Chapter 41 "I'm ready for whatever you want to tell me," she answers, pressing her hand over my heart like she can feel the way it's breaking open. Like maybe she feels the same way. But I don't push it, don't push her. I've already done more than enough of that tonight. Besides, if I don't tell Sloane the rest now, I don't think I ever will. "I got Lucia to the emergency room, and the doctors started running tests. She was pretty messed up." Just the memory of that night pisses me off, and I can't even think of the days that came after. I couldn't touch my sister without hurting her. No one could. But I had to carry her. They had to examine her. "She cried the whole time," I tell Sloane, my voice going hoarse. "Not out loud, just these silent tears rolling down her face. It nearly broke me." Maybe it did break me, because I've never been the same since. No one in our family has, not even abuela Ximena. When my dad died, he tasked me with taking care of my sisters. Told me I was the man of the family, even though I was just ten. A lot of people have told me that wasn't right, that he shouldn't have put all that responsibility on me. But who else did he have to put it on? My mom fucked off right after Mariana was born, so she wasn't an option. Abuela Ximena took on the responsibility of feeding us, taking care of us, making sure we got to school. Loving us, absolutely. But someone had to keep us safe, and that was my job. It's always been my job. And I failed spectacularly with Lucia. "Very long story short," I say when I can find the words again, "the hospital thought I did it. They called the cops on me while Lucia was getting an MRI, who then showed up to arrest me. To be fair, my hands looked like they look now. A few bruises, some cuts from a hard-fought playoff game. It probably looked like I had hit her." "Anyone who knows you would have known you didn't do it," Sloane starts. "They did. Even a lot of the local reporters who showed up because someone leaked it knew something was wrong. Lucia got back in time to stop them from actually arresting me, but the news already had the story. And some of them ran with it." I shake my head at the memory. "I honestly couldn't give two fucks what people thought of me. But when the news broke that the police had been called to arrest me over my sister's condition, they included the name of the hospital. That's how Grant found out where she was-and the dumb fucker actually thought he was off the hook. If the national press had the story that it was me, he thought he could just waltz in with a giant bouquet of flowers and convince Lucia to go along with it." "While her brother was arrested for assault?" "Yeah." "So he was delusional as well as abusive?" Sloane asks incredulously. "He was something," I tell her, and it takes every ounce of self-control I've got to just sit here and finish the story when everything inside me is screaming at me to move, to pace, to punch a fucking wall. Something, anything, to make the fury go away. But the last thing I want is for Sloane to see any of the ugliness inside me, so I just grit my teeth and force myself to finish. "Anyway, he showed up at the hospital room, and my sister was terrified, and I...I didn't take it well." "I hope you ripped his fucking head off," Sloane growls. "Not quite, much to my regret. I did, however, engineer it so that he took the first two shots at me right in front of a camera. And then I beat the hell out of him. This time, when the cops came, they took him away. And he hasn't touched my sister since." "Is he in prison?" She sounds more resigned than hopeful, which tells me everything I need to know about how she feels about how well this country's justice system protects women. "He got probation." She snorts like it's nothing more than she expected. "And he still plays football." "What?" Now her mouth really does drop open. "Seriously? He still plays? But that means..." She freezes as the reality of the situation dawns on her. "You still have to see this bastard?" "Once a year. Sometimes twice, depending on who makes it to the playoffs." "Poor Lucia," she whispers, and the fact that she thinks of my sister makes me fall just a little bit harder. "I'm so sorry." "It's not right," I tell her. "But at least it gives my defense the chance to take his ass down every single play. Two years ago, he had to be carried off the field before the first half was over. Last year, they didn't even put him in." "Well, that seems like cheating." "You're telling me." I didn't think it was possible to ever smile when I told this story, but seeing how bloodthirsty Sloane looks right now makes it a little easier. Especially when I know all that anger and vengeance is on behalf of Lucia. "How is she now?" Sloane asks. "She's doing great, actually. She's in law school, volunteering at a women's shelter, and dating someone she seems to really like." "So, better than you." "I don't know about that." I push the residual pain down deep and focus on Sloane instead. "I do have a very naked Sloane Walker in my lap right now." Her eyes narrow. "You're doing it again." "Doing what?" It's my turn to lift a brow. "That slow-smile thing that gets you everything you want." "Who wouldn't be smiling in my position?" I slide my hands around to her bare ass and squeeze just a little to make my point. She responds by slapping a playful hand on my chest. "I'm serious! You don't have to front with me about this. About anything." I wait until she stops squirming and looks me in the eye. Only then do I say, "Back atcha." She freezes for a second, her whole body tensed as if bracing for a blow. But then she slowly, painstakingly relaxes one muscle at a time. "Fair enough." "Good." I kiss her again, and this time I put a little heat into it. When we break the kiss a couple of minutes later, she looks dazed. And more relaxed than I've ever seen her. "Let me get you to bed," I say, lifting Sloane up and rolling over so I can tuck her under the covers. She squirms the whole way, but she's laughing, too, so I figure it's okay. "It's ridiculous how strong you are." She looks astonished as she yanks the sheet over herself. "They expect me to throw a football close to eighty yards," I answer. "I need some power to do that." I start to get up, but she wraps an arm around my waist and holds me in place. "Can you stay a little longer?" I shouldn't, but once Sloane asked, no one could stop me. I nod and pull her against me. "I'll stay until you fall asleep," I whisper as I bury my face into her vanilla-scented hair. "Okay." She rolls over so that her arm is draped over my waist and her head is on my shoulder. She feels like she belongs there. Like she's always been there. Again, the words tremble on my lips. Again, I bite them back. And that's when Sloane starts to sing, the slowest, saddest, most beautiful version of Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" that I've ever heard. Everyone knows she has an amazing voice in studio and onstage, when everything is perfectly balanced and adjusted, but the polished voice everyone hears on the radio is nothing compared to how she sounds when she's singing a cappella. Her voice is husky. Raw. Like someone carved grief into sound. It takes my breath away as she sings a song about reassurance...and survival. I've heard the song a hundred times, but until I heard her version, I had no idea just how many nuances it has. After she finishes the last note, she presses soft kisses to my chest and whispers, "Everything's okay." "Go to sleep, Sloane," I whisper. 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