The Boy I Grew Up With

by Tijan

  The guy was at the sink, and he jerked, rounding. His hand grabbed for his gun on the counter.

  Two bullets slammed into him. One in his shoulder, the other in his chest.

  As I turned toward Traverse, Lincoln darted for the guy. He moved silently, catching him before he could yell and wrapped a towel around his neck. He pulled, keeping it tight until the guy fell to the ground, unconscious.

  We waited, tense.

  “Brent?” The call came from farther down the hallway.

  Something moved. I felt footsteps next.

  A door opened. “Brent?” Quieter. More hesitant.

  Then, a curse under his breath. Richter started down the hallway. “Brent, I swear to God, answer me—”

  He entered the dining room, freezing when he saw us. A choking, gurgling sound came out of him, and he turned to sprint back to where he came from.

  I started after him.

  Bang!

  A bullet slammed into his back, pitching him forward.

  Wha—!

  Traverse had his gun aimed, and he walked forward, slowly.

  Bang!

  Methodically.

  Bang!

  Calculating.

  Bang, bang!

  A last gasping wheeze came from Richter, and then he was gone.

  There was no time to dwell on what had just happened. We heard stampeding sounds from the basement. A head appeared, his gun already blazing.

  I was in the line of fire.

  I saw the flash of light as I dropped to one knee, my gun ready. I shot him.

  Two slugs went into his chest.

  This last one was different than the first one. I’d hit the kitchen guy’s shoulder, intentionally not killing him. I would kill to defend myself, to defend loved ones, but I wouldn’t do what Traverse did.

  As soon as I thumbed off those two bullets, I whipped around.

  Traverse was behind me, his gun already on me. The way he was looking at me. There was no surprise. No regret. He was cold inside, dead.

  He had his gun raised to kill me.

  He just hadn’t been prepared for me to turn so quickly. I shot him first—one at his hand where he held the gun. The gun fell to the ground, and my second shot found his knee. As he began screaming, I kicked his gun to Congo.

  “Lock that door!” I was heading for Traverse as I yelled at Lincoln, who was already coming over.

  He saw me shoot Traverse. He didn’t need to be told.

  The rest were confused, coming in slower.

  “Wha—

  I pulled out a knife and slammed the handle down on the back of Traverse’s head. He fell quiet, unconscious.

  I looked up as Congo found my eyes. “He turned on us.”

  That was all I needed to say. Congo was out the door, telling our men what happened. The next minute would determine life and death—whether we escaped unscathed, or entire futures would end.

  My men would do what they needed to do. Trusting them, I ordered Lincoln, “Get in his office. Find security footage, anything. We have to grab it, grab everything.”

  He nodded and headed back.

  I hollered after him, “Wear gloves. No prints.”

  We needed to secure the house. Some guys were outside, fighting Traverse’s men, so I headed downstairs. I could hear scuffles and shouts. I heard a gunshot, then a second as I finished clearing the house. I had to trust there were enough outside to get the job done. When I got upstairs, they were pulling in one of Traverse’s guys, his head hanging low. Chad and Congo dropped the limp body on the floor. More of my men trailed in carrying one of our own, Hawk. His real name was Paul Mainley. He was a good man. He worked as a contractor an hour away—had a wife, two kids.

  He’d been here to back us up because he’d stayed loyal to our crew since our senior year at Roussou High.

  Now he was bleeding from a bullet hole in his gut.

  I had thoughts of keeping the security footage as a backup, just in case, and torching everything, but Hawk’s wound meant I couldn’t do any of that. He couldn’t handle an hour drive to get that wound fixed. He’d have to go to the hospital in Fallen Crest, and there’d be questions. The cops would figure it out, putting two and two together no matter how much evidence we destroyed.

  I was cold, locked down myself. There was no room for regrets. Just calculating thoughts. Clear mind.

  I shoved everything down. Whatever fury I felt, I stomped down forcibly. Ruthlessly.

  We needed a different plan.

  “Are all the guys detained outside?”

  Moose came in, blood all over his face. He used the back of his sleeve to clear his eyes. “They’re detained, all except the guys on point.”

  The guys on point—I felt all of the blood leaving my body. Heather!

  “I’m here.”

  She spoke as if she’d heard my thought. She materialized right behind Moose. A little shaken, pale too, but no blood, no bullet wounds. Not even a cut. Her hands were red, and I lingered on them.

  She cursed, shoving them behind her. “The chain-link. Rougher than I thought it’d be.”

  I didn’t know why or how. I didn’t care. I crossed the room in three strides and had her in my arms.

  Everything I’d just forced down hurtled right back up.

  One of the guys on point outside belonged to Traverse. He could’ve—I shuddered, smoothing a hand down her back, and held her. She was safe. She was here. She was in my arms. A part of me felt off-balance, not wanting to deal with any of this mess, but holding her—she righted me. I felt better, more sure. Kissing her forehead, I turned to my men.

  Moose’s phone buzzed. He read the text. “Traverse’s guy took off. They couldn’t find him.”

  Which meant he’d alert the rest of the Red Demons.

  We were officially in the middle of an MC war, and this time, we had no allies.

  Lincoln came back, a bag over his shoulder. As one, all of my men quieted and looked at me.

  Congo said, “What’s the plan, boss?”

  That was the question in my head.

  What was the plan?

  51

  Heather

  I curled up in a ball in Channing’s bed. The door was open a crack, but the lights were off, in the hallway too. I listened to the guys mull over their options. It lasted all night.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d heard a decision when the guys finally left around six in the morning. Then again, I knew it would fall to Channing’s shoulders. Times like this, it always did. It was his burden to carry. I could almost see him sagging under the weight of it when he came to bed.

  He came in silently, moving the door open and shutting it behind him.

  His eyes were haunted.

  He took his shirt off, muscles stretching, moving seamlessly under his skin. His tattoos shifted from the motion, and his hands went to his zipper as I sat up. I’d put on one of his shirts. It hung over me. I wanted to feel him even when he was in the living room. It slid down one of my shoulders as I moved his hands aside, going for the zipper myself.

  I heard a soft sigh leave him, and one of his hands slid into my hair, cupping the back of my neck, but he didn’t do anything. He just held me as I slid his zipper down. As I pushed his jeans off, I looked up.

  Our eyes met and held.

  I saw the ache in him. I felt it too. His was pain for what he’d have to do, for what had already happened. Channing might act carefree at times, hyper and restless at others, but he cared. He cared deeply, and it was costing him right now. I ached to soothe that away. I wanted to nurture, protect, love. I wanted to make him forget, just for a moment.

  As if reading my thoughts, he whispered, “I love you.”

  I didn’t answer, but I moved to my knees, my hands traveling up his chest, around his neck. I drew him down to me.

  Our lips met. It was almost playful, and I moved back a bit, my hand curling into his hair. My other hand ran back down his chest, relishing every dip between his muscle
s, lingering over his tattoos, then moving to rest over her name.

  NALY.

  Now it was my turn to sigh.

  My forehead rested against his, and I whispered, “I want another one.” I looked up, seeing the love darkening his gaze. “I want to try.”

  He nodded, offering a hoarse, “Okay.” His hand went to the back of my neck and he tipped me up, his mouth falling onto mine.

  We made love that morning.

  It was slow. It was torturous, and as he slid inside of me, it felt like the most perfect thing in the world. An almost euphoric and addictive pleasure swept through me. I ran my nails up his back, lightly, enjoying the way he shuddered under my touch. Whatever mess we were in, something good would come out of it.

  I closed my eyes, turning my mind off.

  I searched for Channing’s lips.

  His mouth opened, his tongue meeting mine, and he kept moving inside of me.

  52

  Heather

  Junior Year

  There was a tap on my window, and I paused in changing my shirt.

  I’d actually pulled the curtain down, for once. There hadn’t been much need for it since my room didn’t face Manny’s. The few customers we had couldn’t see in, and maybe it was my I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude that had me taking the small chance someone could see. Whatever. Nudity wasn’t something to be scared about, though I knew my dad and two brothers would adamantly disagree.

  I had to cross the room and lift the curtain.

  Channing was kneeling on the small ledge outside my window. There was hardly room for one foot to rest there, much less an entire teenaged boy.

  I stood back, folding my arms over my bra, and tapped my cheek.

  He rolled his eyes. “Come on. Please?” His voice was muffled through the glass.

  Giving in, I unlocked the window, but I didn’t lift it. I backed up and waited. He could lift the damn window himself.

  Which he did, pressing his hand flat against the glass and using that traction to raise it up. Once it moved an inch, he got underneath and pushed it the rest of the way, hoisting himself into my room.

  “Thanks for that.” He shot me a dark look as he toed off his shoes.

  This was our usual routine—until a few months ago.

  “Stop.” My throat was full. My voice came out hoarse.

  I’d seen Channing since I transferred schools, but it wasn’t the same.

  He’d apologized for being an “ass.” Those were his exact words. We hadn’t said much after that, and I hadn’t run back to him with my arms open wide. I’d transferred to Fallen Crest.

  Things were different. I was different.

  “What?” He stopped, keeping his shoes on. He sat on the bed, but didn’t reach for me. He just sat and waited, watching me.

  I felt tears and twisted away, wiping them.

  I hated tears. I hated weakness. I hated feelings.

  I was a laid-back smart-ass chick with everyone else, but this guy… I turned back and stared at Channing. He was still hella hot, his hair rumpled, a new tattoo peeking around his arm, but I looked at his knuckles. They were bruised and cracked open.

  Leaning back against the wall, I nodded at his hands. “You’re still fighting?”

  He looked down, as if he’d forgotten about them. “Oh, yeah.” He ran a hand over one of his knuckles. It looked infected, but he didn’t wince at the contact. It was as if he didn’t even feel it. Maybe he didn’t.

  I scooted down to the floor, draping my arms to hang over my knees. “Are you numbing your pain? Is that what you’re doing?”

  “We’re doing this shit?” He stood, raking his hand through his hair. The motion lifted his shirt. I expected to see his normal washboard abs. I saw a big fucking bruise instead.

  I was right.

  My heart sank. Well, not really. It had stopped doing that long ago with Channing. It shifted to the right now.

  I didn’t know if it would ever stop shifting, somehow winding its way out of my body. But until then, it was still beating, and while it was inside me, I knew it still belonged to him.

  “Why the hell not?” I rasped. “I keep hearing rumors about you fucking other girls.”

  His eyes flashed. I saw agony, but there was a heated emotion there I couldn’t name. Regret? Remorse? Did I even want to know what that was about?

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  I waited, but that was it. That was all he said.

  I didn’t care that he said it in a gruff whisper, like those words were choking him.

  I didn’t care. Nope.

  But dammit. There it was. I felt it.

  A hole formed in my chest, and every time I saw this guy, he could fill it or he could make it bigger. I hated him. I did. I was nothing but vulnerable and bleeding. That’s what he reduced me to.

  He could heal me or ruin me. I couldn’t take anymore ‘ruining.’

  I hung my head, whispering, “You have to let me go.”

  I heard him sigh, then saw movement and lifted my head. He lowered himself so he was on the floor too. He remained by the bed, mirroring me with his knees up and his arms resting on top of them.

  I faced him and he faced the door.

  If that didn’t mean something, I didn’t know what did.

  His eyes moved away from me to stare at the ground. “I’m trying to do the right thing for you, Heather. I actually am.”

  I snorted. “You’re fucking it up.” I tensed, waiting for a retort.

  It never came. Just a quiet, “I am toxic right now.” He growled, deep in his throat. “I fuck everything and everyone up around me, and I am trying to stay away from you. I’ve been trying for years now, doing the right thing for you, and I’m failing.” His head whipped up. He glared at me, branding me, but this time, I knew the hatred wasn’t directed at me. He hated himself.

  I was just his reflection.

  He fisted some of his hair. His knuckles whitened. His hand shook.

  “Every time I tell myself I’m leaving you alone, I end up back here. I don’t even think about where I’m driving, and I come here. I…” He swore, low and savage, and jerked back against the bed. “This goddamn life. Why’s it so hard?”

  “You have to stop,” I said quietly. I didn’t even want to hear my own words. “We have to stop.” I looked at the bed. My meaning was clear.

  He didn’t respond, but his eyes closed and his head fell forward again.

  My heart was ripping open, for the four-hundredth time with him. I dug my nails into my knees, just holding on.

  “Okay.”

  He stood, then stared at me a moment. “I do love you, Heather.”

  I met his gaze, unflinching, but knowing I was crying. “That’s not our problem.”

  It never had been.

  53

  Heather

  Present day

  I slipped in through the side door at Manny’s the next day for the first time in two weeks, and Ava was the first to see me. She tucked the bill she’d been carrying under her arm, turned to face me squarely, and began a slow clap.

  I flushed, but couldn’t stop the stupid grin on my face. “Oh, stop.”

  Brandon joined in, smirking from behind the bar.

  Then another. And another.

  Suki and Katrina came out of the office, already clapping. And soon the entire bar and diner sections were standing, clapping, and some were hooting. A few wolf-whistled.

  I waved a hand in the air. “You’re going to make someone’s baby cry.”

  On cue, a baby started screaming.

  “We missed you around here.” Katrina came forward to hug me.

  Suki wound her arms around me, lifting me up. She jostled me a little and grunted, “Suki missed you too. It wasn’t the same.”

  Ava was next. Even Roy gave a shy wave and skirted over for a quick hug. Then he scurried back to his seat at the front counter, where he had pie in front of him. Ava returned from dropping off her custom
er’s check and went to refill Roy’s glass. She saw me watching them and ducked her head, the back of her neck growing red.

  So that was actually happening.

  I was glad.

  “Ava.”

  It wasn’t the guy who raised the alarms in me. It was his voice. It was how Ava tensed up, how the blood drained from her face. It was how whiny and clingy and desperate he sounded. It was all of those, mixed with anger just under his surface.

  A kid stepped past me, going for Ava. If I’d seen him at another time, I would’ve thought he was a Fallen Crest teenager. Sun-streaked blond hair, golden tan, broad shoulders like an athlete’s. He was wearing nice clothes, but his jaw was clenched.

  Roy stepped ahead, blocking Ava. He tugged at the collar on his shirt and swallowed. “That’s far enough.”

  The guy took a menacing step anyway. “Fuck you, you little twerp. You goddamn nerd—”

  He swung, not even finishing his own sentence.

  Ava screamed.

  Roy ducked.

  The fist came close to Ava’s face, but she didn’t flinch. Her eyes were wide with terror.

  I started for them, Brandon moving in next to me.

  But Roy got him first. After he ducked, he punched the guy in the junk, and he went down with a high-pitched, strangled cry, like an animal being tortured. It was horrific. Then Brandon was there. He grabbed the guy’s shoulders and jerked him up, ignoring his screams.

  “Come on. We’re at full capacity, dipshit.”

  Brandon wasn’t messing around.

  He signaled to some guys at the bar, and they stepped forward. They took the kid from Brandon, and together, they dragged him out.

  Brandon followed them, and I could hear him saying, “You will never be allowed back on these premises…” There was more, but I got the sentiment. The kid was permanently on the shit list.

  I asked both Ava and Roy, “You guys okay?”

  Roy looked shaken, staring at his hand, which was still in a fist. “Yeah…”

  Ava’s hands were cupped over her mouth, but she lowered them, studying Roy. “Roy?”