Page 6 of Raw & Reckless

“What the hell is that on your wrist?”

Knowing I have to defuse him immediately, I force my voice to stay level and lie. “It’s just the number of a friend from the library.”

My brother doesn't buy it for a second. He releases my wrist with a shove, backing me up hard against the kitchen wall. “You’re going to have to try harder to lie to a cop,” he snarls.

Panic spikes in my chest. “You’re scaring me,” I breathe out, trying to duck under his arm and slip past him toward the hallway.

Instead, my brother shoves me backward with a heavy hand planted firmly against my sternum. The back of my head bounces off the drywall, sending a sharp, blinding wave of dizziness through my skull. Before I can even register the pain, his hand shifts from my collarbone straight to my throat.

His fingers clamp down around my neck, instantly restricting my airway and making my eyes bulge in sheer, suffocating terror. He’s yelled at me plenty of times over the years, has locked me away and suffocated my freedom, but he has never laid a violent hand on me.

He pulls me away from the wall, shaking me, and then slams me back against it with a vicious thud. “Whose number is that on your wrist? Are they the reason you’re fifteen minutes late?”

Desperation claws at my throat. I scratch frantically at his hand, squirming and kicking as black spots dance in my vision.

In a sudden, jarring fraction of a second, my brother’s eyes snap back to clarity. He releases his grip instantly, stumbling backward and gasping for air as if he’s the one who was just choked.

I collapse sideways onto the hard linoleum kitchen floor, clutching my bruised throat and coughing violently, my lungs burning for oxygen.

Above me, my brother runs both hands wildly through his hair, his face draining of all color as he begins apologizing in a frantic, broken spiral. “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Layla, please…” He rubs his face hard, his chest heaving. “Work has been so stressful, and with these biker gangs and thugs roaming free I just… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Goddamnit, I’m sorry,” he pleads again, reaching a hand out toward me.

Trembling, I push myself up off the floor, leaning against the counter. My heart isn’t just racing, it’s splintered into a thousand pieces at the realization of what just happened.

“I thought you wanted to keep me safe,” I rasp out, my voice broken and ruined, the full, crushing weight of his betrayal dripping from every syllable.

“I do!” my brother insists, his voice cracking with desperate denial. “Everything I do is for you, Layla.”

I look him straight in the eye, standing tall and unwavering as the bitter truth hardens inside me. “I have never felt more afraid in my entire life than right now, when your hands bruised my skin. That is a memory I will carry for the rest of my life.”

The desperate anguish flashing in his eyes abruptly morphs into something dark, ugly, and bitter. He steps forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “After all the sacrifices I’ve made, after everything I’ve done⁠—”

This time, I don’t let him finish.

“There is no excuse for violence,” I say, my voice ringing out with a startling clarity that sounds far more confident than I actually feel. “That is the exact opposite of protecting me.”

We share an agonizing, loaded moment of absolute silence. I stand frozen, genuinely terrified he’s going to strike me again, or worse, lock me down for good. But I don’t give him the chance to decide.

“I’m staying somewhere else tonight,” I state coldly, my chin lifting. “And if you try to follow me, I will report this abuse.”

Truthfully, the panic is threatening to swallow me whole, and I don’t even know the first thing about reporting domestic abuse. But the defiant bluff is enough to make my brother recoil, his mouth parting in shock as the reality of what he just did hits him.

Without giving him another second to react, I grab my shoulder bag, shove a few hastily snatched clothes and personal items inside, and practically sprint out of the front door into the cool night air.

As soon as the door slams behind me, my eyes frantically scan the dark street. I look around for Phoenix, desperately hoping that he’s still out there in the shadows, watching over me.

He’s not.

Panic threatens to paralyze me, but I force my legs to move. I walk briskly for a few blocks through the empty Port Royal streets until I find one of the very last public payphones still standing in service beneath a flickering amber streetlamp.

I lift my trembling wrist to the light to better read the numbers scrawled there. Picking up the heavy receiver, I slide a coin into the slot and punch in the digits.

It rings once.

Before the second ring can finish, the line clicks open.

“Hello?” comes his deep, rumbling voice, rich and steady against the static.

I freeze, my throat tightening so hard I can’t force a single sound past my lips.