by Jo Raven
Just another fine day in the life of Ross Jones. What do I win from bleeding out? From letting them lay into me every day? Do I regain a measure of peace? No. Does it make me a better man? No.
Do I feel like an idiot? Yeah, mostly.
Then why the fuck can’t I stop? I should fight harder, introduce my fist into their ugly mugs properly, show them who is boss around here. Show them that they should be fucking afraid of me, just like they were years ago. You can chain a tiger, but you should never trust him. Dad taught me that. Taught me about cruelty and hopelessness.
Only fucking problem is, that’s not me anymore. The boss. The leader.
I don’t know who the hell I am.
A cooler breeze is blowing here, laced with other smells: water, mud and shit and rotting things. I wipe at my bleeding lip with the back of my hand, wince at the stab in my kidneys, and curse again, remembering I have no way of numbing the pain tonight, the last of my money having gone into that bottle that’s now lying in pieces on the asphalt. I should be getting paid soon, but still.
Sucks ass.
This is it, Ross my boy, I tell myself and fuck if it isn’t Dad’s voice speaking inside my ringing head. Down in the doldrums. Down, as in, all the way down to the bottom. You hit the end of the line. You’re sinking faster now.
No lifeline.
Let go.
But I keep going. No idea why. One foot in front of the other, one fucking drop of blood after the other. I walk toward the water. Cross paths with a couple stray dogs, hiss at them until they slink away.
Don’t wanna think about how much this life stinks, or I might just decide to end it. It’s crossed my mind a few times. Go ahead and be shocked. Go ahead and accuse me of being a coward. Tell me others have it worse. That I’m not worth an easy way out.
It’s what I keep telling myself, too. You don’t get off that lightly. You don’t get to escape. You did bad shit. You have to pay.
Fucking hell.
Now, I’ve never been religious. Never gave penance much thought as I grew up. Never thought much beyond getting through the day, staying out of dad’s clutches even for a few hours, numbing the anger and pain with booze and drugs, when I could get my hands on them. Making others hurt, transferring the pain to them, that was my way. Why should they be okay when I wasn’t, right?
It made sense at the time. Still does sometimes. When the anger gets the better of me. Gets fucking hold of me, sinking claws into my chest and shaking me. Making me into what I am.
Nothing can save me anymore.
Yeah, I’m the monster in your closet, under your bed.
Run away while you can.
AUTHOR BIO
Jo Raven is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, best known for her series Inked Brotherhood and Damage Control. She writes edgy, contemporary New Adult romance with sexy bad boys and strong-willed heroines. She writes about MMA fighters and tattoo artists, dark pasts that bleed into the present, loyalty and raw emotion.
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