Jared yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk and shoved the few precious tokens of what had been into his backpack, unsure why he couldn’t leave them behind, topped it with the cheap bottle of whiskey he’d snatched from his dad’s cabinet. He buried his stash in the front pocket under a crumpled-up shirt he grabbed from the floor.
Not like it fucking mattered. He wouldn’t be getting caught this time. He’d see it through. He’d pay, and never again would he have the chance to destroy the good.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Jared went to his window and parted the drapes. With his pulse pounding in his ears, he slowly slid it open. He cringed when it squeaked. He was supposed to be grounded. That was his father’s solution. Grounding. Jared had been arrested and expelled from school, and apparently that had been a just punishment.
Jared scoffed, his grip tightening on the frame of the window. God, his dad was clueless. Did he really think grounding him for a month and sending him to a new school was going to fix things? Really, he knew his dad didn’t want to deal with him or his shit.
Jared couldn’t blame him.
He’d ruined his life.
Night after night, Jared had lain and listened to his father weep, the sound resonating through the barren place that had once been their home. Courtney was gone. Two weeks after the funeral, she’d been sent to their grandparents’ because their father had lost the capacity to care for anything or anyone. It was only supposed to be temporary. Jared’s gut told him it was not. He just hoped she’d escaped this all, that his sister had been spared.
Jared’s father was only another life he had taken.
Jared quietly inched toward his door, inclined his ear to it and listened for his father. Anxiety crawled up his spine. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. A distant TV droned from the living room. The rest of the house echoed the cavernous void. Jared crossed his room to his window and pushed at the frame of the screen until it bent and gave. Holding his breath, he slipped over the sill and out into the night.
Crouched down, he ran across the yard, panting when he hit the garage wall of the Ramirezes’ two houses down. Jared peered through the small window. No lights shone, and their car was gone. For years he’d mowed their lawn, and just as many times he’d sat in their kitchen drinking from a glass of lemonade when Mrs. Ramirez would call him in to take a break from the sun. He also knew what they kept in the den.
Jared raked his hand through his hair as he pressed up against the wall, searching for courage. But there was no courage. There was only pain and the throbbing call of the debt he knew he had to pay.
Jared shoved off the wall, dropped his backpack to the ground, and jerked the shirt from the front pocket. He wrapped it haphazardly around his hand, pinching his eyes closed as he sucked in the stifling air. He slammed his fist into the small, square garage window.
Glass shattered. It crashed as it fell to the concrete floor.
“Shit,” he hissed quietly, jerking around to peer into the distant darkness. From down the street, a dog barked, but no one even seemed to stir or notice his presence.
Jared turned back to his task, wincing as he unwound the bloodied shirt from his hand. He softly groaned as he did his best to ignore the stinging ache. He didn’t have time to be distracted.
Jared knocked the rest of the jagged pieces of window glass free with this elbow. The few remaining clattered to the floor. He gathered his bag from the ground and tossed it inside. Grunting, he wedged himself through the narrow hole.
Inside, the garage was dark. Only the dimmest moonlight spilled in through the window that had given him entry. He plucked his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder, making his way inside the house. A dull overhead light illuminated the kitchen, and Jared quickly crossed through and down the hall.
He knew exactly where he was going.
He flicked on the light in the den. Two worn recliners faced an old television set, and family pictures lined the walls. Jared trained his attention on his goal because he couldn’t look at all those faces smiling, all that family and joy. Not when he’d destroyed his.
Against the far wall was an antique gun cabinet. The solid wood was polished and detailed, the glass panes etched. Housed inside were Mr. Ramirez’s guns, two rifles, a shotgun, and a large handgun. He’d shown Jared once, told him the story behind each one.
Fear slicked like ice just under Jared’s skin, and his heart beat erratically as he stared at them. It didn’t matter that he was scared. His mom had been scared, too. He’d seen it. Felt it.
Jared inched forward and turned the old rustic lock. It clicked and gave way, the doors yielding to the call. Jared took the handgun from its case. It was so heavy and cold. He swallowed hard before he rummaged around and found the right bullets, held his breath as he loaded it. He shoved it in the front pocket of his backpack.
Jared was heading back through the kitchen when he heard the garage whine shut and the slam of a car door. He froze. He clutched his bag to his chest, his eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape.
Five seconds later, the door he’d come in through opened. Joe Ramirez gasped, his feet faltering below him.
“Jared?” he said more in shock than in question. He blinked away his stupor. “What are you doing in here?”
Jared fumbled in the front pocket of his backpack and brought out the gun. He pointed it at him.
What am I doing… what am I doing… what am I doing? Jared chanted in his head. Sickness swirled in his gut, pressure building in his head.
“Come, now, Jared. Give me the gun.” The old man watched him with outright sympathy and a twinge of fear. “I know you don’t want to do this. I know you.”
Harshly, Jared shook his head, unwilling to listen to what Joe said, the gun trembling as he held it out in front of him. “Just… just sit down in that chair.” Jared’s tongue darted out to wet his dry, cracked lips, that void in his veins screaming out to be filled.
“Jared… ” Joe took a step forward, a placating hand stretched out in front of him as if it could do something to mollify the anxiety twisting Jared in two.
“Sit!” Jared shouted, his own voice something he didn’t recognize.
Joe nodded slowly and shuffled over to the kitchen chair with his hands held up in surrender. He sat down, eyeing Jared with the pity he hated. The man’s movements were deliberate as he clasped his hands on his lap. “You don’t have to do this, Jared.”
But he did. He had to, even though involving someone else was never supposed to be a part of it. Jared hated scaring this man who’d only ever been kind to him. He’d just been left without a choice.
Keeping the gun pointed in Joe’s direction, Jared frantically ransacked the drawers in the kitchen, leaving them hanging wide open when he didn’t find what he was looking for. He groaned in relief when he finally did. The large drawer was crammed full of junk, pens and coupons and random crap. And a small twine of rope.
Jared crossed to the man and edged behind the chair. “Give me your hands.”
Joe hesitated.
“Do it!” Jared yelled, nudging him in the side with the barrel of the gun.
The old man gave in and dropped his arms to his sides. Jared crouched down low and balanced the gun on his thighs. His breaths came all shallow and severe as he began to wrap the rope around Joe’s wrists, securing them tight at the base of the chair.
“Jared, please don’t do this,” he begged.
Sweat beaded on Jared’s upper lip. He swiped the back of his hand over it. He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog clouding his mind. He cinched the rope and Joe yelped.
Shit.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jared promised through his agony, fucking hating every second of what he was doing. But there was nothing else he could do.
Jared loosened the binding so at least it wouldn’t rub.
“You know that’s not what I’m concerned about,” Joe said.
Humorless laughter
freed itself from Jared’s blackened spirit, from the deepest recess where his corruption lay. “You don’t need to worry about me, old man. I’m going exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Standing, Jared dug the car keys from Joe’s pocket and fled into the garage. He smacked his palm against the garage door opener. The door slowly lifted just as Jared slid into the driver’s seat of the oversized four-door sedan. He tossed his backpack to the passenger’s seat and tucked the gun underneath it.
Nausea slammed him the second he was behind the wheel. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he floundered with the keys. Finally he managed to slip the key into the ignition. He turned it over, threw it in reverse, and gunned the accelerator. He backed out onto the street, shifted into gear. The car swerved as he rammed on the gas.
He just had to get out of this neighborhood. Away from the memories. Away from everything that mattered.
He didn’t want to do this here.
But those memories chased him, tormented him as he aimlessly roamed the streets. Where the fuck was he supposed to go? Scrubbing his hand over his face, Jared tried to wake himself up, to focus, to see through the permanent daze that had taken him hostage.
For hours he drove as the anxiety ratcheted high, lifted, and spun. Paranoia was setting in. Soon they’d come looking for him, and he had to get this done. His eyes traveled the streets, searching for a place to hide, but nothing felt right. A choked cry locked in his throat when he realized he was circling back around to the neighborhood. Fucking drawn. Hysterical laughter rocketed from his mouth. Was this some kind of cruel, sick joke?
He avoided the intersection because he just couldn’t go there. He made a U-turn and then a quick right onto the street bordering the neighborhood. Jared cut left across the street. The car bounced and jerked as he forced it up over the curb, the tires spinning until they found traction on the dirt. The field was vacant, dark. Tall grasses grew up through the middle. The headlights sliced over the field, illuminating the place that had always meant so much to him, where he’d spent his days playing back when he was a child, when things were good and joy wasn’t a vague impression of the past.
He’d loved it here. Now he’d destroy it, like he destroyed everything.
Out in the middle of the field, he killed the engine. It ticked and the fan hummed. Jared flipped off the headlights.
For a few minutes – or maybe hours – he sat in the dark, shaking, rocking.
Thrashing through the anxiety, he groped for the overhead light. A faint glow crept into the car. He just needed one hit and then he could do this. Jared dug in his bag, drained half the bottle of whiskey to get him to the place where he could get up the nerve, swallowed down five pills when that wasn’t enough.
He hated this. Hated it.
The spoon and the needle and the bag.
But it was all he had.
He found his lighter and balled up the tiny piece of cotton between his fingers. Jared swam. His head was spinning, his mind reeling. And everything was so heavy and so light. Warm.
Jared sagged against the seat, limp, and for a few seconds, he let it go.
But it never lasted long, and he was just so tired… but his mind wouldn’t stop working. He could hear his mom crying, fucking begging in the bowels of his brain.
He grabbed the gun from under his bag and rammed it in his mouth. His teeth scraped metal, the sound grinding in his ears and grating through his bones. Sweat coated his forehead, slipped down the back of his neck.
I can do this.
His finger trembled on the trigger.
It hurt. It hurt. And he was so scared.
Jared jerked the gun from his mouth and slammed his head back on the headrest. “Fuck,” he cried.
He lifted it to his temple, forcing his finger back on the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut, begging for her. “Mom… I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.” His hand was shaking. Shaking.
Jared couldn’t fucking stop shaking.
Another handful of pills, the rest of the bottle – numbness and fire and helplessness – it sloshed on his shirt as he drained the last.
He could do this.
But he wanted to see her face one more time.
Numbness weighed him down as he rooted through his bag. He swayed to the left. Shit. Maybe he’d taken too much. But it was okay… it was okay… he could do it. He could do it for her.
He finally found his book in his backpack. Words filled the entirety of the worn journal, his hate and his shame. Snapshots of a perfect life were stowed between the vile pages. He thumbed through to the front, where he kept her picture and lifted it to find the tenderness glowing on her face.
He’d never see her again.
Lifting his lighter, he flicked it and watched as the picture caught fire. She melted before him, disappeared, just like she’d done when he stole her life.
He was just so fucking tired. Tired of it all. Sleep flitted at the edges of his consciousness. He rammed his forehead on the steering wheel, palming the butt of the gun.
He could do this.
First, he wanted to watch it burn. He set the gun on his lap, flicked his lighter, and let the flame leap and dance along the bottom of the journal. He held it in his hand, felt the heat on his face. Felt nothing. Felt it all.
Flames engulfed the cab and he was drowning.
Falling.
Suffocating.
The bullet wasn’t necessary after all.
He whispered, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”
Maybe now he’d make it right.
Someone was screaming, the voice piercing through his surrender. Jared just wanted to sleep. Hands searched the fire. Dragging. Pulling. Begging.
Air.
Fists pounded on his chest.
Everything burned, his lungs and his skin.
Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. I love you. Jared, stay. Please. Stay.
Vomit pooled and gushed from his mouth.
The voice pled, promising him that it would be okay.
Sirens blared and she was gone.
Blackness closed in.
And Jared knew it would never be.
TWENTY-SIX
Jared
Oh, shit.
I hunched over, gripping my stomach. I tripped over the emotion cutting me thin. Realization slammed into me, spinning as this comfort and confusion and inundating warmth. I was pretty sure my heart would beat right out of my chest.
It was her.
I lifted my face to the cool night sky as the memory that had been locked up somewhere in my mind burst free.
It was her.
The world spun as my reality shifted. For years, I’d cursed this fate, hating the life sentence I’d been given. I’d always thought I’d lived as a punishment. An upheaval of questions pitched through my brain, all these voices shouting at me, because I was no longer sure surviving that night had been a penalty.
Nothing made any sense… except that it was her.
Aly.
I sprinted back across the lot and jumped the fence. Three seconds later, I had my bike on the street.
Hours had passed, time lost in the period that my truth was found. Night had grown deep, and the traffic had long since cleared. I raced because I couldn’t fucking stand the distance I’d wedged between us.
I was done hurting her.
When I’d woken up in the hospital all those years ago, I was so pissed off knowing I had failed. The nurse had told me I was lucky that I somehow got out of that car when I did. I hadn’t been lucky. I’d known then that fate had intervened. But not in the way I ever imagined.
It was her.
I flew down the streets, my nerves ratcheting higher with every mile I put under me. When I finally got to the complex, it was quiet as I eased my bike through the gate and parked in the spot that I somehow thought of as my own. I bounded up the stairs and produced the key Christopher had trusted me with so many months ago. Fumbling, I slipped it into the lo
ck. I didn’t bother to knock. One way or another, I had to get to her.
For a fleeting second, I wondered what Christopher would do if we came face-to-face on the other side. Dude would probably kill me if he found me showing my face back around here. I’d take it as it came because hiding was no longer an option.
I burst into the darkened, silent apartment. Christopher’s door sat wide open, like it’d been so many times before. Undoubtedly, the guy was on the prowl.
Aly’d been left alone, again.
Come to Me Quietly (Closer to You) Page 32
