Mangled Memory, page 20
Allowed.
As if I need permission. I didn’t need permission when I lived at home with my overly controlling dad and I didn’t need permission when I chose to marry the asshole who now owns me.
I have issues remembering some chunks of time after a traumatic brain injury. That’s not unusual or unreasonable. It doesn’t mean I’m incompetent.
“Come back, Ellie.” I stroke a hand down her spine and she turns, this time positioning herself on my other side doing something similar.
“Ci, help her. It looks like she’s all spun up.”
“Yeah, and two Murphy women on edge is two too many.”
“Exactly.” I stroke Eleanor’s fur and offer my brother a genuine, albeit small, smile. “I get to freak out today. I don’t need her stealing my thunder.”
His eyes level me, and his face goes serious as he leans his elbows to his knees. “What do you need from me, little sister? I’m out of my element and don’t have a trick in my bag for this fucked-up situation. What do you want me to do? How do I support you in this?”
“You mean you, Cian Murphy, the methodical planner with a contingency for every little thing, doesn’t have a set of rules for when your sister is deemed incompetent? They’re going to retract your Type-A card and admit you to the loosey-goosey club.”
“Does the loosey-goosey club have good women, because the Type-A club ones are boring.”
A laugh escapes me. So does a lone tear. This is so my big brother. He’s the steady one—meticulous, logical, orderly. He’s pressed slacks and a carwash membership and two mats to wipe your shoes on at the front door. One for the big chucks, another for the fine dust, before leaving them in the corner in the foyer.
He’s who you want running your business and organizing any event. His contingencies have contingencies.
“I so love you.”
“Love you too.” He turns his phone upside down on the end table and extends a hand to me. He helps me off the floor and leads me to the kitchen where I plop down at the island. “Have any wine?”
“Do you really want wine?”
“Not really. I mostly want not to deal with my day.”
“How about an omelet and toast? It’s not over-the-top comfort food, but it’s warm and quick and nutritious enough.”
“Sounds delicious. Ci. What can I do to help?”
“You handle the toast. I’ll get the rest. What do you want in yours?”
We set about the kitchen, working in tandem as I’m sure we have many times. When I’ve got the bread in the machine, but haven’t pressed the lever, I put my hip to the counter. “Have you told Liam?”
He nods before turning to face me. “I texted him. He’s on his way back from Durango. Said he would come by here before going home. You want to call him and ask if he wants breakfast?” He uses the spatula to gesture to the pan with the sizzling eggs.
I shrug. I do and I don’t. I want both of my brothers with me. But I don’t want to have to acknowledge what Liam already knows… my mental insufficiency according to the world around us. But I need him. “I guess.”
I extend my hand to my brother in a gimme gesture for his phone and scroll to Liam’s name and, after releasing a huge breath, press his contact.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah? It’s been forever and I get a yeah. Not a good evening, not a what’s up, sis? But yeah. I see how it is.”
“Ayla-girl.” The words are a comfort to me. He’s the only one who calls me that and somehow, the tears start to well.
“Li. Are you”—the wind and the road noise remind me of summer—“on your bike?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s dark out.”
The low rumble of his annoyed laugh meets me. “Headlights, Ayla. They put them in cars now too.”
“Shut up, ass munch. You know I worry.”
“Love you too, sis. Love you too.”
“We’re making omelets at Ci’s. How far out are you?”
“Too far out to make it for dinner, but not so far I won’t see you tonight. If you make an extra omelet, throw it in the microwave for me?”
“What do you want in it?”
“Whatever you’re putting in yours. See you in a bit.” Liam clicks off before I can tell him I love him or to be safe.
I stare at the phone in my hand as if it will reconnect me to my brother before finding Cian looking at me. “He’s a ways out. No clue when he’ll be here… He didn’t say. But he asked us to make him an omelet for when he gets here.”
My brother turns back to the stove and dual wields his spatulas, eventually sliding the beautiful golden egg concoction onto a plate before returning to the pan and dropping more eggs with a sizzle. “What does he want inside?”
“Everything we have it sounds like.”
“Plus jalapeños. Mind grabbing those from the fridge?”
I do as I’m asked and wordlessly rinse and chop a pepper on the cutting board, avoiding it touching the good stuff.
“I swear he’s burned off his taste buds.”
Ci laughs, but says nothing as he works on the second omelet. “We’re good for you to drop the toast.”
I do. We work in tandem until he slides the second plate onto the island and we land, side-by-side, to dig in.
“I’m not crazy, Cian.”
“Never thought you were, Ayla.”
“So how do we fix this? I don’t need a caregiver. Yeah, I have some dark patches in my memory, but I’m not incapacitated. Surely a judge can recognize that.”
He takes a long sip of his orange juice and looks thoughtfully toward the back window. “We’ll figure it out. Promise.”
I wish he’d say more. But he’s said it all anyway. We don’t know. But I’m not deficient. And he’s on my team to figure it out.
He stands as I finish my last bites and returns to the stove, starting the burner while cracking a few more eggs. He whistles as he makes the last omelet, piling it full of everything we had left, plus the peppers and a little more meat he had in his fridge.
When he’s satisfied with it, he slides it onto a plate and places it in the microwave, before proceeding to scrub the pan and throw the plates and glasses into the dishwasher.
“Want to watch a movie?” His gaze is on mine via the reflection in the window.
“Nah. I think I really just want to sleep. I’m wiped from today.”
He nods thoughtfully and turns, propping a hip on the counter near the sink, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “He’ll come back.”
“And he can kiss my ass.”
A small smirk plays on my brother’s lips. “At least he’s getting pissed-off, fighting Ayla.”
“Is there another one?”
He folds the towel and places it near the sink. “No. Only the one.”
“I’ll let Liam know you went to bed early.”
“Thanks, Cian.” I round the island and wrap him in a hug. “Do I get Eleanor for the night?”
“As if I could do anything to change that.” He kisses the top of my head before releasing me.
I wander toward his guest room and slide out of most of my clothes before piling under the heavy, thick covers and rolling toward the windows. The smells and the sounds are wrong. This isn’t my bed or my home. And for those reasons, I love it all the more and curl into a ball on my side.
My eyes are almost scratchy from being warm and puffy. The crying jags have made them heavy and thick and sleep takes me quickly.
26
reverse midas touch
Christian
I have no idea how long I’ve been outside. Long enough that the cold has seeped in even with my thick coat. When the back door opens with a snick and a shadow moves out onto the stone patio, I stand.
“How is she?”
“No.” Cian’s voice is forceful. “No, we don’t start it like this.”
“I only care that she’s okay, so there’s no other way I’ll start it.” I don’t want to go toe to toe with either of Ayla’s brothers. Liam is a bulldozer. Cian is the kind I suspect does martial arts but tells no one. He’s solid, carries himself in a manner that shows no fear, and that’s not because he’s overly cocky. It’s because he knows his body so well.
His feet are planted wide, and his hands rest on his hips. With the light streaming in behind him from the living room lamps, he could be imposing. If I gave a single shit about that.
“Try again,” he says with lethal quiet in his voice.
“Is Ayla okay?”
The sigh that leaves him might as well say I’m an idiot and he’s over dealing with me. “Is Ayla okay? Of course, she’s not. She found out today that she’s legally incompetent—which you and I both know she most certainly is not—and that she has no agency in her own life. Can you imagine if you woke up to discover you didn’t have the authority or right to spend your own money or make your own choices?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I can.”
The snarl on his face would make a lesser man quake in his boots. And for the first time, I can see the anger Seamus always has simmering under the surface coiling like a snake ready to strike in his son.
“May we?” I gesture to the chairs to sit.
“No. We may not.” The bite in his words is evident.
I begin. I tell him what happened and when. I tell him why and how the decision came to be. And when I’m through, he scrubs a hand down his face before taking that seat he so quickly refused, his legs deciding that holding his weight isn’t in the cards after all.
He extends a hand to a chair next to him as he wordlessly stares out into the trees and beyond.
I wait.
And wait.
When the quiet of the Colorado night is broken by the rumbling growl of Harley pipes, he looks up before grabbing his phone and typing out a quick message.
The night goes silent once again.
Within moments, Liam Murphy stalks around the house and onto the terrace, body tight and eyes fierce, moving for me in act-first think-later aggression.
“What the fuck?” The steel in his voice slices through the quiet of the night.
“Have a seat, Li,” Cian says quietly.
“No.”
Hell. Here we go again.
“Trust me.” Cian extends a hand and looks toward his younger brother.
Liam sets his helmet down with a thud and stares holes through me as he takes the seat opposite me. He breathes as if he had to pedal that bike here.
“I’ll go get us something to drink.” Cian looks between us but speaks to me. “If you’ll tell him what you told me.” Turning to his brother, he adds, “And if you’ll listen and not kill him while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Liam mumbles, not quite low enough to be under his breath. He strips his armored motorcycle gloves off revealing scarred, tatted hands.
I nod to Cian as he stands and winds his way back into the house, watching him give Eleanor a rub before leading her away from the back door.
By the time he’s returned, bottle and glasses in hand, the dog is nowhere to be seen and I have literally watched Liam morph in front of me. He knows I’ve told him the truth.
“Ayla’s sound asleep. She didn’t even stir when Eleanor jumped onto the bed with her.”
“Almost a win after today.” I reach for the bourbon and a glass.
“You need to know she has a black eye.”
Excuse me. “Explain.”
“Dad was”—he pauses as if tumbling the word around on his tongue—“rough when he got home today. Handprint bruise on her upper arm and a knot on her cheek, more so than a black eye.”
I see red but force my breathing to slow. Seamus Murphy will pay for today.
“I’m staying here tonight, by the way.” It’s not a question.
The eldest Murphy nods once.
“What in the ever-loving fuck?” Liam offers out of nowhere, extending a glass to me as I pour.
“Exactly.” I lift the bottle and Cian pushes the last tumbler across the table.
We all toss back a slug.
“He bruised her twice today,” I whisper into the darkness. “That will never. Happen. Again.”
“Never,” Liam offers.
“Ever,” Cian echoes.
We knock back a couple more shots each before Cian mentions dinner for Liam. “Have you had anything, Christian? Want some dinner?”
“I just want my wife. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll head to bed.”
He nods and extends a hand. “Glad she has you.”
Liam extends a hand. “Same.”
I nod to each of them and then leave them to find my wife.
Ayla
I wake to a thick band of steel wrapped around my middle and snuggle back into the warmth at my back, then freeze. Last night crashes down on me as yesterday washes over me.
My mom.
My dad.
Ward.
Christian.
Declared incompetent.
I know that arm. I know the body behind me. And I know I’m not all right with what’s happening.
I slide toward the mattress and poke my leg out of the covers, aiming for the floor to slip away unnoticed. The arm around me goes taut and a voice whispers in my ear, “You ran away from me yesterday. You didn’t come home. You didn’t call.”
“I assumed when you took ownership you chipped me like a dog, so how was I to know you couldn’t find me?”
“You know better than that.”
“I most certainly do not.” If steam could come from my ears, it couldn’t be more apt.
“Well, you should.” He pulls back enough to push me flat on my back while pinned to my side.
“Oh, do tell me what I should or should not think and feel. Since you’re so good at dictating everything else.”
He leans into me a hair’s breadth away and grits, “You know better—” He taps my head which annoys the fuck out of me. “Here.” And then between my breasts covered only in a thin tank. “And here.”
“Why would I trust you?” I seethe.
“I am asking you to trust yourself.”
It’s like freaking checkmate. I can’t argue against my own mind. If I do, I play right into his hands with the whole incapacitated crap.
“I know my mind and I know my heart. Neither of them trusts you. Both want you well the fuck away from me.”
“I believe your first and your third points, but your second?” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. I know you trust me. Deep down inside.”
“You are infuriating. Keep believing your own bullshit.”
“I know you, Ayla. I know you inside and out. I know your mind and your heart and even your temper.” His eyes bore through me. “And I know, without a single sliver of doubt, that you know I will do everything—absolutely everything—to protect you at all times. You can take that to the bank.”
“Like you’ve taken my money?”
“Want to test that theory?”
Fuck yes, I do. “I dare you.”
His laughter is not what I expected. “Get dressed then.” He rolls to his back and exits the bed on the side near the door.
Wait. What? “Happy to call your bluff, Honey.” The last word drips off my lips with disdain. I roll off and jump into yesterday’s ridiculous outfit—the one I was just running for coffee in… mismatched and not for public viewing before remaking my brother’s bed.
“Only you”—Christian offers, as he leans in and redo his side—“could be this angry, throwing down dares, and stop to make the damn bed.” A small smile plays on his mouth.
“It would be rude not to.”
“Right, Princess. Hate to be a bad guest after a shit day.” He stares at my cheek.
“Don’t make fun of me. And it was a shit day.”
“I’m looking at the evidence of that.” His eyes drop from my cheek to the place where my upper arm is discolored under my rumpled sweatshirt.
“Disowned… or as good as anyway. Marked—twice. And still not the worst part of yesterday.”
He holds my eyes but says nothing, his jaw clenching and unclenching as his fists do the same, before turning his back on me and, if I’m not mistaken, mumbling something under his breath.
“Did you say something?” My voice is a taunt.
“I said, we can agree on that.”
My anger spikes again. Why does he act put out when I’m the one who was victimized?
I slide past him out the bedroom door while finger combing my hair and twisting it up into a knot atop my head. I make my way into the hall bathroom without another word. I find an unused toothbrush in the drawer and set to work on my teeth. When I’m done, I brace my hands on the counter, lean toward the mirror, and study the split at my cheekbone and the bruising around my eyes socket it caused.
“Get the fuck out, Ayla. And don’t come back.” My dad’s voice, the anger and finality in his tone, come rushing back.
I’m glad I can’t count what’s gone wrong in the last several months. I don’t have enough fingers. And I sure as hell don’t have enough patience. Pretty much everything I’m associated with, except for my bestie that is, has turned from gold to liquid shit. Is reverse Midas touch a thing?
And, worse, I can’t see an escape from it, no way to undo or out run it. No means or opportunity to recoup what I’ve lost… or more accurately, what I am continuously losing.
Fuck it. This can’t get worse. It can’t be any worse.
I pull open the door, slinking past the broody man leaning against the wall, only to find the house empty. No Cian. No Eleanor. Speaking of, I’d be surprised if she didn’t sleep with me last night. I want to ask but I truly don’t have the energy to deal with more.
Christian moves past me to the front door, pulling it open and standing aside waiting for me. Without a word, he moves to the passenger side of his G Wagon to open the door. I climb in and settle, surprised when he hands me my purse. He rounds the hood and gets in, starting the car.
We’re on the road before I ask, “Where are we going? Home?”
Home. How can I even call it that?
