Fractured Fear (The Devils of New York #1)

Chapter 44

CHAPTER 44

SPENCER

I swear if those three went out and did something stupid like die, I’m going to kill them. I’m supposed to be the one leaving, not them.

Leaving is supposed to keep them safe. Someone already got hurt. I can’t handle any more of that happening because of me and the fucking psycho who can’t handle an ounce of rejection.

I’ll deal with Anthony on my own, in my own way. It worked last time. I was able to avoid him for three years. If I’m smarter this time, I’ll be able to hide longer than that.

Iris and Hayes made me get in bed last night, but I hardly slept. I tossed and turned until the sun came up. I didn’t realize how accustomed I had become to my two bedmates. I need their warmth, their comfort.

Like a clingy girlfriend, I ended up texting them last night. Even Asher, which is embarrassing enough as it is. I haven’t heard one word from any of them.

Again, they better not be fucking dead.

The sweet aroma of pancakes is a big reason why I finally decide rolling out of bed is a good idea. Throwing on my usual relaxation garb, I meander out to the kitchen where Iris is cooking up a storm. I don’t know where she got all this food. Usually, I’m lucky if the milk in my fridge isn’t expired. Somehow, she has come up with a full spread: fruit, pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, and hash browns.

“Hayes went to the market early this morning,” she says, noticing me eyeing the food.

“Oh. Where is he now?”

“He stepped out to hang a sign that the studio is closed for the next couple days.”

What would I do without Hayes?

You’ll find out soon enough.

Unsure of what else to say, I shift on my feet. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Absolutely not,” she points at me with her spatula. “Make yourself a coffee and have a seat.”

I walk over to her and grab her hand. “Hey. I wasn’t the only one there yesterday. You were too. You also need to take some time to breathe, girl.”

She refuses to look me in the eye. “Cooking is how I cope. Let me do this.”

Scanning her face, I concede. As much as I want her to take it easy and relax, I know better than anyone that we have to do what helps us get through the next twenty-four hours. Whether that be a run, hiding in the bathroom, blasting music, or cooking like you’re feeding an army.

I nod. “Okay, but promise me if things become too much you’ll tell me or Hayes?”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Like you promised to turn to Bad Boy Rio, Daddy Zane, and Viking Hottie Asher?”

“Don’t eavesdrop,” I playfully swat at her shoulder. “And I only promised Rio.”

She turns back to the stove. “Uh huh. But if I were you I’d run to all three of those men,” she peaks over her shoulder at me and lowers her tone. “If you know what I mean.” She gives me an over emphasized wink before turning her head back toward the pancakes.

Laughing, I fire up the espresso machine and I shake my head at her. “You’re incorrigible.”

Iris makes no effort to reply. We fall into companionable silence and eat together when Hayes returns. After stuffing ourselves full, we all venture to the couch and pull up Netflix. The buzz of the TV falls into the background as I stare at my phone, willing it to ding with a notification.

Still nothing.

Deciding I’m going to be that person, I start a group chat with all four of us. If they don’t like it, tough. They should have replied instead of making me worry sick.

I know this is the opportune time to leave and make my way to California, but I can’t leave without knowing they’re okay first.

Me: Where are you guys?

Me: I’m just going to keep texting until one of you fucking replies.

Me: Y’all better not be hurt.

Me: Please don’t be hurt.

Letting out a sigh, I throw my phone down on the cushion next to me. If I don’t hear back from them soon, I’ll go by their house to check on them. I just need to see that they’re okay then I can make my way to Port Authority for the long bus ride ahead of me.

Hayes pauses the show and leans forward on his elbows. “I think you need to talk to somebody.”

Umm. That came out of left field.

“Okay?” I don’t know why it comes out as a question. I know I need to talk to a professional. Especially after Anthony. I probably should have gone to someone years ago. But as they say, hindsight is 20/20. Now I’m here after surviving a drive by shooting that I know was ordered by my ex-fiancé.

Yeah, I think I need to talk to somebody.

He fishes out his wallet and hands me a card for a counseling center. I examine it and give him a questioning look.

“I started going there after I got mugged. Remember that? They’re really nice there and helped me work through everything I was feeling. I still go once a month.”

His confession leaves me speechless. Iris shows no surprise. I remember when Hayes got mugged not long after he started working at the studio. It scared the shit out of me.

“Thanks, Hayes. I’ll give them a call tomorrow.” The lie leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Hayes gets comfortable again with his arm around Iris and resumes the show. By the end of the third episode, I check my phone again. Still no new texts or calls.

My gaze catches Iris eyeing my phone. I lock it and set it down.

Sticking to the plan, I stand and make an excuse that I’m tired and going to lay down. Neither Hayes nor Iris gives it a second thought.

My guilt weighs heavy on me, so I give them each a hug and tell them I love them. I ignore their confused looks and casually make my way to my room, even though I’m sweating bullets.

Locking the door behind me, I snatch my bags from their hiding place under my bed and open the window. I’m halfway out with my ass on the windowsill when I hesitate.

Is this the best way? Is leaving going to make a difference? How do I know Anthony will leave everyone alone?

I shake off my doubts and shut the window. With my bag across my body and my backpack secure, I climb down the steps.

The guys kept my goodbye letters. Inconvenient as hell, but I’ll just have to ask them to give the letters to Hayes, Iris, Paul, and Alma for me. A text will be shitty of me, but I can’t ask them to distribute the letters in person. I wouldn’t be able to go through with it and I’d end up staying.

The walk to the subway is short, but I can’t rush it. I have to act natural even if it feels like my breakfast wants to make a second appearance. Trying not to wring my hands is right up there next to impossible, but this bitch can do hard things.

Strolling down the sidewalk with sweat dripping down my back, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand. I almost dismiss the feeling, attributing it to the slight breeze blowing by.

Still going for a casual exterior, I pull out my sunglasses and slide them on. With the added barrier I’m able to scan my surroundings. No one looks suspicious or out of place. A mom is pushing a stroller, a jogger blasts their music in their ears, a teen walks their Corgi down the sidewalk.

But I can’t disregard my gut, it’s what has kept me alive this far.

I pretend to stretch my neck and get a look at the people behind me. A businessman with a briefcase, an elderly woman with her cane, a couple holding hands while they chat, and just six feet behind them is a man with his focus zeroed in on my head. I’ve never seen him before, and commit his face to memory.

Dark hair with a military cut, brown eyes, alabaster skin with freckles, and a scar running down his jaw. His shoulders aren’t the kind of wide that he takes up the whole sidewalk, but wide enough to feel threatening.

Adding a little more pep in my step, I pick up speed. The subway entrance comes into view, and I risk another glance over my shoulder. My mouth goes dry.

He’s closer than before.

Now at a brisk jog, I hear a pounding on the pavement behind me.

Shit.

I’m a runner, but I’ve never gone on my morning run with the extra weight of bags hanging from my body.

Something to practice in the future.

I pump my arms as I switch to an all out sprint. The pounding behind me gets louder and my stomach knots. When I reach the steps leading down to the platform, there’s a fierce tug on my backpack, my torso is jerked back and I almost lose my balance.

This is not fucking happening again.

Turning my momentum around, I spin and duck under the man’s arm. I lift my elbow and bring it down on his arm repeatedly which catches him by surprise.

I keep reminding myself the goal isn’t to win. The goal is to get away.

When he lets go I aim back for the stairs, but this time he grabs my ponytail and I cry out.

I twist back around and clutch his grip with one hand and his wrist with my other. Turning so his arm is extended with his elbow contorted at the wrong angle. I crank his wrist and thrust my head forward allowing my body to follow the direction. He goes down with me and I straddle this chest. Delivering two swift blows to his head, I scramble to my feet and dart down the stairs.

My pulse is flying and air rapidly saws in and out of my lungs. My legs shake as I flee.

“Fucking bitch! You’re lucky he said not to hurt you!” His voice is gravelly like he smokes a pack a day.

I slide over the turnstyle. I know it’s technically stealing, but steal or get kidnapped. I won’t lose sleep over stealing a few dollars from the New York government. They’ll live. I may not.

Righting myself, I attempt another sprint. I’m jerked back again when my duffle bag snags on the turnstyle.

Fuck.

Glancing up I see the man, his face twisted in anger. With vigor, I tug on my bag. He’s not close to me yet, but he will be in seconds.

Tug. Tug. Still no give.

“Line two approaching the platform. Stand back.”

That’s my train.

I plant my feet and give the synthetic fabric a firm yank. There’s a tearing sound and I’m finally free.

Switching my weight, I take off just as my mysterious attacker makes it over the metal barrier.

I’m five feet from the doors and they begin to slowly slide closed. Digging deep into my reserves, I pump my arms harder and push my stride faster.

“Don’t you fucking dare, cunt!”

With less than two feet of space between the doors, I jump and land just inside the train car. There’s a rush of air and I know the doors have closed. Spinning, I see him standing there and his rage has reached new heights. He slams his fist over and over on the safety glass.

Thankfully, the New York subway waits for no one and the train moves. He somewhat regains his composure and whips out his phone. Before I am able to read his lips, he’s out of sight.

I plop down on the nearest seat and count my lucky stars. That was too close. Anthony is too close.

My heart still hasn’t returned to a normal rate and I highly doubt it ever will.

Fucking hell.

Is this my life now?