Mind Games

She kissed Thea’s cheek, added a hug.

“It’s what I needed, too. Even though it included you.” She drilled a finger into Rem’s stomach.

“Me, too. Even though with the extras, I only have one little wing and thigh to take home and mow down later. I’ll get them on the way out.”

Thea walked with them through the house to the front porch. And waved them down the lane.

She’d intended to talk to both of them over dinner about the dream, about Riggs, about all of it. When Ty joined them, she’d thought after dinner.

But then she hadn’t wanted to spoil the mood. Theirs or her own.

It could wait, she told herself. And if he found a way in tonight, she’d just shove him back out the damn window again.

* * *

Ray Riggs popped one of his dwindling supply of oxy. Though he didn’t know when he’d be able to score more, it felt like someone had clamped a vise on his head.

He could take it, he would take it, but not tonight. Tonight, he needed some nice, dark oblivion.

He could take it because when the pain flashed instead of crushed like tonight, he had more. Just more.

Fifteen years, he thought. The little cunt had had him caged for fifteen years.

And for what?

Taking out her parents, who’d have pushed and squeezed her into their mold? She was better off without them. He’d done her a fucking favor.

He had to pay her back for that, for fifteen long years. And he’d pay her back for taunting him the way she had. And worse, for ignoring him.

He wouldn’t let her forget him, and since this new level of pain helped him remind her, he’d take the pain.

But not tonight.

Tonight he needed that sweet, sweet high.

He’d spent nearly six months—what did he have but time?—bullshitting his way out of seg a second time. Read the ones who think they have it over you, he figured, and you get it over them.

He’d needed some goddamn light, some goddamn air, so he’d taken the time, done the work.

He’d had that time in the yard, in the light, in the air, for nearly a month. Out of blues and into khakis, roaming the yard, plotting, planning.

He’d find a way out, and when he did, he’d find that bitch and make her pay.

He couldn’t really remember what set him off. Some asshole saying something, thinking something. Oughta have more respect for a man who’d killed like he had, who done fifteen fucking years.

So he’d taught that bastard respect.

And the tearing in? It felt good, beating his fists against flesh and bone felt so damn good.

Until other fists beat against his.

A concussion, a couple busted ribs, a dislocated jaw? Bad, bad, but being back in seg was a hell of a lot worse.

Still, that beating had unlocked that pain, the pain that led to more.

He could do that more, and not just once a year now. Not just on the anniversary when she’d first pushed her way into his head.

He had taken it slow at first, barely peeking, glimpses, just glimpses of her. Mostly sleeping, but once when she’d stood at a big window looking out at a city at night.