The Captain's Dirty Little Secret

Chapter 57: Chapter 57 - Come Home With Me

Roxie did not know how long she sat on the bed after her mother walked out.

It could have been five minutes.

It could have been an hour.

Time felt weird now. Too slow in some places, missing in others. One second Claire was in the doorway calling her disgusting, and the next Roxie was staring at the floor while Zac crouched in front of her with one hand on her knee, saying her name like he was afraid she had left the room without moving.

”Roxie.”

She blinked.

His face came back into focus.

Zac looked terrible in the morning light. His hair was a mess. His shirt was dirty. His knuckles were swollen and split, dried blood stuck near his thumb. He looked like someone had dragged him through a nightmare and left him sitting in her bedroom.

Which was unfair because that was supposed to be her thing.

”Come home with me,” he said.

Roxie stared at him.

”No.”

He did not even blink. ”Yes.”

”I can’t.”

”You can.”

”Zac.”

”Roxie.”

She looked away first because his eyes were too steady, and she was too tired to fight him and lose at eye contact.

”I’m not going to your house,” she said.

”You’re not staying here.”

”My mom—”

”Your mom left this room to find him.”

The words landed hard because they were true.

Roxie’s mouth shut.

From somewhere outside, a dog barked. A car rolled past slowly. The living room TV had gone quiet, which somehow made the house feel worse. Like even the ugly background noise had abandoned her.

Zac’s hand tightened on her knee, then loosened like he was trying not to scare her.

”I have to go home,” he said. ”My truck’s outside. My parents will check eventually, and if I’m gone all morning, it’s going to turn into a whole thing.”

”Then go.”

His face changed. ”I’m not leaving you here.”

”I didn’t ask you to babysit me.”

”Good, because I’m not asking permission.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

Normally, she would have had something sharp ready. Something about quarterbacks and hero complexes and how he could stop using that voice before she threw something at his head.

Nothing came.

She was too tired.

Zac saw it. His expression softened, but his voice stayed firm.

”My parents aren’t home,” he said. ”Mia’s with them. They went to Nathan’s award ceremony.”

Roxie frowned because the name hit wrong. ”Who’s Nathan?”

”My brother.”

”You have a brother?”

”Yeah.”

She stared at him.

Zac Prescott having a sibling felt illegal somehow. Like finding out a statue had cousins.

”I thought you only had Mia.”

”I have Mia and Nathan. Nathan’s older,” he said. ”Army. My parents are very into pretending we’re all a perfect family.”

Roxie’s eyes dropped to his busted hand.

”Are you?”

”Depends who you ask. Come on, come with me,” he said again.

She looked around her room.

The chair was still shoved against the window. The knife lay on the floor where she had dropped it. Her blanket was twisted at the foot of the bed. The room looked like the scene of something everyone would deny later.

If she stayed, Claire would come back.

Maybe with Steve.

Maybe without him.

Maybe crying.

Maybe screaming.

Maybe pretending none of it happened.

Roxie’s stomach turned.

Zac watched her carefully. ”You don’t have to talk to anyone. You don’t have to explain anything. Just come with me until you can think.”

”I can’t go to your house,” she whispered.

”Why?”

Because your house is probably clean.

Because your parents probably know where the towels are.

Because your sister probably has matching pajamas and cereal choices and a bedroom where the window locks.

Because I don’t belong there.

Because if I see what your life looks like, I might hate mine even more.

She said none of that.

”I just can’t.”

Zac nodded once, like he had heard an answer even though she had not given him one.

Then he stood and picked up her shoes from the floor.

Roxie stared at him. ”What are you doing?”

”Helping you leave.”

”I said no.”

”You said you can’t.” He set the shoes beside her feet. ”That’s different.”

She glared at him, but it was weak and they both knew it.

”Don’t make me like you right now,” she said.

His eyes lifted to hers.

Too much passed between them.

The room. The window. The blood on his hand. Her mother’s voice calling her what she had called her. Zac coming when no one else did.

”I’ll try to be annoying again later,” he said.

Roxie’s mouth trembled.

For one terrifying second, she thought she was going to cry again.

She bent down and shoved her feet into her shoes instead.

Zac turned away while she pulled on a hoodie from the chair. He did not have to. She was fully dressed. Still, he gave her the privacy like it mattered.

That almost broke her more than anything else.

They left through the front door because Roxie refused to walk past the window.

The yard looked awful in daylight.

The dirt beneath her bedroom window was torn up. One bush was crushed. There was a smear near the siding that Roxie did not look at for long.

Steve was gone.

Roxie stopped on the porch.

Zac stopped with her.

”He’s gone,” she said.

His jaw tightened. ”Yeah.”

”Do you think he went to my mom?”

”I don’t know.”

She hugged herself. ”She’ll believe him.”

Zac looked at her. ”Then she’s wrong.”

Roxie laughed once, empty and ugly. ”That doesn’t usually stop people.”

Zac stepped closer, blocking her view of the yard.

”Truck,” he said.

”Bossy.”

”Thank you.”

She looked at him.

His grinned back.

Roxie walked to the truck.

She climbed in without arguing because if she stood in that yard another second, she was going to start shaking again. Zac waited until her seat belt clicked before he shut the door.

The drive started quiet.

Roxie kept her hands in her lap. Her nails had left half-moon marks on her palms. She stared at them because looking out the window made her think of Steve’s face behind glass.

Zac drove with one hand, his injured one resting against his thigh.

It looked worse now.

”Your hand,” she said.

”It’s fine. I should’ve hit him sooner.”

Her chest tightened.

Last night, that would have sounded insane.

This morning, it sounded like safety.

Maybe that was messed up.

Roxie was too tired to care.

The houses changed after a few turns.

The lawns got wider. The sidewalks cleaner. The cars newer. Then they reached the gated entrance then they turned into that long driveway.

The house came into view. It had looked intimidating from far away, but standing in front of it felt worse. Like she was dirt under someone’s shoe.

Roxie stared. What is she even doing here?

”That’s a mansion.”

He looked at the house, then back at her, genuinely confused in a way that made her want to laugh and scream at the same time.

”What?”

”You live in a mansion.”

”It’s my parents’ house.”

”Obviously. No teenager chooses columns.”

He got out first, then came around and opened her door before she could figure out how to make her legs move.

Roxie stepped down and looked at the place again.

The front steps were spotless.

The door was glossy black.

There were two giant planters beside it with flowers in vases that looked expensive enough to have insurance.

Zac unlocked the door and pushed it open.

”Come on.”

Roxie stepped inside.

Then stopped.

The air smelled clean.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Different in a way that made her chest hurt.

The foyer opened into a wide space with pale floors, white walls, and a staircase curving up like it was waiting for a magazine photographer.

Everything was in place.

Every shoe gone.

Every surface clear.

No dishes in the sink from last night. No laundry basket shoved behind a chair. No ashtray on the coffee table. No unpaid bills spread out under a bottle.

Nothing out of place.

Roxie should have hated it.

Instead, something in her chest loosened.

It was too perfect, but she liked it.

That was embarrassing.

She liked that the house looked like nobody had ever lost control inside it. She liked the sharp corners, the polished floor, the empty counters. She liked that if something was moved, everyone would know. She liked that the house looked like rules existed and people followed them.

Tragic, honestly.

Zac shut the door behind them. ”You okay?” He watched her take it in, and for once he looked unsure. Like he had no idea whether to apologize for the house or pretend it was normal.

”My room’s upstairs,” he said. ”But you can sit anywhere. Kitchen. Living room. Whatever feels less weird.”

”You have options?” She asked sarcastically.

His smile curved up. ”Unfortunately.”

She followed him because standing alone in the foyer felt too much like being on display.

As they passed the main hallway, Roxie noticed a framed photo hanging above a narrow table.

She slowed.

It was a family portrait.

The Prescotts stood in front of some gray studio backdrop, all dressed in matching dark clothes like they had been told to attend a funeral for joy.

A little girl smiled, soft and open. That had to be Mia. She got the Prescotts’ signature dark hair.

Zac stood beside her, taller, younger than now, his face blank. Nathan stood on the other side, straight-backed and serious. Their father looked carved out of stone. Their mother was beautiful in a cold way, chin lifted, mouth neutral, eyes sharp.

Nobody touched except Mia, who had one hand wrapped around Zac’s wrist.

Roxie stared at that part.

Mia holding him.

Zac letting her.

”That’s Nathan?” she asked.

Zac came back to her side. ”Yeah.”

”He looks like your dad.”

”People say that.”

”You look like you’re being held hostage.”

He huffed quietly. ”My mom likes formal photos.”

The Robinsons had photos everywhere. Messy ones. Mrs. Robinson laughing with flour on her shirt. Them in matching pajamas. Mr. Robinson holding Jason upside down while everyone screamed in the background.

This was different.

This was expensive and still.

A beautiful picture of people who looked like they had been told smiling was optional and weakness was not.

”At least you have one,” Roxie said before she could stop herself.

Zac looked at her.

She regretted it immediately.

”I mean,” she said, shifting her weight, ”family portrait. Nice. It would work for a thriller movie poster, but nice.”

”You and your mom don’t have pictures?”

Roxie stared at the portrait.

There were pictures of her. School pictures. Cheer pictures. Old ones from when she was small and missing a front tooth.

There were pictures of Claire, too, somewhere. On old phones. In drawers. In boxes they never unpacked all the way.

But together?

Roxie could not remember the last one.

Maybe there had been one when she was little. Before Claire started disappearing into couches and bad men and bottles. Before every photo became evidence of how far they had fallen.

”No,” Roxie said.

Zac stayed quiet.

She hated that he was good at quiet when it mattered.

She looked away from the portrait first.

”I’m sorry,” Zac said quietly.

Roxie shrugged, like her throat had not gone tight. ”Don’t be. Family pictures are weird anyway. Everyone just stands there pretending they don’t fight in the car after.”

That got a small breath out of him. Almost a laugh.

Almost.

Then a sound came from outside.

Tires on gravel.

Roxie turned toward the front door.

Zac went still beside her.

Another car door shut.

Then another.

Roxie looked back at him.

All the warmth had drained from his face.

”What?” she whispered.

Zac’s eyes stayed on the foyer.

”They’re not supposed to be home.”