branded (phantoms mc #2)

eight: in which she bonds over pasta

"Now I'm feeling like a monster" - Colours, Monster

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Camila had been asleep for eleven hours and twelve minutes in the room I'd given her at the Bloody Marys' clubhouse.

It was creepy of me to be watching her sleep, but I just couldn't help it. I'd dreamed of this moment for years, and the fact that it was actually finally fucking here? It felt like if I left Camila alone for even a second, she'd disappear like she had all those years ago.

Traveling with a visibly beaten and bruised woman would definitely have raised some red flags—plus there was the fact that neither Camila nor her son had any travel documents—so Ghost had had a shady Argentinian contact of his fly us out of the country in a private jet. Once we were back home, the Phantoms' on-call doctor, who was appropriately called Doc, came out to the clubhouse to check on an unconscious Camila and her wary son.

After Doc had declared Camila severely underweight, among other things, I'd hauled my sister into the bathtub myself and cleaned her up alone. The needle tracks on her body weren't just localized to her inner arms. They were everywhere—anywhere she could find a vein, obviously. Years of drug use were imprinted into her skin, just like the bruises and scars that were scattered all over her frail body like multicolored petals in the wind.

Now, all scrubbed down and dressed in one of my T-shirts and sleep shorts, she looked like any other woman taking an afternoon nap on a hot Sunday afternoon.

The boy was harder to deal with, refusing to speak or give any indication that he understood a word I was saying. I figured he was about five or six-years-old, and maybe didn't know how to wash himself, but as soon as I'd run the bath for him, he'd gently tried to push me out of the bathroom.

"Sweetie, I want to help you," I said to him, hunkering down to talk to him. "I'm Auntie Cat. What's your name?"

He shook his head at me, as silent as stone. Five minutes of talking to myself and I was beginning to get fucking frustrated. He had talked just fine when he asked me to help his mother.

"I'm not gonna leave you in the bathroom alone, little guy," I told him, meeting his big brown eyes. "Is it okay if I turn around and let you do your thing?"

He chewed on his bottom lip, looking like he was really thinking hard about it. Finally, he nodded, and I turned around, listening until I heard the splash of water as he got into the bath tub. After about five minutes, the kid was done, getting out of the tub and only tapping me on my side when his clothes were back on.

I wondered about this kind of shyness; if it pointed at something even more sinister, and I made a mental note to ask Camila later. In the meantime, this nameless nephew of mine needed to get some real food in his system. Much like Camila, he was gaunt and waif-like, small for his age.

"Come on, little guy," I said, holding my hand out to him. "I'm not going to hurt you," I continued when he had just stared at my outstretched hand for a full minute. "We're just going to get something to eat."

My heart clenched when he finally took my hand in his, allowing me to lead him to the kitchen, where I hoisted him up and sat him down on one of the stools in front of the island before delving into the fridge for leftovers. Monroe had made some kind of meaty pasta dish that I easily reheated in the microwave and set in front of the kid in a little bowl.

"Can you feed yourself?"

I had barely gotten the words out when he grabbed the fork and shoveled a mouthful of pasta into his mouth.