldn’t even do it,” he wheezed. “And I tried five times.”

“Why would you … Wait,” I blurted as it dawned on me. “No ...” I stood up, and shook my head.
No.
Jackson wouldn’t try to escape. Why would he? He wasn’t a victim like us. He couldn’t be. He lived upstairs, with them. He couldn’t … but it made sense. Cold shock washed over me. “You don’t want to be here?” I finally asked.

“Of course not,” he muttered.
 

The whole time I had thought of Jackson as an enemy. I backed up, looking at him in a whole new light, and hurried back into the kitchen. I picked up a clean bowl from the counter, filled it with warm water, and took the towel that was hanging on the handle of the oven.
 

“You shouldn’t have lied for me,” I said gently and knelt next to Jackson. His distant staring made sense now, and I felt guilty and stupid for not putting two and two together. I dipped the towel in the bowl of water and carefully pressed it to a cut an inch under Jackson’s right eye. “I feel horrible. It’s my fault.”

“Don’t.” He squinted one eye open. He lifted his hand and gently took hold of my wrist, moving it away from him. “Don’t feel bad, Adeline.” He slowly moved his gaze to the living room. “And don’t get yourself in trouble.”
 

I pulled my hand back and shook my head. “I don’t care.” He still didn’t let go of my wrist. I put my other hand over his and carefully pulled back his fingers. He grunted in pain. I slid my palm under his, blood smearing my skin, and looked at his hand. “I think your finger is broken,” I said, noting the swelling of his index finger.

“Maybe,” he said and wiggled his finger. “I can still move it.”

I cringed at the thought of his bones snapping and laid his hand on his side. I dipped the towel in the water again. Both of Jackson’s eyes were purple and puffy. Blood still dripped from his nose, and he had a large cut on the side of his mouth. I could see the teeth marks from where his own teeth had dug into it while being hit.
 

 
I moved my hand up his face and pushed his wavy dark hair out of his eyes. The strands caught in his wounds and painted a trail of red up his face. I wiped it away and ran my hand over his head, checking for more bleeding. He had a lump on the back of his head, probably from being kicked. I tucked his hair behind his ear and mopped up the blood that dripped from his broken nose.
 

The water in the bowl was red. I dipped the towel in and swirled it around, doing my best to clean it. I squeezed the extra water out and carefully pressed it to his mouth, wiping away the thick blood. It ran down into his ear and around his neck.

Bruises covered his arms, and the spots of blood that seeped through his shirt made me nervous. I put the towel in the bowl, wiped my wet hands on my pants and grabbed the hem of his shirt. Warm blood soaked through and stained my hands. I pulled the shirt up and gasped.

Scars covered Jackson’s torso. Raised pink lines mapped years of abuse and torture. Cigarette burns and other patches of scar tissue trailed up his rib cage. I clenched my teeth together, trying to stay calm.
 

The blood was coming from a perfectly straight, large gash on his side. It confused me for a second since his shirt hadn’t been cut. Then I realized that it was an older injury. The protective scab that had formed came off from the beating. I stared at it, horrified. It looked like someone had taken a vegetable peeler to him and removed a section of his flesh. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was about an inch and a half wide and five inches long.
 

I felt dizzy. My ears rang and I wanted to throw up. I rocked back on my heels and sank onto my butt. Jackson feebly lifted his hand and touched my arm. His gesture of comfort caused a shiver to ripple over my body. I took a breath but felt like I got no air. I needed to compose myself.