Текст книги "Devil Smoke"

Автор книги: Max Henry

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

I’ve given up hope of ever seeing anyone I love again when a shadowy figure emerges in the doorway. He crawls, staying under the smoke, but I know without a doubt it’s Harris. Something is in his hand, something large that he’s leaning on as he moves. I shift my legs to approach him, but he stands, and the look on his face is nothing I’ve ever seen. I might be young, and I might not have experienced the world yet, but even a child can recognize the look of a broken man. As he walks past where I hide, I hold my breath to avoid being found. This man is a monster, a stranger, and how can I be sure he won’t change his mind and kill me too?

Harris, the man I’ve loved like a second father, takes a final look at the house and mounts his bike, riding off with my ability to trust somebody ever again. And all I can do is wonder, what did I do wrong?

I sit up with a jolt, my eyes wide as the images from my memories freeze into my mind like slides from a fucked up family holiday. The details, the things I chose not to see before, smack me about the head and berate me for being so blind all these years.

The moaning after the first shot; I always thought it was my mother, her voice distorted with grief, but when I push that preconception aside and unbox the memory, it was my father. Which means Mom died first. Hearing Harris asking my father what he’d done only points to the fact it was probably an accident.

But that second shot. It had to have been done on purpose—anger, revenge, betrayal . . . heartbreak.

And when Harris had found me on the landing, I’d chosen only to remember his face, his eyes as he spoke to me. But there was more. If I widen the lens, the evidence was all over his cheeks, his neck, and his clothing. He wore blood like a shower of rain, staining him in tiny droplets of guilt. If he’s the last man standing, he clearly shot my father, but how would he get covered in that much blood if he faced my dad? He couldn’t—surely. Does that mean he was behind my mom when my father shot her. What the fuck?

My chest heaves as the knots unravel. The picture grows clearer. All these years I chose to believe so single-mindedly that he shot both of them, that it was because he was angry with both of them. But he wasn’t, was he? He loved my mother, and when I think back on it, perhaps he loved her a little too much. Eyes lingering a little too long, hands touching a little too much, my father lowering his voice a little too often when he addressed my uncle.

Harris was in love with my mom. Harris probably wanted my mom. Which explains the argument, but not the outcome. What were they talking about? Was it just the fact my uncle had such strong feelings for Mom? Did she reciprocate his feelings? Did Harris come to take her away from us? Is that why he got into a fight with Dad?

Thinking over things in a new light has opened my eyes to so much I missed before, but seeing these new facts also raises questions, leading me right back to square one.

I need to find somebody who can tell me why my parents died, and although Eddie knows what happened, Bronx is right—I’m probably safer trying to get a bunch of bikers to share what they’ve heard on the grapevine.

I need to find Bronx and apologize. I need to track him down and get him to talk to his friends at the Fallen Saints, which means a trip to an old warehouse two hours drive from here to see a man about a dog—a lying dog.

RECALL

Bronx

“You best be gettin’ your ass back here, fucker, because I’ve got a few things you need to clear up.” King’s tone is low and level, but there’s no missing the hidden threat in it.

“Like what?”

“Like a problem at my front gate. A problem who won’t take no for an answer.”

Shit. There’s only one person I’ve told about my connection to the Saints. “Ryan?”

“You bet your ass that’s her name. Told her she’s not welcome, and now the bitch has damn near chained herself to the gate until she sees you. What the fuck is she doing here, Bronx?”

I cringe, realizing I probably should have answered the messages she’s been sending through. “I might have told her a thing or two.”

“I’m goin’ to pretend you didn’t say that, step my ass over to my liquor cabinet, and try to find some patience in a bottle of Jack. You have an hour to get yourself here before I fuckin’ set the whores on to her. Bet they’d have a few things they’d like to teach your girl about territory.”

“Yeah, all right, I get you. Just settle down.” The guy’s starting to sound like his predecessor, Apex.

The line goes dead with a click, and I draw in a few calming breaths. One, I probably shouldn’t have told King to settle down, and two, what the fuck, Ryan? Guess the woman had a change of heart after ushering me out of the house with a gun. Figures . . . women. I pocket my phone and rub a hand over my face, mentally wiping away any traces of guilt I might have had. Now’s not the time to be giving it all away—I’ve already said more than enough to Ryan. Evidently.

“How’s it going?” I ask, walking through the back door of the practice to where I left Gunter sitting. I should have headed straight to a motel, found somewhere to stay the night, but I knew there’d be no rest if I didn’t check in on Tommy first. The kid’s kind of hard to forget about when his blood is still under my nails and embedded in the creases of my skin. Plus, I still had a small problem of a pellet that needed removing.

“Doc thinks he might pull through. Can’t be a hundred until tomorrow, though.”

“I need to keep goin’. Send me a message when you get him home. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

The big guy nods, assessing me. “Who was that you were talking to? Eddie?”

I shake my head. “Old girlfriend. In a spot of trouble and needs a hand gettin’ home.” At least it was only partially a lie.

Gunter nods again, tapping the heel of his boot on the linoleum floor. “You did a good thing tonight.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“He is.” The skinhead fiddles with the buckles on his suspenders where they hang slack at his hips. “Never was cut out for this shit.”

The doc shows his face around a doorframe, and tips his head toward the room behind him. “He’s stable, for now. We’ll let him rest for a bit, make sure he doesn’t go downhill again before you take him home.”

Gunter nods and looks over to me as he stands. “You want to come see him?”

I shake my head and step toward the door. “Nah, man. You two have some time alone. I need to hit the road.” I hesitate a second before heading for the front door to where my bike’s parked. My nature is to give somebody comfort, pat them on the shoulder or the like, but with Gunter I can’t quite bring myself to do it. He’s a guy in pain, unsure if his brother’s going to survive the night, but he’s still a narrow-minded Nazi. There’s only so much sympathy I can spare the guy.

Being so late, the roads are relatively clear, and I make the trip to Lincoln in good time, thanks to riding a few extra miles over the limit. Bringing my Kawasaki to an idle, I roll past Ryan’s car parked out on the road and coast the last few yards to the gate to find Dog and one of the other prospects standing in front of the gate. Dog lifts his head to acknowledge me as I come to a stop before them, my headlight illuminating Ryan in their custody as she stands and then just as quickly sags into the gate in defeat.

She’s obviously unsure if it’s right to approach me, and in all truth, she’s not half wrong. I’m pretty fucking pissed at the bitch, almost as much as I’m relieved she’s come to her senses.

“Take it she’s right?” Dog calls out. “You know who she is?”

I lock my gaze on her as she stands behind him, flanked by the younger prospect. Her eyes are downcast, her hands fidgeting wildly with the hem of her shirt. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

“Said she wanted to talk to Pres. Pretty fuckin’ bold request.”

Fucking suicidal with some clubs. She’s lucky she’s standing on King’s doorstep. A few other chapters wouldn’t be quite so kind to a woman demanding a word with the boss and then refusing to leave.

The prospect signals for the gate to be opened, and Ryan jumps when it starts rolling on its tracks. I ride past the three of them, taking my bike to the overhang I park under when I visit. By the time I dismount and remove my helmet, the three of them are halfway across the yard to the clubhouse.

Dog and the prospect continue past me, leaving Ryan to straggle behind. She stops before me, and now that she’s up close I can see that her eye makeup has run and she’s smeared most of it off—all except for a line that runs from the outer corner of one eye to her temple. I reach out, and she stiffens, yet allows me to rub it off with the pad of my thumb.

“There,” I say, pulling back to admire my handiwork. “You look less like a crazy fuckin’ clown, and more like a girl who chose not to wear much makeup.”

She rolls her eyes, and I get rewarded with a small smile. “Way to make a girl feel special.”

“Darlin’, the fact you’re standin’ here and they didn’t shoot you for trespassin’ says you’re special.”

Her gaze darts over my shoulder. “I knew the young guy wouldn’t have done it; he doesn’t look like he’d hurt a fly. But the other one, I didn’t really trust him when he said we’d be waiting out front for you to show up. Half expected him to take me for a long walk off a short pier.”

“You’re safe with him; they haven’t got to that part of his initiation yet.” Her eyes go wide, and I let loose a chuckle, coaxing her on toward the clubhouse with a hand to her back. “Dog’s harmless. Does an all right job of looking tough, but he’s good fun.”

“To you, maybe.” She gives Dog a nod of thanks as we pass him holding the door open. “Are they all like these two?”

“You’re about to find out.” I might have laughed at her apprehension, found it cute, but even from where we stood in the entrance hall I could feel the wrath of King.

Shit’s about to get ugly.

“Just stick close, yeah?” I shunt her into my side with a well-placed hand to the hip. “Not everyone is so friendly with outsiders.”

As though to prove my point, two of the regular club sluts emerge from the backyard. One pulls her under-sized top down over her plastic rack, while the other gives Ryan a look that could melt rock as she opens her mouth. “Back for more, Bronx?”

I flash her a bored glance and continue towards King’s office, turning to ask Dog, “He’s in there?”

“Yeah,” he answers, snagging Plastic Tits about the waist. “He’s expectin’ you.”

“Are we in a biker clubhouse or a brothel?” Ryan murmurs beside me.

I pull her to a stop as we reach King’s closed door, and lean down to whisper in her face. “You want help from these guys—which I assume is why you risked your ass showin’ up here—then you best be actin’ like a good woman should, and speak when spoken to. Okay?”

She cocks her eyebrow. “A good woman?”

“Yeah,” I challenge. “A good woman. The kind of woman who knows how to keep herself out of trouble with people like this.”

She nods, her lips tightly twisted to one side. So what if she ain’t happy about it? As long as she shuts the hell up and listens to what King has to say, we’ll be fine . . . I think.

I knock on the pres’s door and open it up a fraction, poking my head inside. A bottle whistles past my ear and smashes on the wall beside me, showering me in tiny fragments while I turn my head to avoid getting glass in my eyes. “Fuck, man!”

King places a hand on the top of his desk and launches himself over it, marching toward where I’m shielding Ryan with my body. His tattooed arm snakes out, grasping me by the front of my shirt, and hauling me into the room as I try to break his hold with the back of my forearm. “Excuse us a minute, sweetheart.” He slams the door in Ryan’s face and shoves me roughly into the seat before his desk. “What the ever-loving fuck have you done, asshole? Why does she—one of Eddie’s bitches—know you’re affiliated with us? I warned you what would happen if you started thinkin’ with your dick, boy. You ready for this?” He starts rolling the already un-cuffed flannel shirt further up his arms.

“Are you goin’ to hear me out?” I ask, pushing out of the chair and standing toe-to-toe with the guy. “Ever crossed your pussy-starved mind I might have a reason?”

“What fuckin’ reason could you have for waving a fucking big banner around tellin’ everyone who you are? What the fuck is the point to any of this if you’re goin’ to throw it all away on one woman?” He places both hands on my shoulders, giving me a hard shove. “Fuck, man. You’ve only been there a few weeks.”

Both of our heads whip about as the door cracks open. “Can I come in and explain?” Ryan asks from the safety of the far side.

“No!” we both shout in unison, causing her to shut the door in a damn hurry.

“She needs our help,” I whine, like the fucking sissy I am. I pinch the bridge of my nose out of sheer frustration; every time I open my mouth, my justification for my actions proves how pathetic they are.

“With what?” King asks. “Figuring out how Eddie’s going to fuck us over next?” He presses a fist into the palm of his other hand, popping knuckles.

“No!” I scissor my feet, preparing for the inevitable. “She needs to get in contact with the Devil’s Breed. I thought you might be able to help with that.” If I thought the bastard was angry before, I was fucking mistaken. His face grows red, and his nostrils flare. I backtrack to place the chair between us. “What? What the fuck did I say now?”

“Devil’s Breed?” King nods, his eyes wider than a madman. “You want me to talk to the fucking Devil’s Breed?”

“Dude,” I cry out, exasperated. “I’m askin’ here. If it’s impossible, tell me. I’m not a fuckin’ biker. I don’t know if you assholes get along or not.”

“Exactly,” King snaps, driving a fist into the top of his desk and leaving it planted there. “You ain’t one of us. You’re here because one of my officers fucked it all up with his boy way back when, and stupidly, I agreed to get us tangled up in this.”

“Hey,” I say, pointing a finger his way and stepping out from behind the chair. “You said yourself that Carlos is after more than us now. You said yourself that he’s got beef with you as well.” I steal a look at his office door, wondering how Ryan’s getting on alone.

“Dog will be watching her,” King says, reading my mind. “And yeah, fucker, I did say that. But shit wouldn’t be so complicated if it weren’t for you assholes.”

“Wouldn’t it?” I ask. “Because if I’m workin’ this out right, your club would be runnin’ from the Koreans about now if we didn’t have a way for you to earn enough to cover the debt.”

King sighs, slamming both hands to his forehead and gripping his hair between his fingers. “Be the president, they said. You’ll straighten this club right out, they said.” He shakes his head in his hands. “Didn’t tell me the place was so fuckin’ screwed from the get go.”

“Would it have made any difference if you did know?” I ask, knowing damn well what he was going to say.

“No.” He drops his hands and walks around the desk to take his seat. “Still would have helped those sorry fucks out anyway.” He sighs, waving a hand at the door. “Let the girl in.”

I step over and pull the door wide, finding Ryan backed up to the wall beside it with her arms crossed over her body protectively while she watches the brothers eyeballing her around the common room. “Get in.”

She takes a wide step sideways and slips through the door like a startled rabbit. King watches her warily from his position across the room, elbows on his desk and hands folded in front of his mouth. She glances up at me for help on what to do.

“Take the seat,” I offer, pointing to the only free chair.

She sits down, eyeing King as her hands do a jig in her lap.

“What do you need from us?” King barks from behind his hands. “Who is it you know at the Devil’s Breed?”

“Harris,” she answers, barely a whisper. “I knew, Harris.”

King rolls his eyes back and makes a dramatic show of dropping his head on the desk between his arms. “It just keeps gettin’ better,” he moans into the wooden top. “Why? What the fuck did I do in another life to get dumped with this?”

Ryan looks across to where I’m standing, and I shrug. Fucked if I know what he’s talking about, either.

King lifts his head and looks between us. “So, given you’re both outsiders, I’m going to assume you haven’t a fuckin’ clue who Harris is now.”

“Now?” Ryan asks.

“He changed his name, sweetheart.”

She stares wide-eyed at King. “I was told he’s dead.”

King chuckles. “Satan himself couldn’t bring that asshole down. He’s very much alive and kickin’ . . . and in charge. He got a new road name after he fucked over what I’m going to assume is your family.” He looks her top to toe twice and grunts as though agreeing with himself. “Am I right? It was your house he did over?”

She nods.

“Jesus,” King mutters. “Get Dog in here, Bronx.”

I open the door like a right fucking concierge and call over to Dog, whose head is currently buried between the legs of Plastic Tits where she’s propped upon the back of the sofa. “Dog, Pres wants you.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He wipes his face with the palm of his hand, and points to Plastic Tits. “Stay. Good girl.”

His fucking chin still glistens when he walks in the office, and King gestures for him to wipe his face again, looking at Ryan pointedly from the corner of his eyes.

Dog grins down at her, removing what’s left of his midnight snack with the sleeve of his shirt. “Sorry, love.”

“Dog,” King says. “Who is Tuck?” He waves his hand for him to answer, as though he’s conducting an orchestra.

“Jesus. Only the head of the Devil’s Breed. Real sadistic fucker. Has a history of carving up his victims with a bunch of symbols that signify what they did—treason, theft, adultery, child abuse . . . that kind of thing. Been contested twice, and both times the sorry sons-a-bitches ended up with a body part in each state the Devil’s Breed have ties in.”

“And what would be his given name?” King asks. “What did his momma and daddy write down on his birth certificate?”

“Harris Friar.” Dog screws his face up in confusion. “Everyone knows that, don’t they?” Dog looks between Ryan and I.

Ryan’s eyes damn near pop out of her head. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that my damn dinner’s goin’ cold out there.” Dog smiles sweetly at her.

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath. “I guess it’s probably right.” Her eyes stare at the floor, but her thoughts aren’t in this room with us.

“Complicates things,” I say.

King nods. “Sure does.” He swings his gaze back to Dog. “Need you to run a courier for me.”

“Why me?” Dog cries out. “That’s Vince’s job.”

“I’m pickin’ you.” King scribbles something on a scrap of paper and hands it to him. “Memorize this, then burn it. Report back, no matter when you get in. If I’m not in here, then you’ve got permission to come wake me up.”

Dog reads over the note and lifts an eyebrow. His gaze moves to Ryan. “This true?”

King nods. He throws Dog a light, and the prospect sends the paper up in flames before I can get a glimpse. Ryan watches as Dog juggles the burning scrap between his hands, and then dusts the ashes off his palms. He heads out the office door, shutting it behind him.

King sucks in a deep breath and leans his head on one hand, his elbow propped on the desk. “Harris ran with us when he was a prospect. Apex never patched him in—some bullshit excuse made up because he didn’t think he was ‘hard’ enough. Made the guy remain a prospect for more than six fuckin’ years—unheard of. Understandably, Harris went to the Breed, and well, the rest is history.” King drops his hand to the desk, fidgeting with a pen, spinning it in circles. “I guess if he’s likely to listen to anyone, it’ll be me. We used to pretty good friends until he swapped colors.”

“What did that note say?” Ryan asks quietly.

“That’s for me and Dog to know, and you and Tuck to find out.”

JUNCTION

Ryan

My cell vibrates in my pocket while Bronx leads us across the main room of the clubhouse to where a bar is set up against one of the longest walls. He wanders to the serving side while I pull the phone out and open the message.

“Beer, spirits, juice and even water. What would you like?” He turns to see what I’m doing when I don’t respond. “Gunter?”

I nod, taking a seat on one of the worn leather-topped bar stools. “Yeah. He said they’re heading home.”

“What you goin’ to say?” He knows as well as I do I’d never get back before them.

“The truth—that I needed to get out of the house.” I type out my reply to Gunter while Bronx watches, erasing and rewording sections multiple times before I decide it’s the best it’ll be.

“Think he’ll buy it?”

“Guess we’ll know shortly.”

Bronx rounds the bar to where I sit, taking up a spot on the next stool over. “Wish you were there for Tommy though, don’t you?”

I nod, tears brimming. I squeeze my eyes tight and will them away. “Yeah. I hate the fact he’s all mixed up in the crossfire. I should have stayed home. I should have left this until another day.” How could I be so selfish? I’m still so wrapped up in my own problems that I didn’t think about how this would impact Tommy.

“You’d only be delaying the inevitable.”

“Maybe, but my timing couldn’t have sucked more if I’d tried.”

Bronx shrugs. “If you wait for the perfect time, you’ll often find the opportunity has passed. Sometimes you just need to go with your gut and do what you know is best for you.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t make my guilt lessen much. “I’ve wanted to know for twelve years why Harris tore my life apart like that, you know? Twelve years of wondering. Being so obsessed about it isn’t healthy—I know that, but I also can’t help it. What he did changed everything.” I scrub my fingertips into my closed eyes. “And now this—he’s alive.”

Bronx scoots a little closer, placing his hand over mine in a gesture of solidarity. “You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”

“He told me he’d come back for me,” I admit, looking up to find him watching me so damn intently with those gentle eyes. “He said he’d find me when the time was right.”

“Same as what I said before, darlin’—perhaps the opportunity passed? Besides, if he’d rocked up in the first months after it happened, would you have wanted to see him?”

“I guess not.”

“So maybe he just hadn’t found the right time yet?”

“Maybe.” I draw a heavy breath, wondering when life might ever be normal for me. “I still feel bad about leaving Tommy.”

He sighs, rubbing his fingertips over my wrist. “I know it hurts to leave him behind, Ryan, but you ain’t goin’ back.” His expression is stern, his eyes dark and lips set firm, telling me there’s no questioning the decision.

“Gunter won’t let me walk away without a fight, Bronx.”

“I’m no stranger to a fight, darlin’.” He smiles, and my eyes automatically travel to his crooked nose.

“You’ve been doing it for a while, huh?”

“A few years, yeah.” His hand works its way up my arm, rubbing and massaging. It’s comforting in an intimate, yet non-assuming way. “I’ll find a way to get information on Tommy. He’s a good kid—I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“God, I hope he’s okay. I really wish there was a way for me to see him.” I love Tommy like a brother, but Bronx is right saying I can’t go back. Gunter would lock me in the house and keep me under watch. But it’s not just Gunter’s violent tendencies that would put me at risk. Until now, I found it easy to play the part for Gunter, put on a brave face when I was fooling myself that I had the upper hand. But now that my eyes are open, I don’t have that false confidence to carry me through. “I have to agree with you, though—it wouldn’t be safe for me to return.” Because there’s also the question of what Gunter thinks would be a fitting punishment. He’s not afraid to hit a girl. I could guarantee that would be the least of it, too.

“You’re not alone while you work through this, Ryan.” Bronx swallows hard. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I don’t know how I did it for so long,” I say. “How the hell did I pretend with Gunter when I couldn’t stand the thought of having to get into bed with him every night, of having him touch me.” I snort out a sad laugh at how low I stooped in the name of answers. “It makes me sick just thinking of the things he’d get me to do.” I blink away the welling tears. “I was so numb; there’s no other way to explain it. How else could I whore myself out for nothing like that?”

“Ryan, you need to stop,” Bronx says through gritted teeth. “Just hearin’ you talk about that shit makes me ready to kill someone.” His fists flex in his lap, and he stares intently at the white of his knuckles, a frown marring his face.

My phone vibrates on the bar top, breaking the moment with a loud buzz. I reach over and tap the screen, bringing up the message. “He wants to know when I’ll be home.”

“You won’t.” Bronx lifts his eyes, challenging me. “Tell him.”

I stare at the screen, idly crooking my finger back and forth so the message window moves up and down while I think on the words I’ll use. My heart’s singing out to do what’s right for me and stay, to tell Gunter I won’t be going back, but the sensible side of my head tells me there’s more to it than just up and walking away. I leave in the middle of chaos like this, and I bring all hell down on Bronx and this club. I can’t live with that on my conscience. “I need to talk with him, face to face. I need to at least try to reason with the guy, otherwise he’s going to be after blood, Bronx.”

“Nothin’ I haven’t dealt with before, Ryan. You’re not goin’ back to Omaha. I don’t want to hear about it any more.”

It’s scary—I’ll admit that. Fucking up isn’t so bad when there’s somebody there to hold your hand, when there’s a person who’ll give you a pat on the back and say ‘better luck next time’. But when there’s nothing, no support system there, it’s pretty damn terrifying. I’ve got nothing if I fail here—no family to run back to. I’m on my own.

“What if Harris wants nothing to do with me?” I ask. “What if bringing Harris here screws things up for King? You think he’d want me hanging around? Where do I go then?”

“King wouldn’t have asked Harris here if he thought there was a chance of it messin’ with the club.”

“You didn’t answer my first question,” I murmur.

“I can’t speak for Harris.” Bronx fiddles with a bottle cap left on the bar.

I stare at his profile, marveling how beautiful this man is inside, as well as physically. His heart is in the right place. “What if I screw things up with us?” I ask on a whisper.

He turns to face me, sincerity clear in his eyes. “You won’t.” He gives my hands a small tug, pulling me off the stool and into his firm body. “You only fail at somethin’ if you stop tryin’.”

Panic rises to the back of my throat, and I place my hands flat on his chest, ready to push him away. But his gaze holds mine, and in his eyes I see the same fear I’m harboring—that he won’t be enough. He is. My palms relax, and the very tips of my fingers curl into the cotton of his T-shirt. Could we make this work?

“All my stuff’s still there.”

“I’ll buy you new stuff.”

“And then there’s Eddie,” I say quietly. “They’ll know it’s you. What are you going to do? Weren’t you there for a reason before I messed things up?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I was. I’ll figure somethin’ out. Don’t worry yourself about that.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“One thing at a time, darlin’. First, you got to let Gunter know that you’re not goin’ back.”

“You realize sending him this message is like firing a starting gun?” I ask, holding his gaze. “I tell him I’m leaving him, and it’s all downhill from there. He’ll lose his head, let Eddie know, and send a shit storm our way.”

“Yep,” he exclaims, clearly becoming agitated. “I realize that.” Bronx reaches out and pulls my phone closer. “Send the message.”

I draw in a deep breath, my chest shuddering as I fill my lungs to capacity. I always thought this day would be easy, that I’d dance to the music of their surprise when I took what I wanted and left. But I’ve been kidding myself—this was always going to be a mess.

My index finger taps out a rhythm as I carefully select the words that will not only set me free, but also condemn me to a different kind of hell. However I slice it, Gunter won’t take it well, and all I can hope is that with Tommy in his current state it does something to temper Gunter, for a little while at least.

“Done,” I announce, pushing the phone from under my hand.

“What did you say?”

“The truth. That I can’t live his life—I need to start my own.”

“How does it feel?”

“Like suicide. Like I’m setting myself free, but losing so much in the process. They might be ignorant assholes, a bunch of sexist pigs, but they still looked after me in their twisted way for years, you know?”

Bronx shifts so he’s sitting on the very edge of his stool, lifting both hands to cup my face. “But were you happy?”

My eyes glass over as I shake my head in his hold. “I haven’t been truly happy for a fucking long time.”

“So isn’t that proof in itself that things needed to change?”

I nod, my chin scrunched tight as I try to sniff away the tears. “I just want to know why they had to die,” I sob. The pain surfaces from the depths where I’ve kept it jammed all these years that I’ve been pretending to be somebody else. It unfurls, spreading its petals across my heart and showing the scared girl who’s been held captive inside. I cry openly, for the first time since I watched the firemen douse the flames from my hiding spot.

A firm hand wraps about the back of my head, tucking in beneath my hair to pull me to a warm shoulder. Bronx rubs his free hand in long strokes up and down my back, offering nothing but a safe place to let it all out. It’s all I’ve ever needed.

“I miss them so fucking much,” I tell him as soon as my tears have subsided enough to allow me to speak. “It hurt so bad every time I thought about it, so after a while, I just taught myself not to think about them at all.”

“It’s called coping,” he says. “You found a way to be able to carry on.”

“Yeah, but how fucked is it? I chose to forget my parents, rather than remember the good times we had.”