A/N: Ho-ly shit. This took WAY longer than expected, and I'm so sorry! We had family in last week (as you know, I normally update on Wednesdays) and then Stranger Things season 3 came out and I was lost to the world. But I'm finally getting this out! I rewrote the half after the cut probably 3 or 4 times, and I proofread but as you know there's always a typo somewhere, lol.
Anyways, again, sorry for the wait! I hope you enjoy.
Indiana.
Life has a funny way of being unexpected, and has a sick sense of humor, sometimes.
Halfway through my shift, minutes after Tiffany left to buy more milk, I turn around at the sound of the door to none other than Rachel Black standing at the other side of the counter.
The Rachel Black. Paul's pretend ex-girlfriend Rachel Black.
I'd like to think that maybe she has no idea who I am, but her eyes widen slightly when she sees me, and realization permeates the air.
I panic and put on my customer voice. "Hi, what are you drinking today?"
Cringe-worthy.
"Oh, um, an iced white mocha, please."
I nod and motion to the cup sizes, and she points at the medium.
"You're… Paul's new girlfriend, right?" she asks with a smile, lowering her eyes for a moment as she types into her phone.
It's fake – so fake. She's nice and sweet on the outside, but bitter on the inside – like a mean girl in high school. This is one of those times I wish I wasn't able to tell when someone has ulterior motives. If I couldn't, I'd make this drink, hand it over, and move on with my life.
Why is this happening to me right now?
"Yeah, I'm Indie," I introduce myself.
She smiles again and looks up. "I'm Rachel."
I know.
I smile back and start grabbing what I need to make her drink.
"I'm sorry if this is awkward," she suddenly blurts, tucking her hair behind her ears. She's a good actress. She's loving this.
I shrug it off. "It's not awkward," I lie with a smile. I can be a good actress, too.
"I guess you probably know that Paul and I used to date," she says, eyes falling back to her phone where she types away some more. It annoys me for some reason.
"Yeah, I think he mentioned it," I keep my voice nonchalant in the hopes that it'll knock her off her high horse a little bit.
But like a shark, she can smell blood.
She chuckles lightly at whatever she sees on her phone before tucking it away in her purse, then hums quietly. "So, are you the one helping out with his father now?" she asks, and my blood runs cold.
I look over my shoulder at her, hands momentarily frozen. "His father?"
Brows pulled together and mouth pursing, she gives me a confused look and touches the ends of her hair. "He told me he found someone else and that he didn't need my help anymore… I assumed that was you…" She is genuinely confused for the first couple moments, but then, when I take just a second too long to respond, the corner of her mouth twitches up victoriously. Maybe I would've missed it if I couldn't literally feel the triumph spreading through her body.
I turn back to the drink and finish making it, ignoring the urge to spit in it before handing it over the counter to her.
"It's on me," I reply with a smile, tilting my head to the side. It's petty, but I don't care.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a ten, stuffing it into the tip jar. "Thanks so much," she replies in that sickeningly sweet tone. "Tell Gene I said hello."
My eyes narrow in rage at her back when she turns to the leave the shop. I'm being torn in two – in hurt and confusion and offense, and in a furious rage, and the rage seems to be winning.
I take the ten out of the tip jar and put it in the cash register. I don't care if it'll mess the till up – I'll work that out later. For now, seeing it in the jar was making my throat flare.
Tiffany returns ten minutes later and I'm still so angry I can't even find words to have a conversation with her. She knows something is up, but she doesn't know what. Eventually, it starts to worry her, and she offers to let me leave early if I'm not feeling well.
I'm not feeling well, but not in the way she thinks.
I thank her and leave with the promise that I will be fine to work in the morning.
My hands feel hot when I step outside.
I try not to get ahead of myself and take a second to think things through as I start walking to Josie's. Rachel could be lying, I try to tell myself, but what does she have to lose? Nothing.
Paul, on the other hand…
My blood starts to boil.
He banked off of the death of my father and pretended his was dead in order to get closer to me. Maybe if I had absolutely no morals at all, I might find that endearing, but my dad was the one important person in my life before coming to La Push. To use his death to get closer to me feels like an absolute betrayal. That moment between Paul and I was special to me, and now it's ruined.
I stop walking halfway along the trail and kick at a rock on the pavement. If Paul's dad is alive, where is he? He has to be somewhere on this reservation if Rachel was helping care for him. And if he needs care in the first place, that means something must have happened to him; old age, an injury, mental problems.
My brain is spinning with all of the possibilities of what could have happened between Paul and his father.
Did they have a falling out? Does his father know about the pack? Was he mad that Paul faked a relationship with Rachel? What really happened between them? I know Paul said they were never close, but why?
The possibilities are endless and at this point the only thing I know for sure is that Paul lied to me. Right to my face, and I had no idea. I don't know if I missed it because I was slightly intoxicated or if he's just that good of a liar, and not knowing the answer to that scares me.
When I finally stroll up to Josie's after an hour of dragging my feet and trying to put the puzzle pieces together in my head, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. When I pull it out, I see Paul's name on the screen.
He picks me up after work, and is probably wondering why I'm not there.
I'm half tempted to answer it and yell at him and half tempted to ignore it and let him worry. But when I think about him being worried sick that something happened to me, I reluctantly slide my thumb across the screen and put the phone to my ear.
"I don't want to talk right now," I say to him. "I'm fine. I'll talk to you later."
Then, I hang up and turn my phone off.
I know it's pointless, because he's just going to show up here anyways, but at least he knows I'm mad. I probably only have three to five minutes before he pulls up in the driveway, and I need them all in silence to decide what I'm going to say to him.
Thankfully, neither Josie nor Embry are home, which is probably a good thing right now.
I dig my key out of my bag and shove it into the lock, twisting the knob and letting myself in. I lock the door again behind me and drop my bag on the floor, taking a seat in the armchair that faces the driveway.
Sure enough, his car pulls up less than five minutes later, the door shutting loudly behind him.
I hear him try the front door and when it doesn't give way, he stalks around to the window and peers inside, meeting my stare.
His throat bobs as he swallows, and then he sighs and knocks on the window.
"Will you open up, please?"
For good measure, I stare angrily for another minute before standing up to unlock the front door. I don't open it for him, however, and make my way back to the armchair where I sit down and fold my arms across my chest.
He pushes the door open and doesn't even bother to close it before crossing the room to kneel next to me.
"You're a liar," I hiss, and it cuts through him like a knife. I almost feel bad for saying it, but it's true.
He blanches for a second and then rests his hands on the arm of the chair. "I know, but will you please let me explain?" he asks, his eyes soft and patient.
"Which part?" I snap. "The part where your dead dad is actually alive? Or the part where Rachel was allowed to know the truth and help but I wasn't."
"All of it," he replies instantly. "He is dead – to me, okay?" he says, looking into my eyes. "He has been for a long time. His mind is gone. He's a shell, and before that he was the biggest fucking asshole on the planet."
Fire burns in my chest. "Well mine wasn't," I growl, standing up and staring down at him. "You used my dad's death. Used it!"
"I know, I fucked up. I wanted to get closer to you and I went about it the wrong way. I'm sorry," he says, standing up and reaching for my elbows. "I didn't want you to feel alone. It was breaking my heart. You looked so sad—"
Fire still burning, I put my hands against his chest and shove him. It's like a mouse pushing against a boulder, and he doesn't even budge, but it releases at least the tiniest bit of my anger. "Oh, because I was sad it was okay to lie to me? What else did you lie about, huh? Is there even an imprint? Or was that to get closer to me, too?" I know that's irrational for me to say, but I'm so fucking mad I can't see straight.
He scoffs. "Of course there's an imprint," he replies, exasperated. "Don't be like that, you can feel it."
"Clearly I can't trust what I feel since you lied straight to my face and I didn't have the slightest clue."
The words sting him. I can feel him getting angry, but he's trying to contain it and remain calm. "You didn't have a clue because when I said he was dead, I meant it, not because you can't trust your instincts," he replies quietly. "Whoever that is in that house ain't my old man, and that's a good thing."
"A good thing?" I repeat, infuriated. "My dad is dead, and you're parading around pretending yours is because why?"
He finally loses his temper and takes a step away from me. "Because I hate his fucking guts, that's why!" he yells. "I hate him so fucking bad I wish he was dead, and I knew you'd think less of me if you knew that!"
"You don't get to decide that!" I yell back. "You don't get to decide how I would feel about something! About anything!"
"No? How do you feel right now?" he asks, eyebrows raised.
It catches me off-guard and stuns me into silence.
"Exactly. Paul's poor dad, senile and helpless and all Paul wants is for him to fucking die," he says, anger dripping from his voice. "That's why I lied to you about it. Lying about him being dead was better than having to eventually confess to you that I want him dead. But I guess here we are, anyways."
My head is spinning. I feel like I barely know the man standing in front of me right now. This whole argument puts into perspective that there are still parts of us that are complete strangers to each other.
"We're here because instead of just telling me the truth about your dad, you lied to me because you're embarrassed of him!"
"Embarrassed of him?" he repeats as if it's the most insane thing in the world.
I throw my hands up in the air. "Obviously he needs some sort of help if you had Rachel going to his house to take care of him. What, you couldn't man up and do it yourself? Too much responsibility?"
The second the words leave my mouth, his eyes go the darkest I've ever seen before.
"You don't know what the hell you're taking about."
Under his burning gaze, my heart skips a beat. Something about the look in his eyes has me retreating, and I know that this is not an argument we should continue. I know he won't hurt me, but I'm about to push him over an edge he doesn't deserve to be pushed over by me. He needs to leave before I say something that destroys a piece of him.
I swallow and take a deep breath. "You should leave," I say lowly, opening the front door wider for him.
He walks right by without another word, anger in the air behind him. I slam the door shut so hard it rattles the windows. Again, irrational, but I've never been so angry in my entire life.
I hear the tires of the 4Runner peel out in the gravel driveway and I turn the locks again, grabbing my bag and stomping to the loft ladder. I throw myself on my bed and scream into my pillow as hard as I can.
When my throat feels raw and my head dizzy, I finally stop and sit up, forcing myself to take deep, slow breaths. At the same time, the door downstairs opens and shuts and I hear Josie and Embry talking quietly to each other.
Footsteps patter across the floor and start moving up the ladder. Josie pokes her head over the edge and looks at me with wide eyes. "What the hell happened?" she asks breathlessly. "Paul just drove past us like a maniac."
It takes longer than necessary with how many times I have to pause to keep myself from throwing up, but I eventually tell her everything. I tell her – in detail – about that night in the kitchen, the conversation I had with Rachel at work, and the very heated argument Paul and I just had five minutes ago. By the time I get it all out, my hands are shaking with anger and I'm half tempted to go after him for round two.
"Paul fucking Lahote," Josie grumbles, rolling her eyes and running a hand through her hair.
I take a deep breath. "Where does his dad live?" I ask her.
She gives me a look, one that tells me she really doesn't want to answer that question. "You shouldn't, Indie," she replies, placing her hand on my bent knee. "There's a reason Paul lied, okay?"
"What's the reason?"
She bites her lip and shakes her head.
Slumping back onto the mound of pillows behind me, I sink into the bed and let a breath out in a huff. She's not going to tell me, which means its personal enough that she doesn't feel like it's her place to share. Which means it's probably pretty bad.
There's a sinking feeling in my stomach, churning with my rage. I'm mad and I'm hurt, but I'm sick to my stomach knowing that I pushed Paul away when he was trying to make things right.
Hurt people hurt people – and the more that I sit here and stew over it, the worse I feel.
I thought Paul would come back and apologize by the time it was dark out, but he doesn't. He doesn't even text or call to say goodnight. Tonight feels like nights used to when I first came to La Push.
They feel quiet. Empty. Nerve-wracking.
Josie and I talked for a few hours earlier, but she refused to talk about Paul's dad. I even thought about calling Leah and asking if I could talk to Jesse, because not knowing is making my head create wild scenarios, but I know that would be crossing a line. It's Paul's past – it's his story to tell, I just wish he would've wanted to tell me.
The more I think about it, the more I realize it has to be bad. Josie wouldn't touch on it, and the more I prodded Paul the blacker his eyes became and all warmth was lost. I pushed too hard and lost my favorite part of him.
It takes every ounce of my strength not to look outside through my window. I'm afraid if I do, I'll get sucked into it and won't be able to pull myself out. I've had the advantage of not having to be alone lately – especially at night – and if I look out that window I'll spend the next eight hours looking for Malcolm in the empty trees.
Instead, I try to busy myself with one of Josie's books, but it takes me twenty minutes just to read the first couple of pages. Sighing, I shut the book and set it next to me on the bed. I just can't focus. My mind is somewhere else – with amber eyes and warm skin.
I grab my phone and press the home button. It lights up, but I don't have any new messages, which becomes more disappointing the longer I look at it. Locking it again, I slide it under my pillow and huff, pulling my blanket up to my chin.
I know he has a temper, but he should've calmed down hours ago.
Over the next few hours, I toss and turn, covering and uncovering myself with my blanket, before I finally manage to fall asleep.
The next morning, my alarm goes off at 4:45 AM, just as it does every week day, and I fumble to turn it off before pressing my palms against my eyes. They're scratchy and feel dry from lack of sleep, but at least I managed to get some sleep.
I shower and quietly make some coffee in the kitchen for the sake of old habits. I could just make myself something at work, but my body kind of went on autopilot after waking up.
Pouring the coffee in a tumbler, I pull a jacket and shoes on and grab my bag. My damp hair gets tied in a sloppy bun and I yank open the front door, pausing on the porch.
I haven't walked alone to work in a while now.
It's not pitch black outside, but once I get inside the trees it will be.
My heart skips a beat and I take a deep breath through my nose.
Just as I'm about to step off the porch, the porch light switches on and Embry steps outside. His shaggy hair is sticking up in every direction, and he rubs at his eyes with one hand and his bare chest with the other.
"I can walk alone, it's okay," I say softly, though I'm relieved that he's here.
He smirks lazily and then yawns. "Yeah, right. Both Paul and Josie would kill me," he chuckles.
We walk in otherwise silence to work. I want to ask him about Paul's dad, but I don't. I have to keep reminding myself that it's Paul's story to tell.
At the front door of the shop, Embry waves inside to his mom and then turns around and starts dragging his feet back home. I feel bad that he woke up this early to walk me, but I'm thankful that he did. Walking alone through the dark trees doesn't sit well with me.
The work day drags.
Tiffany doesn't ask about yesterday. In fact, we don't really talk much at all, but when we do it's about random things like TV shows or the approach of fall. We don't get many customers, which seems to make the day pass even slower. I stock the display case and spend a few hours over-decorating cupcakes just to pass time.
When my shift is over, I try to be as subtle as possible when I look around to see if Paul is anywhere nearby.
My gut sinks when I realize he isn't.
I look through my phone as I walk back to Josie's. There are still no calls or texts from Paul, so I settle on downloading a few new games to waste time on. I really thought by now he would have said something, and I'm a little concerned that he hasn't.
Josie and Embry aren't home when I get back, but I'm not surprised by that. I unlock the front door, lock it again behind me, and move to the coffee maker for an afternoon cup.
It doesn't taste good.
I try the book again, but I still can't get into it, so I try a different one, but I can't get into that one either.
I read the first couple of pages from five different books before giving up and deciding to watch TV in the living room. I flip through the channels, but everything I try to watch I keep zoning out on.
Frustrated, I decide just to take a nap. I know I'll have trouble sleeping later, but at this point I don't care. I can't just sit here and go crazy waiting for Paul to say something. So, I climb up the ladder to the loft, change into some comfortable clothes, and plop down on the bed, squeezing my eyes shut and willing myself to fall asleep.
When I open them again, I know I've succeeded, but a wave of dread crashes over me.
My eyes scan the familiar but terrifying room of the basement in New York.
I can hear screaming upstairs, and the sound of multiple footsteps on the floors. My heart starts to pound, and my body forces itself onto unstable legs. I'm not in control of it, which means this isn't a dream – it's a memory.
The footsteps move to the stairs and I lean into the dresser at the foot of the bed to support myself. He's coming down here – him and another girl.
When the door opens, Malcolm shoves her through, following and shutting the door behind himself. She's blindfolded, but he quickly rips it off and pushes her onto the ground.
She's pretty – with big, doe eyes and warm, tanned skin. But the look on her face is wild as she scrambles into the corner, keeping us both in view. Her hair is tangled and sweaty, and there's dirt on her face and legs.
Malcolm looks proud of himself.
I glance back and forth between him and her, unsure of what's happening. There's terror in the base of my throat. Not for me – I'm no longer afraid for me – but for her. The last time he brought another girl down here he—
"I brought you something," he announces, waving his hand to the girl in the corner.
Swallowing, I look into her panicked eyes and then back to Malcolm's empty ones. He's waiting for a reply, but I'm not going to give him one.
He stares back at me, then looks to the kitchen. "I know you've been lonely," he begins to pace the room, and I see the girl look at the unguarded door to the stairs.
I almost tell her not to try it, but if he's going to kill her, he's going to kill her whether she tries to escape or not. If I was going to die, I think I'd like to die fighting. She'd be the lucky one – getting to die instead of being trapped down here.
"You should've heard her the other night." His tone of voice lightens and he looks over at me with an empty smile. "She sang the same song – the one you always danced to."
My heart skips a beat.
Maybe he doesn't want to kill her. Maybe he wants to keep her.
My pulse starts to race. The lesser of two evils would be death. Maybe she should try to escape.
"Aren't you going to thank me?" he asks me.
I continue to stare at him.
My vision blacks out for a second, and when it comes back she's screaming and I'm screaming and Malcolm is dragging her away by her arm. She's kicking and flailing and we both know it's no use but I grab her ankle and try to pull her away from him anyways.
"You're being ungrateful, Indiana!" Malcolm yells as he opens the door to the stairwell.
I can feel Josie's terror coursing through her veins. "Wait! Please!" I scream, holding onto her as tightly as I can.
He pauses and looks over his shoulder, jaw set in a stone line and face void of any emotion.
"Don't take her from me," I beg. My entire body is shaking and I feel sick to my stomach. "I'll eat. I promise I'll eat. Please don't take her."
He suddenly laughs. "It's been a month, Indiana. My patience has worn thinner and thinner the longer you stay down here rotting from the inside out," he hisses. "Good behavior means you get to keep her. Bad behavior means you lose your privileges. She is a privilege."
"It's not her fault! It's mine!"
"You're like a child," Malcolm growls, slamming the door shut and shoving Josie and I back. It's a careful shove, because he has a weakness for me I'm not sure he's aware of. He could've shoved us hard enough to go through the concrete walls, but he didn't, because he doesn't want me broken, he wants me perfect.
Josie scrambles into my arms and I hold onto her protectively.
"You fight and fight against me until I lose my temper and then suddenly you want to comply. Suddenly, you want to follow the rules. Suddenly, you want to behave." He begins to walk slowly towards us, each step wrenching my gut. "I'm done negotiating if you want to act like a little terrorist. I've given you your space and your freedom even though I. Don't. Have. To. I will sit down here every hour of the day, every day of the week, every week of the month, making sure that formula stays in your stomach until you're exactly where I want you to be."
My arms tremble around Josie.
"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The time is ticking."
I swallow and move Josie and I a step away from him. "I'll eat," I repeat, voice scratchy from screaming.
My vision blacks out again and then I open my eyes to the loft.
A shiver runs through my body and I sit up, pinching myself to check if I'm awake. I can hear the TV on downstairs, and Josie giggling at Embry.
I dig around for my phone and check the time; 10:03 PM.
Exhausted, I push my blankets away and strip down to my tank top and underwear. The colder I am, the easier it will be to stay awake. I can't sleep when it's cold.
I still remember every day spent with Josie in that basement like it was yesterday – from the day he brought her to me, to the day he tried to take her from me, to the day when we escaped.
In the beginning, I tried not to get close to her. Even though I knew better, I thought if we didn't get along that he would hurry up and freeze her and take her away like the other girls. But a week passed, and then two weeks, and that was the longest time I'd ever spent with another person in the basement.
And Josie told me every single day that we would get out.
I wanted her to hold onto that strength, but I knew it was hopeless.
Little by little, I got to know her, and the more I got to know her, the more attached to her I became, and I think that's what Malcolm really wanted all along. He wanted me to bond with her, so that I would listen when he tried to take her away.
Remembering everything happened in that basement makes me nauseas.
He never hurt me – not physically, anyway. It was the psychological games he played that really did it. The way he used Josie as a pawn in the game we were playing.
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them, glancing out the window. I could go downstairs and watch TV with them and pretend I wasn't just reliving the past in my dreams – but all I really want is to see Paul. Just see him. Just know he's still there, even if he's mad and I'm mad.
At this point, I know I'm just wasting time being angry at him. Life is so fragile and delicate and can be taken away at any moment.
But I'm paralyzed in front of this window, looking out into the darkness.
Just like I knew I would be.
A/N: I wanna know who you guys picture Malcolm to be :p I asked once before about Indiana, now I'm curious about Malcolm! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. We're slowly getting into the thick of it. Things start getting intense soon, which I can't wait to write! Thank you for reading! xx