Ryder

thirty seven

It was you. It was you. It was all you. You did it. You're to blame. There's blood there and it's because of you. He's coming after you. Running, but so are you. You've ruined and now you will be too. And he's--

"I've ruined your jacket," I said, looking down at the lone, wide tear going up from the hem of the leather. "I'm sorry."

My voice came out in a rasp. Unused, strained, hollow. It didn't sound like me. I didn't even know--couldn't decide if I wished it to sound like me right now or ever. It was the first few words I'd spoken in a while--hours, I think. The whole car ride had been stuck in traffic, and I'd been stuck in my head.

I forced myself to look up at Ryder and saw him already staring at me, expression mostly just furious because he'd been looking like that since the moment we left the diner--since all of this happened. We both hadn't said anything more. He hadn't said anything even when we made our way here--inside his penthouse--and he was cleaning the torn bruises on his hands, hastily tying a scrap of bandage around it without even bothering to apply any ointment on it, because I didn't think he cared.

I watched him as he tied the ends of the bandage into a haphazard knot, tightening it with his teeth. It was a harsh, deliberate movement, which I think was a point being made for my sake. He was trying to save the rattled bits of my sanity from continuously looking over at his bloodied knuckles and obsessing over them, because he must've caught me staring at them and I think he knew.

He didn't say anything to me regarding his jacket. He didn't say anything to me at all. He was cross at me, I realized a little too belatedly. He blamed me for what had happened back at the diner.

There was a soft noise from the stairs; an inquiring meow. Gem peeked out her head from the banister. I looked away from her, leaned down slowly, and tried unstrapping my heels. My fingers slipped on the strap, trembling--once, twice, and the third time I stumbled forward, but then Ryder was there, right there, and he grabbed my arm, my waist--the palm of his hand an unbearable weight against the silk fabric of my dress--and directed me towards the arm of the grand couch.

"I did tell you to sit, didn't I?" He asked and I pressed back against the couch, watched numbly--dazed--overwhelmed, as he pulled back and went down on his knees, deftly pulling on the straps of my heels and taking them off one by one. His hand cradled my ankle, and it was a calm, careful move. It made an uncomfortable sensation crawl up my throat.

He didn't really sound pissed, I noticed and pressed myself further back into the warm grounding feel of the couch behind me. Ryder's shoulders tensed, stretching against the disheveled state of his dress shirt, but only looked up once he'd placed my heels carefully near the foot of the couch.

I inhaled shortly, curling my toes into the warm, plush carpet. "You have my phone," I said.

He stood up and eyed me. "Yes. I'm not giving it back to you."

"Why?"

"Why do you think." He stated, gaze darkening and rage flickering in his eyes. I held my ground even though I felt like I was about to fall deep--deep into the nothingness in the air where I wouldn't be saved. "I'm not letting you obsessively text your sister, you've done enough of that."

You've done enough, Alice.

"Maybe she's replied." My voice came out steely.

He stared back, hard and unyielding. "No."

I shook my head--laughed. It was a stilted noise; an awful, broken sound. "Why not? I know what you think of me now, right now, Ryder. I know my entire fucking image has changed before your very eyes in the last few hours. But what she thinks of me, what my sister thinks of me and what I saw in her eyes is a hundred times worse. I have to fix what little I can."