Michael (Bannish #1) Read online

  Michael (A Bannish Novel)

  Copyright 2015 Gabriel Love

  ***

  © 2015 Gabriel Love

  Join Gabriel’s Newsletter for upcoming projects, sneak peeks, contests, and of course, the opportunity to tell him what you’d like to see next! He’s anti-spam and takes your privacy seriously, so sign up now!

  About This Book:

  Four years ago today my life took a tragic turn.

  I tried running from it.

  I tried to hide.

  I lied, fought, acted out, and ultimately, I changed.

  I was a party girl. I hung out with the A-crowd. At the center of the vortex that was my life was Michael Bannish and my twin sister, Andrea.

  All the crap they say about twins is true. I knew what she was thinking, her plans, and most damning, how much she loved Bannish.

  Then, he killed her.

  Now I have to confront him. I need to know why. Why did he steal my sister’s life?

  It’s the only way I can start to heal.

  Michael (A Bannish Novel)

  Fuck.

  Maybe I can call out. Interning is by far the hardest thing I have done since I started losing myself in school. Everything else was easy in one way; I have no social life anymore and I’ve spent every waking moment and every sleepless night studying.

  It’s the only way I can cope.

  It’s a battle I’ve fought every day for the last four years to fill a void I never expected to experience. I close my textbook with a loud thud that’s almost satisfying. Almost.

  Next to me on the desk, my phone trills again to remind me I’ve got an appointment at three and a long drive to get there.

  My hands tremble and my heart begins to race at a breakneck, offbeat pace. Bile backs up my throat, souring my mouth as I swallow and swipe the screen to silence my alarm. I run my fingers through my rich black hair, a genetic gift from my Native American ancestry. My hair is one of two indicators; the other being my high cheekbones.

  Through a love affair I’ve forever romanticized, my great, great, great, something Lakota grandfather fell for a blue-eyed blond pioneer. Both sides rejected their union, but they found solace and love against the odds.

  And now I sport the fair skin of my European heritage along with the brilliant blue eyes that were so alluring to my Native granddad and a light sprinkle of freckles across my nose. I used to study Andrea’s freckles and try to find differences between hers and mine.

  Tears sting in my eyes and I shut down the thoughts. I’ve got things to do, places to be, and people to see.

  I grab my keys and head out to my car, a sweet sixteen gift from my father, it’s a dark charger with a vibrant orange racing stripe.

  Andrea got a matching one, but hers had a crimson stripe, her favorite color.

  Again, pain gnaws at my heart and I force the thoughts away and make a mental note to visit dad. He lives in the house I grew up in. He and mom split after...

  I sigh and unlock my car with the fob. The anniversary is coming up. Every year I go home and sit in her room and reminisce. It’s my way of keeping her alive. It helps that dad has done nothing but dust and air her room for the last four years.

  He doesn’t want to lose her either.

  Or maybe he thinks that’s the only reason I come home.

  Which is fair. It hurts to be there, surrounded by haunting memories of better times. I turn the engine over and smile at the growl of the hemi. At sixteen I’d wanted a mustang, but I’m glad this is what I ended up getting.

  Dad has pushed me to get something newer, but I love my car. It drives like a dream and it makes the three hour trip I’m going on now seems like nothing. I’ve got a coffee in the cupholder, the other half of Andrea’s bff necklace that she’d split with me when we were thirteen hanging from the rearview mirror, and loud music on Spotify to keep my mind occupied on the drive.

  I’m set.

  I pull out of the driveway.

  Time passes much too quickly as the miles fly by. When my phone pauses the music and begins ringing, I press the button to answer it. I always keep my bluetooth connected in the car. It’s an old habit from dad’s constant nagging. I’m too cautious not to stay safe nowadays.

  “Hello?” I say softly. I’m not really in the mood to chat. I’m still psyching myself up for what’s coming.

  “Hey,” I recognize Phillip’s voice, “sorry I didn’t stay last night.”

  Ugh. I know where this is going. “Don’t worry about it,” I say with a clip to my voice that’s an obvious warning for him to not keep talking about it.

  “Right. I just wanted to tell you good luck and make sure you’re okay.” He sounds genuine, but I honestly don’t care. He knows I’m not in it for a relationship, and even though he is hopeful, I know - and have told him several times - that we’ll never work out.

  And it’s not him.

  It’s me.

  I can’t trust him. Not because of anything he did, sadly. I’m just not able. I’m damaged and he loves me anyway.

  Which is tragic, because I don’t love him.

  But I do like the way he touches me. I love how willing he is to come over and go down on me anytime. But I don’t have the time or the want to make him a fixture in my life.

  And no matter how many times I tell him so, he just flashes me a winning grin and tells me I’ll fall for him eventually.

  I should cut things off. I know I should. But I’m only human. He does what I need him to and our arrangement works well enough.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say a bit more gently. He’s good to me. I can leave the claws out of this.

  He hesitates and I brace myself for what I know he’s going to say next. “So... tonight would you like me to come over and stay through the weekend?”

  I mentally translate the offer; he wants to come over, please me and himself, sleep in my bed and make me breakfast in the am. It’s sweet, but unwelcome.

  “No thanks.” It’s an automatic rejection. Very rarely do I want him to stay the night. And tonight I’m certain I won’t be in any frame of mind for company, much less sex. There’s going to be emotional turmoil at worst and furious note taking at best. I don’t want Philip there when I’m vulnerable or busy. That wouldn’t help either of us.

  Again, he pauses, as if unsure how to proceed. “No thanks to which part? Coming over or staying the night?”

  It’s a valid question. I can see how he’d wonder. Still, you’d think repetition would be a good indicator for him. Still, I guess he’s not the best at accepting rejection. Who really is?“Neither,” I say and I swear I hear him sigh. Though I don’t need to, I feel obligated to give an excuse. It just also happens to be true. “I’ve got a lot of stuff going on.”

  “I know.” He sounds so sad I almost feel bad. But he knows the arrangement. What he hopes for isn’t relevant; I’ve told him time and again that I’m not going to fall for him. I really should break up with him before things get any more strained.

  Still, it’s hard to let go. For all its bad and messy bits, the relationship does have its finer points. And it’s not just sex. He’s willing to work around my hectic schedule and he’s not usually pushy about coming over or staying.

  He’s just not assertive. And that’s fine, but it’s kind of... boring.

  Still, it suits me.

  But I also don’t like the thought that I’m going to eventually hurt him. Maybe sooner would be better.

  I spy the sign for my exit and decide to wrap things up. I can broach the subject of breaking up tonight or tomorrow. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you, okay?” My voice is deliberately cheerful. No need to put him on edge or make him worry.

  “Look,” He begins, but I cut
him off.

  “Phillip, I’m at my exit.” I sound as impatient as I feel.

  To my surprise, he doesn’t back down like he usually does. “Ashes, I love you.”

  Stunned, I just drive in silence. What do I say? He’s never told me before, I just assumed. My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel and I realize I’m holding my breath.

  “Are you still there?” I hear the frantic edge to his voice and ignore it. And his proclamation of love.

  “I have to go. Bye.” I end the call and drive in a stunned daze as my loud music starts again and startles me. This can only lead to disaster. I don’t want to hurt him. Fuck, I should have just broken the news before he had a chance to say that.

  Well, hell. The messy bits just got a bit more messy. But I’ve got no time to stress, I’ve got to get where I’m going before I’m late. And I need to focus every shred of my attention on the task at hand. My phone rings, but I set it to ignore and music blares once more.

  I’ll talk to him later, after I’ve had a chance to plan my speech. Right now, I need to park and face my demons.

  I stare up at the huge stone building. It’s like something out of a horror film. If it were raining and quiet I’d be worried I’m about to lose my head to somebody wielding a chain saw. When I find a spot far from the entrance to park and turn my car off, I text Parker.

  I’m here.

  He responds in an instant. I’ll come walk you in.

  With my thumb I quickly swipe Thanks. I lean against the hood of my car, desperately gathering my emotions and terror. I’m in control. This is on my terms. It’s professional, mixed with a smear of personal business.

  After all these years I’m going to come face to face with the dormant monster I’ve come to hate; Michael Bannish.

  Or, as the news channels who so extensively covered the case called him; The Prince of Death Row.

  When Parker steps into the sun and gives me a wave, I walk over to him but stare up the drab gray building. He pulls me into a surprise hug and I resist the urge to push him away. A lifetime ago we were friends.

  Now, he’s just Parker, the warden of the jail that I’m visiting to research my paper and using to further my internship toward my degree. Well, degrees. The workload of a double major has kept me busy, and that’s the point.

  I awkwardly pat Parker’s shoulder and he pulls back, beaming at me. “It’s been too long, Ash.”

  Ash. My old nickname.

  “I go by Ashes now.”

  He nods. “So I heard. How are you holding up?”

  Brave face. But the front isn’t for him. I’m not going to show any weakness. Not to him, not to the guards or inmates, not to Bannish himself.

  “Fine. How have you been?” I hate the small talk even as I engage. We walk toward the door and I mentally gauge the distance as we move closer.

  Ten feet.

  “Good. I hate this job, but it has its finer points. Like bringing you to me.” He’s still showing that thousand watt smile and I suppress the urge to sigh. For fuck’s sake, why can’t anyone go ten minutes without some cheesy line?

  Five feet.

  I get it, I’m pretty. But that’s such a shallow thing to place any emphasis on. I’m strong as hell. I quit drinking. I’m going to school full time on a grant I worked my ass off to get. I’ve turned my life around. I’m pretty much a whole new me. But no one comments on that.

  Nope.

  My sole accomplishment in the opinion of most males is the most idiotic, trite trait a person can have.

  I won the genetic lottery.

  Something that adds no value to my character.

  Yay, me! People love something about me that I have no hand in.

  It’s a load of horseshit.

  One foot.

  I offer him a weak smile. We step through the door and I work to familiarize myself with this place. I’m going to be coming here once a week for an indeterminate amount of time. The class only requires a few visits, a few sit-ins with the facility therapist, and a full report.

  But I’m in too deep for that.

  I might as well do this right.

  Besides, it’s a chance for me to tackle a humanitarian issue I’ve been taking on for a long time.

  In a daze, I soak in all the instructions given to me by Parker. My only request was that they not leave Bannish shackled while I attempt to speak with him. Parker agreed only because I agreed to have guards stationed nearby while I sit down with the dangerous criminal.

  “I don’t think you’ll get anywhere,” Parker says and I wave him away. He’s already explained that Bannish hasn’t said a word to anyone since coming here. Not even the therapist has gotten through. The therapist wrote it off as Bannish suffering from selective mutism. But I’m not convinced.

  Selective mutism results from extreme anxiety and is a complex disorder that’s often found in children under five. It’s very rare in adults. As in less than one percent of individuals treated for mental issues, rare. But adults with the disorder speak in some situations but not others. Hence the term selective.

  Bannish won’t speak with anyone.

  He hasn’t said a word in four years.

  I think it’s more likely that he’s unable to cope with the extreme stress he’s been crushed under. But I won’t know until I have some time with him.

  When we finally make our way to the elevator, I feel my hands begin to shake anew. Beside me are two armored guards. Before me, facing me, is the elder therapist. His keen eyes and quick talk betrays his fascination with Bannish.

  He’s going on about how the change from who Bannish was to who he appears to be now is astonishing. The chatter is unhelpful, through no fault of Mr. Kingston. Without some information, Bannish’s mental state is a mystery.

  After what feels like eternity, we step out into solitary and the row of doors. I scan the hall, drinking in every detail like my life depends on it. Tiny, one foot by one foot panels are at navel level on each door. Each cell is a mere eighty square feet which is not much larger than my king size bed. In addition, the cells are completely soundproof, nearly waterproof, and so dangerous that, in the event of a fire, everyone down here would perish.

  Not a single guard would risk their necks to save any one of these guys. I can’t say I blame them - if it was me, I might not be willing to risk life and limb for someone who might just turn around and take my limbs and life.

  Still, these are men, not animals. Solitary is absolutely cruel and inhumane. And as much as I hate Bannish, he’s the perfect example for my report and my push to get the laws regarding solitary changed.

  If I can hate my enemy and show mercy at the same time I feel it’ll make more of a statement. Facing down my sister’s murderer and admitting what he’s going through is wrong will hopefully make my point in a poignant fashion that will resonate with people.

  Even death would be kinder.

  Then again, he is on death row.

  But he’s been waiting four years to be put to death.

  It’s sick.

  I want no part of his torture. I’d rather try to help him than struggle to sleep every night knowing he’s in a situation most people would lose their shit for if he were an animal. If any pound had a tiny cage with concrete floors, walls, ceiling, no window, and no room to even do more than pace they’d be shut down and labeled animal abusers.

  But it’s totally cool for a man to suffer that fate.

  Fuck, sometimes I’m ashamed to be human.

  I halt before the unmarked door and glance at Parker in shock. Why isn’t there any way to identify who is behind this door?

  I glance around when I realize Parker is refusing to meet my stare. Other doors are numbered. This one alone is devoid of anything. One of the officers steps forward and opens the panel.

  “Come to the door and put your hands behind your back.”

  Almost instantly hands that are larger than I remember come through and I notice his wrists are nearly as thi
ck as my ankles. My heart slams, then begins pounding so hard I feel faint. I watch as he’s prepared to come out and instinctively back up a step when the door opens and he steps into my line of sight.

  Gone is the slim eighteen year old I knew. Gone is the spark of amusement and wit that used to enrapture every woman and girl around.

  Instead, a giant stands before me and I guess his height to be around six feet six inches, give or take a few inches. Power radiates from him and I realize he must have spent every moment working out.

  Dark hair hangs forward and frames his irregular featured, square face before just grazing his shoulders. His eyes are still that impossible shade of emerald that reminds me of spring grasses, summer apples and sunshine, but they’re devoid any spark of humanity.

  Until he sees me.

  Our eyes meet and his whole body tenses like a tiger about to spring. I flinch and a little noise like the squeaky mew of a new kitten escapes my lips. One guard plants his feet and stops Bannish as the other pulls his baton from his belt and lays a blow across Bannish’s stomach that echoes in the massive hallway.

  Kingston seems shocked, but Parker looks on as the guard begins to brutally beat Bannish while shouting at him to stop struggling.

  “Stop!" I scream, desperate for the attack to end. Bannish is very obviously not struggling. I leap forward and grab the baton from the startled guard and throw it as hard as I can. It clatters against the wall and bounces loudly on the concrete floor.

  Suddenly aware I’m inches from Bannish, I face off with Parker, acutely alert of the beast behind me and the fact that my back is to him.

  “What the hell is wrong with you people?” I shout, finding sympathy and worry only in Kingston’s eyes. Parker is deadpan and the guard is glaring me down like he can cut me with his stare alone.

  Even Parker’s voice seems unaffected. “The prisoner made the first move. Cooper only did what was necessary to subdue him.”

  And every thought flies out of my head as shock takes over.

  Seriously?

  They felt the need to beat him savagely because he moved toward me?

  I turn and look up into the vivid eyes of the man who stole everything from me. Behind the absolute darkness I see demons dancing with the devil and know my very presence is affecting him.