Roni Loren - Break Me Down

“Whatever she needs? You really mean that, Gib?” That was Kade again. Great, they’d put him on fucking speakerphone.

Gibson gritted his teeth. His brother was always doing that, poking that tender spot. “I mean it.”

“Good. Then go get her, man. If you don’t, I’m driving out there myself. That place is a goddamned death trap.”

Tessa groaned, but then he heard the sheets shift and a soft thump, like she was falling back onto a pillow in defeat. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d say let me know how she’s doing once you get out there, but I’ve been out that way. The cell reception is shit. So text me when you head back home,” Tessa said.

“Will do.”

“And, Gib …”

“Yeah?”

“If you hurt her, I’m kicking your ass.”

“And I’ll hold you down while she does it,” Kade added.

“I’m not going to hurt her.” He leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She’ll hurt me first.

If only he could let her.

Sam’s T-shirt clung to her, sweat glazing her back, as she ran the hand sander over the scarred hardwood in her grandmother’s dining room. The steady sound of the machine was usually good for blocking out thoughts and putting her in a state of zen, but for the last two hours her brain had proven to be louder than the obnoxious machine. And the one time she’d attempted to take a break and turn the thing off, the silence had clawed at her like some evil beast. Every creak of the old house, every rustle outside, had made her jump and tense. Which pissed her the fuck off. This was the place where she was most at home, her refuge, and those disgusting shitheads had tainted that, put that creeping fear back in her.

She gritted her teeth and tried harder to focus, making sure to keep the machine moving so that she wouldn’t get lost in thought and grind her way right through the damn floor. The first signs of dawn were peeking through the tattered curtains, and the wood dust danced in the soft light. Good. At least she’d have light to work by now. The electrical system in the house tripped anytime she plugged in more than one or two things. So the sander and a floor lamp were all she’d allowed herself since she’d gotten here. The shadows had felt oppressive. She needed the light today, needed to stand outside in the wildflower field that flanked the property and feel the sun on her face, chase the chill that had settled into her bones.

She’d do that. After she completed this room. She needed to finish this to feel like she’d beaten this horrible night, that she’d gotten something accomplished despite it. She shifted forward, her back aching and the kneepads not offering much cushion anymore, to tackle the last section of the floor. She was almost there when the loud hum of the machine cut off with a whine and the lamp blinked out. That thick silence of a power outage blanketed the room, the only sound left was a dripping faucet from kitchen.

“NO!” She shook the machine. “No, no, no!”

It felt stupid to yell in the empty house, but she’d been so close to done. So close to claiming that small victory. She sat back on her calves, tugged off one of her gloves, and threw it across the room. It landed with a sad thwap against the shiplap walls. Sweat stung her eyes. She wanted to punch things. To grab a hammer out of the toolbox and just destroy something. But she needed to go flip the circuit breaker. She would finish this floor, goddammit.

But she didn’t move. Instead, hot tears sliced down her cheeks. She had no idea where they’d come from, hadn’t felt the telltale burn in the back of her throat, but now that they were coming, she couldn’t staunch them. Fat, wet tears rolled down her face and dripped onto the newly stripped floors. Plop. Plop. Plop. Then a full-out sob heaved out of her.

“Shit.” Any of the strength she had left, any remnants of energy, drained out of her with the salty teardrops. The events of the night and lack of sleep hit her all at once, and she was too exhausted to defend against it. She shoved the sander aside, took off the other glove, and braced her hands on her thighs, the sobs coming in wracking gasps.

She was going to mess up the floors, but she couldn’t stop. She wasn’t a crier. She hated crying. In her first placement after her grandmother died, she’d had a foster brother who’d teased her because she’d cried every day. He’d point it out to everyone and call her a baby. One day, she’d dipped his toothbrush in the toilet because she’d been tired of taking his shit. She’d gotten caught. That’d been the end of that placement. Not a loss at the time. But she wondered sometimes if she’d stuck that one out, if she would’ve been saved from a lot worse later on.

But that’s one reason why she’d come here. If she was going to fall apart, she could do it here, alone. Safe and away from prying eyes. No one needed to see her like this. No one would call her a baby or think she was weak or prey on that vulnerability.

So she let the tears overtake her. Maybe if she exorcised them now, she could move the hell on and forget that she’d almost been raped outside the bar, that she hadn’t been able to protect herself. That she’d failed.

But right as the heaving sobs started to quiet, the ache in her chest turning hollow and spent, something sounded outside the window. A snap. Like a twig. The noise shouldn’t freak her out. Random critters wandered into this area all the time. Wild rabbits mostly. But her body reacted like it was a major threat, her muscles tensing and her breath stalling. The tears cut off in an instant and all her senses went on alert.

Whatever the noise had been, it hadn’t set off Mr. Darcy. Sam had put the border collie mix upstairs so he wouldn’t get himself hurt while she worked. But that didn’t mean much. Darcy was a decent watchdog, but he was old and slept hard. She closed her eyes and listened, trying to focus. A soft wind was blowing through the trees and grasses outside, a whispering whir. Birds were starting to greet the dawn. Nothing sinister. Just the lovely, quiet sounds of the country. She sighed and swiped her hands over her face. Calm down, Twitchy. Breathe.

But before she could complete the breath, a booming knock rocketed through the farmhouse, rattling the door and sending a scream right up her throat. Darcy barked from upstairs. Sam clamped her hands over her mouth just in time to cut off the scream. But she scrambled to her feet and turned toward the front doorway like the Big Bad Wolf was about to bust through.

Whoever this was, it couldn’t be good. It was too early and this house was too far out for it to be someone selling something. She needed to get to the bedroom and get the gun she kept in there. But the windows in the living room had thin curtains, and she’d have to cross that room to get to the stairs. What if whoever it was saw her?

Fuck. Her hands shook. There were knives in the kitchen. That’d be something. She took a step that way when the banging came again, each knock a jolt of electric anxiety through her.

But just as she made it to the doorway of the kitchen, a familiar voice echoed through the house. “Sam, it’s Gib. I know you’re here. Open up.”

Every tight muscle in her body sagged in relief. Gibson. It was Gibson. Not an ax murderer in a hockey mask. Okay. Okay.