Текст книги "Missing Dixie"

Автор книги: Caisey Quinn

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

14 | Gavin

SHE’S IN THE bathroom. Locked on the other side of a barrier I’m more familiar with than most.

If there is anything lower than scum, like scum that grows on scum, that’s me right now.

It wasn’t supposed to go there, to get like that.

“Mommy? Please come out now. I’m hungry . . .”

Where the fuck did that come from?

“Dixie,” I call out over the uninvited sound of my warped childhood. “Baby, I’m sorry. Please . . . I can explain . . .”

Can’t I? I don’t even know anymore. All I know is I can’t leave like this—having done what I did, hurting her that way.

I lean forward until my forehead touches the door.

“I’m so sorry, Bluebird. I lost myself but that’s no excuse.” And I’m hammered as hell but that’s no excuse, either. The hall spins around me and I am grounded only by my forehead pressed to the wood.

“Please come out, Mommy. I’m scared. Someone is knocking on the door.”

Memories I thought I’d effectively smothered years ago attempt to break through the surface. My mom had a habit of running to the bathroom—sick, high, or to elude the local dealers, she’d run in there and hide—leaving me locked out on the other side. Alone, helpless, starving. Scared for countless reasons. Some nights I slept outside the bathroom door. Many nights.

My own heartbeat throbs inside my skull.

“Dixie, please.” I hear my voice crack and I let my fist bang lightly against the door. “Please don’t shut me out, baby. I am so, so damn sorry. Please. At least let me see that you’re okay and then I’ll go. I promise.”

I fucked her dirty and I was an absolute dick about it. It wasn’t necessary. To take it that far. But I was blind drunk and I lost myself.

I remember seeing her there in the doorway, angelic and innocent with her hair flowing all around her, and me thinking This is how it has to end. She’s too good for me and I have to make her see that.

That was the last rational thought I had. She was warm and soft and wet. The scent of her, the unique salty sweetness that flavors her skin and deepens intoxicatingly between her legs, it overtook me and I was so far gone I couldn’t see my way out.

“Get dressed, Gavin,” I hear her say quietly. “And I’ll let you in on one condition.”

I nod even though she can’t see me. “Got it. Getting dressed right now.”

The entire time I’m putting my clothes on I’m praying the second part of her condition isn’t “get the hell out.”

I don’t know if she’s scared or just royally pissed-off, but I need to know. I was aiming for the second one but I never meant to make her afraid or actually hurt her.

I pull my clothes on slowly and try to blank it out. I can’t. I’ll never be able to no matter how hard I try.

I told myself I’d just pretend she was one of the others, the ones I used to use as if they were disposable. I tried. I tried that but it was so . . . wrong. The girls I used to fuck liked it that way; they asked for it that way and there was a mutual understanding beforehand. Doing that to Dixie, to my Bluebird, to the girl I would cut my fucking eyeballs out not to hurt, will forever be the worst thing I’ve ever done and I’ve done some messed-up shit.

God have mercy on my black soul, I am a fucking disgusting human being. But there it is. I have mommy issues like a motherfucker. Well, wait. No. Gross.

Fuck.

But my mom never hugged me, never wrapped her arm around me or patted me or kissed me. She never showed me any physical affection because she was always high and in her own universe. I didn’t even know I needed it until the eighth-grade field trip to an art museum downtown where Lindy Preston sucked me off in the boys’ bathroom.

From then on, I was an addict, much like dear old Mom.

I think Lindy has a handful of kids now by a handful of different guys. But blow jobs were my gateway drug. Soon I needed more and even after having full-blown sex, I sought sex with multiple girls at once. Surprisingly, many of them were down with that.

It felt so fucking good, to be touched, to be pleasured that way, as if they existed only for that reason. To let go and just feel. I have a relatively large dick and word got around. By the beginning of tenth grade I had fucked every varsity cheerleader at my school and a few from others.

I used to feel proud of that. Now I feel . . . sick. Sick to my fucking soul, and who the hell knew I even had a soul?

Dixie did once, I guess. Even if she’s still questioning it, she’ll soon know I don’t, or not one worth saving, anyway.

The year she was in Houston, I kept picturing her with some fancy college guy, or the maestro of the orchestra taking her to expensive dinners, wining, dining, and fucking her six ways to Sunday. It drove me insane.

In-fucking-sane.

I became obsessed. I was literally waiting for her wedding invitation to arrive in the mail. I’d missed my shot and I missed her. I missed her so much it caused me physical fucking pain.

Missing Dixie was hell. It was the deepest, darkest pit so when my mom left drugs out on the kitchen table or in the bathroom or in the laundry basket, I traded them for blow jobs in back alleys. They needed their fix and I needed mine. Seemed like an even trade-off.

I can tell you exactly where most downtown Amarillo bars’ security cameras are and what they can and cannot see.

Dallas has caught me more than once. He once yanked me out of a very lively foursome while I was butt naked and swinging at him with both fists. He made me get tested and while everything was negative, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t sweat it pretty hard while I waited for the results to come in.

Hence his hesitation about letting me date his sister.

But in a strange way, he seemed to understand. He called me out for self-medicating, said he’d done some similar stupid shit when Robyn dumped him. Though he thought I missed the band, not his sister specifically, and I never clarified.

We played a few gigs, just me and him, then we met up with Dixie for a few and it did help. Some. For a while.

But then the knowledge that I could never have her, could never hold her, and would eventually have to watch some other fuckhead marry her would get to be too much and I’d slip out to downtown and fuck the first girl who made eye contact.

I imagine Hell will be a lot like my life only hotter and more densely populated.

Once I’m dressed, I make the bed, as if cleaning up the scene of the crime will somehow help. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above her dresser and I look like hammered shit on a stick. Or worse.

Thank fuck it was dark.

I stagger to the bathroom where she’s barricaded herself from the monster in her house. I lean against the door and I don’t know how but I can feel her. She’s sitting against the other side. I open my mouth to say I’m sorry, or to tell her to just steer clear of me for the rest of her life, but no words come.

Being soulless would be easier. I think I was once, but the first time I kissed her some of her soul slipped into me.

Damning me for life.

And maybe a piece of her, too.

“I’m sorry, Bluebird,” I say quietly, barely getting it out over the hard sob threatening to break free. I clear my throat so I can continue. “I’m a fucking asshole and I wanted you to . . . know, I guess. To see who I really am, what I’m capable of, so you would move on or whatever.”

Christ almighty this is harder than I thought it would be.

“Gavin.” The pain in her voice shoots straight through my chest.

“Dixie—”

“Tell me why, Gav. Tell me all of it.” She’s trying so hard not to cry. I can hear exactly how much effort it takes to get those words out.

I sigh against the door and just start talking. I begin somewhere around the beginning, around why this reminds me of my mom locking me out of the bathroom as a kid. My rambling takes us through my horrific childhood, into meeting her and Dallas, and I do my best to explain why they’ve always been and will always be the most important people in my life. I tell her about Lindy Preston and how that became an addiction—physical contact and why.

“You hurt me on purpose,” she says after a few minutes of excruciating silence.

“I did.” My voice is raspy and I’m not sure she heard me until she responds a moment later.

“Why?”

I breathe deeply and do my best to maintain my composure while the emotions flood through me.

“To help you see how awful I can be. How selfish and just . . . fucked-up, for lack of a better term.” I take a deep breath. “Asking you to wait for me to get my life together when I don’t even know if that’s ever going to be possible is unfair to you. But I know you. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know and you’d wait, you’d love me through whatever. And I love you for that. I love you for a lot of reasons. I love you because I didn’t know what love was before you.” And I apparently have opened that gate of unlimited I-love-yous. “You’ve been my Bluebird for a long time. But I’ve kept you in captivity. I’ve tried to hold you in some tiny cage and when you flew free, to Houston, I lost all control of myself. I . . . there’s so much.”

A sudden turn of the knob startles me and I’m face-to-face with her. She’s wrapped in a robe I assume was already in there and I’m grateful she wasn’t cold.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” I answer barely above a whisper. “Thanks for opening the door. I have issues with . . . being locked out.”

Dixie’s eyes widen and gaze into mine. “It wasn’t locked, Gavin. I could never lock you out.”

Something about this, maybe because of my mom or my childhood, or whatever, it breaks whatever has been holding me together.

Dixie rushes into my arms and I hold her until I can’t stand. I rock her gently on the floor and we whisper comforting words back and forth. This is what Dixie is for me—what she always has been. Loving her isn’t trading one addiction for another—it’s finding peace and reassurance in a world of chaos.

Once she’s fallen completely asleep in my arms, I place her gently back in her bed, careful not to wake her.

My Bluebird deserves to fly and be free.

She deserves to belong to herself and not to me.

Now that she knows the truth, maybe she will.

“Gav, it’s me. Dallas. I don’t know what’s going on with you and my sister at the moment, but I need to know something and we need to rehearse if we’re going to do this thing.”

Delete.

“Hey, man. It’s me again. Look, neither one of you are returning calls or messages and I’m starting to get worried. If I worry, Robyn worries. Which puts our child’s health at risk. And Robyn’s health. Anything happens to either of them, I’m going to be pissed. Call me.”

Delete.

“Garrison I don’t know what in the ever-loving fuck has gotten into you or why you and my sister have gone off the grid, but if one of you doesn’t call me in the next twenty-four hours, I’m driving down there and kicking some ass.”

I have no doubt he will drive to Amarillo from Dallas to do just that.

Delete.

“Hey. Robyn talked to Dixie and I don’t know what happened but she said it was bad and that she was upset. She won’t talk about it. That means you’re going to. Be there in a few hours.”

Delete. And then I make sure my door is locked. I guess if he really wanted to get in he could, he’s done it before. Fuck it.

Pretty sure my mom is spending her days blitzed out at a crack house up the street that belongs to her boyfriend.

“I’m here. I’m outside. I will break in if I have to but I’d rather not. Man up and open the damn door please.”

Delete.

“I’m guessing whatever is going on is your fault since you’re avoiding me. ’Preciate the timing. You can withdraw us from battle since you’ve decided to be a fucking toddler. If you ever show your face at work again, that is.”

Delete.

“Hey, it’s me.”

My heart pounds because it isn’t Dallas’s voice on my voice mail this time.

It’s Dixie.

“Um, so I talked to Dallas and I’d really like it if we could go ahead and compete at the battle this weekend. The three of us. If you’re up for it.”

She pauses and I’m a burning man during that pause. Dying to hear more of her sweet voice and knowing it will wreck and ruin me at the same time.

“Anyway, we’re going to rehearse tonight at the same place downtown where we used to go.”

Another pause.

“We reserved two hours from six to eight if you want to come. Bye, Gav. I hope you’re okay.”

Repeat.

I play her message so many times, I feel beat to hell and back by the time my phone battery dies.

I put it on the charger for a while and when it comes back on I see I have another missed call. From her.

I play the message and it guts what’s left of me to gut.

“Hey. Sorry to be all stalkery with the multiple voice mails in one hour but I should’ve said something on the other message and I didn’t. So here goes. I want you to come to rehearsal tonight. I want you to play with us next Friday night at the Phi Kap gig and in the battle on Saturday. But mostly, I want us to not hate each other or hurt each other anymore. At least not if we can help it. I love you, Gavin. Bigger than your mistakes and bigger than the pain you cause me sometimes. Maybe that makes you mad or makes me seem desperate or stupid but I love you as much as I love music, maybe even more because I’ve loved you longer. Anyway, I do think we owe it to ourselves to see if the band has what it takes. Whatever happens afterward, I figure we’ll deal with when it comes.”

Since my mom hasn’t been around, there are no drugs that I know of in the house. Which means if I want any kind of fix, substance or sexual or otherwise, I have to go out. I suspect Dallas might be waiting to pounce on my ass or pound this shit out of me, depending on how much he knows.

I play her two messages a few more times and then I sit in silence until it nearly deafens me.

I can’t be what she needs. I’m not built to be the kind of man that could truly make her happy. But the thought of letting my mopey shit or temptations take away her dream is unthinkable.

If she wants the band, she’ll have the band. This much I can’t possibly screw up. If she wants a drummer, a drummer she will get.

15 | Dixie

“ACCORDING TO THE owner of the Tavern, there’s a drummer that sits in with the house band we might be able to hire for the battle,” Dallas tells me when I arrive at the studio downtown where we rehearse. “He says the guy has shit for brains and not the greatest work ethic but is a fantastic drummer.”

It wasn’t that long ago that Gavin and I stood on the rooftop of this very building and I wished for our dreams to come true. Feels like a lifetime ago. That was a different girl.

Gavin was right, though; that girl was honest and now it’s harder for me to open up about what I want. Though I did leave a perfectly good and thoroughly humiliating message on his voice mail. I can’t help but wonder if he ever listened to it.

“It’s Gavin,” I say, absently while applying rosin to my bow.

“Yeah, I know,” Dallas answers. “Ideally Gavin will show. But I’m saying if Gavin doesn’t show we should hire the house band guy as a backup.”

“No, I mean the guy that sits in with them. It’s him. Gavin.”

Dallas’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“Yep. You got a plan B?”

“I can see if Levi’s guy might want to play with us. They got that contract with Sony and they can’t participate in any events sponsored by other labels as their band, but I don’t know if that applies to them as individuals. I can ask.”

“Couldn’t hurt, I guess. Just feels . . .”

“Like cheating on him or something?”

I nod. “Kind of. How’s the nursery coming?”

“It’s nearly finished.” Dallas derails my attempt at a subject change. “You ever going to tell me exactly what happened?” He stops tuning his guitar and waits for me to answer.

I shake my head. “Honestly, I think if the situation were reversed, I’d rather not know this sort of thing about you.”

Dallas winces. “Got it.”

“Don’t make that face. It’s not just about . . . that. It’s . . . he’s not . . . I can’t . . .”

“Gavin has demons, little sister. He just does. He battles them every day and some days he doesn’t win. I know you love him, and I love his fucked-up ass, too, but I am your brother and it’s my natural instinct to protect you.”

There’s a hidden confession in there somewhere. “Dallas . . . did you say something to him?”

My brother doesn’t answer so I start packing up Oz. Either he can be honest with me or I can be done here.

“Wait. Calm down.” Dallas sets his guitar on a nearby stand. “I may have told him to stop stringing you along. I saw how hurt you were after your show the other night and that was bullshit. So I talked to him.”

“And?”

Dallas shrugs like his every word isn’t of vital importance. “And his mom showed up high off her ass and he had to deal with her. He picked her like he always does and always will, Dix. He could’ve called the police or a cab or had the bar security guys deal with her. He didn’t. He left. So I told him if he wasn’t going to commit and make you a real priority right now, then he needed to stop leaving you in limbo until he was ready.”

“Dallas, what the hell? It was his mom.” I’m slightly disgusted with myself for feeling relieved about this.

“It is what it is, Dix. He’s always sneaking back into the gutter with her instead of standing in the spotlight with us because it’s easier for him to hide that way. Until he decides otherwise, and it has to be his decision. You can’t force him into the light.”

“I didn’t realize you were so jaded. Jesus. So what? We just give up on him? You know I can’t do that.”

“We’ll love him and be there for him because whether he likes it or not, we’re his family, too. But we can’t put our own lives on hold while he figures his out. That’s just the reality. The band has a shot. You have so much more to offer than you’ve been giving and I think part of that is because you didn’t want to shine, either. You want to hide in the shadows with him but that’s not happening on my watch. So stand over there by the mic because, you, sister of mine, are going to be on vocals tonight as well.”

“Dallas.”

“Dixie.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too. We doing this or what?”

A commotion at the back door distracts me before I can answer.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was heavy.” The door opens, sending a burst of light in behind Gavin.

Dallas puts his guitar back down. “Hang on and I’ll help you carry your kit in.”

I set Oz gently in his case. “I’ll help, too.”

My heart takes off in triple speed. He came.

He’s not here for that, Dixie Leigh. He’s here to play. Give him space.

We carry his equipment in without speaking but Dallas grins while they set up. “Glad you made it. Not gonna lie, I was pissing my pants a little.”

“Can’t have that,” Gavin says quietly.

He’s different. Even more withdrawn. Like he thinks his very existence is going to cause me pain.

He might be on to something.

A song lyric begins in my head and I want to write it down before I lose it.

Loving something, no, loving someone. Being addicted to . . . someone bad for you . . . it’s like a drug, like being hooked on love . . . the perfect poison you can’t get enough of.

The words are just coming randomly and I can’t sort them in my mixed-up head.

“Dallas, do you have a pen?”

“Yep. Always.” He tosses a blue Bic over and I catch it and uncap it quickly. I don’t have paper so I start writing on my left hand. Then up my arm. Then down my inner arm. I’m glad my tattoos don’t cover my forearms like sleeves or I’d be screwed right now.

Once I’ve gotten the lyrics down, I pick up Oz and look up to see both guys looking at me like I’ve gone mental.

“Sorry. Needed a moment. I’m good now. Let’s do this.”

Gavin nods without meeting my eyes. “Okay, here we go. One, two, one, two, three, four!”

And away we go, to that magical place where we fly together and nothing can touch us because we are completely free.

16 | Gavin

I HAVE TO know what is written on her arms.

I have no right to ask. But it’s killing me not knowing.

I’ve never seen her do anything like that. Dallas has been known to get struck by inspiration and act a fool in order to find something to write with and on, but even he’s never written that much at once and not ever on his skin that I know of.

What inspired you, Bluebird?

I want so badly to ask her it distracts me from my cues. I was late on two solos already and Dallas is getting agitated.

I want to tell him that if we can just take a break so that I can get close enough to read what she wrote, I’ll be able to get my head on straight and do my job.

Her brother is curious, too, but he knows she’ll tell him later. I don’t have that luxury anymore.

Focus, fuckhead. You have one job here. Play the damn drums.

Doing my best to keep her inked skin off my mind, I play for the rest of rehearsal without screwing up . . . much.

We don’t take a break. Drill sergeant Dallas has returned with a vengeance.

It’s comforting in a way, to know that here, even with everything that has happened, I still have a home. I still belong.

They really are my family, which is why I never wanted to cross the lines I can’t uncross. As much as I want to believe that, though, that it’d be for the best if I’d never been inside Dixie’s body, I don’t regret it. I only regret the pain I caused, the way I handled, well, everything.

When rehearsal ends I feel bereft. Hearing Dixie sing was soothing balm to my jagged wounds and now that we’re done, the rawness is returning.

I don’t want to be away from them, don’t want to go back to an empty trailer on the side of the highway, but Dixie has her shield up and I am fluent in reading her emotions. So I pack up quietly and head to the truck I borrowed from Mr. Kyung to get here.

“Hey, man,” Dallas calls out. “Want to get some food?”

I do. I want to have a meal with the only two people in the world who’ve ever given a damn about me. I want to sit and talk and crack jokes and hear Dixie’s laugh. I want it more than I want food or water or air. But the flash of pain on Dixie’s face hits me like a slap. “Can’t. I need to get back to the Tavern. Jake covered for me but I need to get going.”

“All right. Holler at me if you need anything.”

“Will do,” I call out before climbing into the truck. I’ve only just shut my door when the one on the other side opens.

“Give a girl a ride? I feel like playing some more so I thought I’d drop by the Tavern, too. Work this new song out on that piano.”

“I . . . you . . . uh,” I answer, but it comes out jumbled and all run together so it sounds like a grunted battle cry of some sort.

Verbal skills have vacated the premises.

“Yes or no, Gav? If you don’t want me to ride with you it’s no big. Dallas can run me by there or I can just work on the song at home.”

I have no idea how she can be so relaxed, so nonchalant after what I did, how I treated her.

I love you, Gavin. Bigger than your mistakes and bigger than the pain you cause me.

“No, it’s cool. I mean, yeah. Yes, you can ride—I can give you a ride . . . I can . . .”

Fuck it all.

“So . . . that’s a yes then?” She hangs on to the door as if waiting to figure out if she should climb in or slam it in my face.

I nod. Sentences are apparently outside my realm of capability at the moment.

Staring straight ahead, I force myself not to stare at her arms while she buckles in. Dallas doesn’t look thrilled as we pull past him but Dixie’s a big girl now. She makes her own decisions. Not necessarily great ones, but they’re hers to make.

“I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry that I hurt you, that I came there drunk, that your pain was some half-assed premeditated attempt on my part at setting you free from my bullshit. I saw today, though, that what Dallas keeps saying is true. I won’t ever really be able to cut either of you off because you’re my family and that won’t ever change unless either of you want it to.”

“We won’t,” she says abruptly. “Ever.”

I nod. Neither of us says much for a few minutes. It’s not uncomfortable silence, though, just intense and thick with emotions and words we aren’t ready to say just yet.

I sneak a quick look at her left arm but all I can make out are the words addicted and poison.

“Shoot,” Dixie says suddenly while looking at her cell phone in her hand. “I forgot. Crap. Can you just drop me at home?”

I turn the truck around and hop on a back road I know will be a shortcut. “Sure.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope I don’t make you late for work.”

“It’s fine. I don’t think the place will burn down without me.”

She laughs softly and the sound warms my chest. “I have this one kid . . . he doesn’t seem to like playing piano much but he shows up without fail. Barely talks, just kind of wanders over to the house. Reminds me of someone else I used to know.”

A warning bell goes off in my head but I’m not sure why.

“I checked around and his name is Liam Andrews but I don’t know much about him. I think he lives near you and I’m hoping he’s not crossing the interstate by himself. Can’t seem to find out much about his family.”

“Andrews, you say?” There is only one Andrews near me.

No, please, please do not let her be even remotely associated with Carl fucking Andrews.

“Yeah, why? You know him?”

My foot presses harder on the accelerator.

“Gavin!”

“Dixie,” I begin slowly, working hard to keep my voice even. “I am trying not to get worked up and or lose my temper while operating a motor vehicle. But you absolutely cannot have anything to do with Carl Andrews or his kid. Ever.”

“Um, well, I’m not sure Liam is his kid for certain. He’s just constantly angry. I was going to talk to you about him because he kind of reminds me of you.”

I’m mildy offended. “I’m not constantly angry.” She gives me a look that says she’s calling bullshit so I shrug. “Not constantly.”

“Okay, maybe I phrased that wrong.” She frowns and I can see from side-eying her that she’s thinking extremely hard and choosing her words carefully. “It’s like he’s struggling to . . . find . . . something. A reason to be afraid or upset or violent, or I don’t know. He’s just a really angry kid and he’s only seven years old. What is there to be angry about at seven?”

My grip tightens on the steering wheel and I watch my knuckles turn white.

“If Carl Andrews is his dad, trust me, kid has plenty to be angry about.”

Carl is the owner of the local crack house, the one my mom has been spending her time in lately. He was with her in the bar the other night and he and I are not on good terms at the moment. I know I am heading into something bad, I can feel it in my gut, but all I can think of is getting him away from Dixie and keeping him the hell away from her. And then the troubling thought tugging the edges of the blanket of rage currently covering my mind.

He got custody of that kid? How in the hell could anyone give that disgusting fucking animal a kid?

“ . . . drum lessons?”

I only catch the last part of whatever she’s saying because that’s the thing about actual fits of rage, they sort of block out all your other senses.

“What?”

Dixie sighs and holds on to the dashboard as I take a curve a little faster than I should. “I was asking if you’d be willing to give Liam drum lessons. He has a lot of anger and it seems to help you, playing, so I thought it might help him.”

“It does help me. But I’m not exactly kid friendly. You know this.”

She scoffs at me. “How do you know? Have you ever hung out with any kids?”

I contemplate this, desperate to focus on something other than the thought of Carl alone with Dixie in her house. “No. I guess not.”

“Then you don’t know, do you? You could totally be kid friendly. But even if you aren’t, this kid doesn’t respond well to friendly anyways.”

“No?”

She looks so sad for a moment I almost pull the truck over.

“No. And all my other kids like me—they hug me and call me ‘Miss Dixie,’ which is really sweet. But he just averts his eyes and keeps his gaze on everything but me.”

Her mouth does the quirky turn-down thing it does when she’s about to cry. Hearing her call them “my kids” helps me to appreciate how important giving lessons is to her. It’s about more than filling her time. It’s her way of sharing her gift even though she’s not performing much right now.

“Maybe he just doesn’t want the lessons but he isn’t sure where else to go. Maybe you’re the first smiling face he’s ever seen.” The sad truth is, that’s pretty much how I ended up on her porch all those years ago. And why I kept coming back.

She appears only mildly comforted by my words. “I am pretty fun. We play games and I give out candy. I even made him cookies. Special ones, just for him. I even put his name on them in icing.”

She’s a persistent one, my Bluebird. She will make you love her one way or another if it’s the last thing she does. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.

“Cookies, huh? You never made me cookies with my name on them.”

“Gav . . . I’m serious. I don’t get it. He’s like, I don’t know, afraid of me . . . or something. I don’t know why he keeps his shield up all the time but I can’t reach him no matter what I do and it breaks my heart.”

I break her heart, too. And I’m about to again because the very minute we pull up to her driveway I see the beat-up blue Ford pickup and beside the driver’s door Carl Andrews is slapping the shit out of his kid. I see red and then blinding white.

Somehow, I throw the truck in park. Somehow I get out and get to Carl before he can land another blow to the back of his kid’s head.

They always hit you in the back of the head because marking your face up will get social services called. It’s like they have a special seminar for child abusers.

One minute I’m there, in the moment, and the next thing I know I’m transported back in time to when one of the dealers my mom used to let crash with us used me as a punching bag and Carl’s face transforms into his.

Devlan was his name and I was sure he was the devil himself.

I can hear her screaming from somewhere behind me. Begging me to stop.

I know it’s because of me, but I can’t stop.

I just can’t.

When the police pull me off Carl he isn’t moving.

And I can’t feel my hands.