Pocketful of Shame: Pocket #2

by Chloe Walsh

  "I don’t know, Sketch. Play cards. Scrabble. Pick her damn brain. Resolve your differences," he offered, sounding amused. "You're a resourceful guy. You'll figure something out."

  "She doesn’t have any clothes," I growled into the phone. "Something you fucking promised me you'd pick up for her and conveniently didn’t. I had to give her some of my clothes – she's drowning in them, by the way. Not to mention the fact that she can't even get in and out of the shower by herself and I can't do it, Pres. I can't fucking help her get naked, dammit, and I can't leave her on her own to go buy her shit. I'm feeding her pizza, asshole. That's what she's gonna have to survive on because it's the only damn place in this shithole town that delivers."

  "Breathe," he instructed. "You sound like you're having a panic attack."

  "Because I am!" I bit out.

  "What's wrong, dude?" he teased. "Scared of a little girl?"

  Like you wouldn't believe. "I don’t like being kept in the dark," I replied. "I've had enough of that." A whole lifetime's worth. "If you were going looking for the journal, that should have been a joint decision. You can't just break off and go rogue, fucker. What if something happens to you?"

  "Aw, Sketch," he feign-gushed. "Didn’t realize you cared so much."

  I rolled my eyes. "I don’t. I need your brain. That's it."

  Another laugh came down the line. "I'll be careful, I promise, but you know as well as I do that we need to find that journal," he said, tone sobering. "We're getting nowhere fast and that girl's too close to cracking to push for more details."

  He was right. Dammit. I sighed in defeat. "So, where do you think the journal is?"

  "I'm not certain," he replied. "But I'm gonna start back at the site of the crash and go from there."

  My brows shot up. "Pres, that was almost a year ago. If it fell out of the car, it's long gone."

  "See, that's the thing, Sketch," he countered. "I don’t think it fell out of the truck or got misplaced. In fact, I don’t think it's missing at all."

  I frowned. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying that I think Romi knows exactly where the journal is and she's forced herself to forget, because whatever the hell that journal contains is something she's not ready to face."

  My eyes almost bugged out of my head. "Are you serious?"

  "Think about it; Romi doesn’t remember a damn thing for almost a year, and then you and her bury the hatchet and all of a sudden we're getting a very detailed account of what happened to Chris. I'm telling you, man, she knows so much more than she thinks she knows and the closer you are to her, the safer she feels. The safer she feels, the more she remembers. Whether you like it or not, you're her crutch, man."

  "What do you need from me?" I asked, jaw clenched.

  "Make her feel safe. Be her friend. Get her talking," he encouraged. "Meanwhile, I'll go back and retrace her steps – and hopefully stumble upon a clue or two."

  "Fuck, Pres." I blew out a frustrated breath. "It's not that easy for me."

  "Because you're sickeningly in love with her and have been since you were five years old even though she betrayed you in the ultimate way by hooking up with your brother?" he offered, tone laced with a fucked-up mixture of frustration, humor, and sympathy. "Yes, yes, we all know, but you have to push the pain aside and try to get her to talk to you. We need that journal, Sketch, and you're the best chance we have of getting her to spill her guts. She's a treasure chest of crucial information and you're the only person who can crack her open. The most important treasure she possesses right now are her memories of the night Chris died and the location of his journal, so please, please try to get her talking."

  A flash of my conversation with Romi this morning filtered through my thoughts, bringing with it this fucked up wave of déjà vu. Flinching, I quickly batted it away. It was a dream. A goddamn dream. "Fine." I clenched my eyes shut and sighed heavily. "I'll try."

  "Thank you." He sighed in relief. "I'll keep looking for it, but call me the minute she says anything – no matter how small. I have no idea what else she's hiding, but anything that comes out of her mouth could be a vital clue."

  "I said I'd try," I growled, feeling flustered. "Just…just hurry up, okay?"

  "Will do," he replied and then, after a pause, asked, "So, now that you're back in each other's sights, so to speak, are you gonna make a move?"

  "Goodbye, Pres."

  "Wait, wait, wait, you can't just leave me hanging –"

  Clicking the receiver back down, I pushed my hands through my hair and shook off the tremor in my legs before making my way back to our room. I spent a good forty minutes leaning against the door before finding my balls and letting myself inside.

  Like I predicted, Romi was exactly where I left her when I slipped out to make the call – fast asleep on the only bed in the room. I frowned as my gaze swept over her frail frame. Since Chris's death, her weight had plummeted.

  Instantly a surge of guilt swept through me and I forced myself to stand there and feel it, to take it all in and to accept responsibility for all the bad things I'd done to her.

  Even now, as I grabbed a blanket and settled down on the couch for the night, I found myself drowning in my regrets. Keeping my eyes on Romi, I rolled onto my side and considered everything that had happened since she fell out of that tree. It felt like forever ago, not a handful of days. I felt different, too. Older and more weathered, if that made sense? Definitely still confused, though. Yeah, I was still as lost as I'd been that day in the hospital and being in this room with her only intensified my confusion.

  You're a masochist, Sketch, my brother's voice chuckled in my head, this will all end in tears.

  Yeah, imaginary voice of my dead brother or not, I couldn’t agree more.

  Chapter Eleven

  Romi

  Five days passed and there was still no sign of Presley. Holed up in a stuffy motel room with no one but each other for company, Sketch and I fell into this strangely silent routine. And when I say silent, I mean we barely spoke. Like, at all. We woke, mumbled our good mornings to each other, and then fell into a horribly tense silence until lunch, where we spoke about our meal and the weather. In the evenings, we played a game of cards we found in the drawer of one of the nightstands. At bedtime, it was the same; we said our goodnights before he took the couch and I took the bed. We were both walking on eggshells around each other, both reluctant to rock the boat by speaking our truths, and it sucked.

  When I woke the following Thursday morning, it was still dark outside. Jerking my arms and legs, I sagged in relief when I realized that I wasn't back in Tully House and strapped down. When reality slowly settled down on me, I sat up and looked around the motel room. The couch was empty and Sketch was nowhere in sight. Panic seized my chest for a moment until the sound of running water filled my ears. Exhaling shakily, my gaze moved to the light bleeding through the crack in the slightly ajar bathroom door. The hum of the shower was obnoxiously loud, nothing like the one I was used to at home, and weirdly enough, it gave me comfort.

  "Shit, did I wake you?" Sketch asked a moment later when he strode into the bedroom with nothing but a white towel hugging his narrow hips. "Sorry," he added, with a toothbrush balancing between his lips. "When I can't sleep, I usually take a shower."

  "No, it's okay," I replied, averting my eyes from his glorious abs. "What time is it?"

  "A little after six." Still brushing his teeth, he looked at me and said, "Wanna hear something crazy?"

  "Always."

  "We made the news."

  "What?" Snagging the remote control for the television off the nightstand, I tapped several buttons but to no avail.

  "That won't work," he explained, inclining his head to the remote in my hands before he moved for the television, and I swear every single muscle on his back rippled and bunched as he walked.

  Banging his fist on the top of the old television set, he stepped back, attention focused on the static-filled screen. Slowly,
a picture of me came into focus, followed by the voice of a news reporter…

  "The hunt is still on to find a missing teenage girl in the Houston area this morning. Ramona Priscilla Dillon, an eighteen-year-old girl from Pocketful, Louisiana, and daughter of haulage tycoon Cal Dillon, was a resident of Tully House, a residential mental health treatment facility, when she disappeared without a sign one week ago today. Ramona, who was at the center of a criminal investigation last December, is thought to be high risk and is in dire need of medical intervention."

  "Holy shit," I gasped, slapping a hand over my mouth.

  "Told you it was crazy," Sketch mumbled with a mouthful of toothpaste.

  My breath caught in my throat then when a photo of Sketch popped onto the screen.

  "It is thought that she may be accompanied by a teenage boy from her hometown, Holden James Capaldi, son of Chris Capaldi Sr, and star fullback of the Newton-Willis Tigers, who was reported missing from his home the morning after Ramona disappeared from Tully House. At only seventeen, Holden Capaldi is a minor and his parents are franticly seeking their son's safe return."

  "Yeah fucking right," Sketch snorted and continued to brush his teeth.

  "If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of the two teenagers, it is imperative to reach out t0 the local authorities in Pocketful, Louisiana. The number is listed below on the screen. Do not approach the boy. He is extremely territorial of the girl and fellow students at their high school have suggested that he has a violent temper."

  Sketch grinned, revealing a foaming mouth of white toothpaste, seemingly pleased with this piece of information.

  "Yesterday morning, we reached out to fellow students at Newton-Willis. Here is a pre-recorded interview of what one student had to say…"

  "Oh my god," I gasped, eyes glued to the screen. "Is that –"

  "Presley?" Sketch filled in when Presley appeared on the screen, standing next to a reporter on the steps of our school. "Yep." Stalking in the bathroom, he returned a moment later, minus the toothbrush and foamy mouth. "What a piece of work."

  "Listen, I've known Romi and Sketch since we were in Pre-K," Presley told the reporter, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "He's in love with her. Can't help himself. She's like his addiction. His crack. If she was taken away, you can be damn sure that he followed her. He would send out an army to bring her back if need be."

  "What are you saying here, Quinton?"

  "I'm saying couldn't stand being apart so they ran away together," he replied simply.

  My eyes widened. "Did he just…"

  "Throw me under the bus?" Sketch filled in flatly. "Yep."

  "Why?"

  "God only knows why he does what he does," he grunted.

  "You can't separate those two," Presley continued. "Many have tried and they all failed. It's physiologically impossible for them to be apart. Trust me, I know."

  "Wasn't she the girlfriend of Holden Capaldi's late brother?"

  "Pssh, semantics," Presley mused with a bat of his hand. "Look, all I'm saying is if their folks want those two to come home, they can't separate them again."

  "So, we're talking about a modern-day Romeo and Juliet love story?"

  "Star-crossed lovers? Perhaps. Romeo and Juliet? Hell to the no." Presley countered, looking horrified. "Sir, you do realize that the tale of Romeo and Juliet was not in fact a love story? Nowhere in the context of the entire tale was Shakespeare aiming for a love story. It was a tale of destruction, greed, family rivalry, and spoiled children. With all due respect, you need to take the movie adaptation with Leo and Claire and throw it away."

  "I, uh…well –"

  "See, that's the problem with the youth of today," Presley tutted, making the reporter's face turn a bright shade of pink. "It's all about convenience. Why read the book when you can watch the movie? That's it, right?" He shook his head in disgust. "Honestly, I'm embarrassed to be a product of the twenty-first century –"

  Sketch banged his fist on top of the old the tv set, causing the screen to go blank. "You look good in the picture they have," he added, before disappearing inside the bathroom once more.

  Frozen to the bed, I stared at the blank screen until my eyes began to burn. Then, because I was a masochistic human, I drew back the covers and climbed out of bed. I hobbled clumsily over to the bathroom door. The door was cracked open and I could see his towel on the floor where it had once been on his hips. Shit. Shit. Run, Romi. Go.

  On this occasion, common sense did not prevail and I pushed the door inwards, feeling an abundance of emotions rally to life inside of me. I couldn’t hold it in a minute longer. I knew I couldn’t. "I really need to tell you something."

  "Uh, I'm kinda naked here, Ro," Sketch called over his shoulder, giving me a wonderful view of his naked ass as he towel-dried his hair. His body was a combination of taut, golden skin and thick, corded muscle, marred only by the inked sleeves on his arms, the odd freckle, and the unusual T-shaped birthmark on his hipbone that I had always been weirdly drawn to. "Can you give me a minute?"

  "No, it can't wait." I shook my head and exhaled a ragged breath. "I need to tell you something right now."

  "Okay," he said slowly, looking over his shoulder. Stepping into a pair of white, tight-fitted boxers, he dragged them up his hips before turning to face me. "What's up?"

  "I want the word, Sketch."

  He frowned at me. "What word?"

  "Sorry." I folded my arms across my chest. "I want the damn word, Sketch."

  Chapter Twelve

  Sketch

  "I want the damn word, Sketch," Romi growled, eyes blazing. "You still haven't said the word, Sketch."

  "Because it won't fix anything," I bit out. "It's a cop out."

  "Maybe not for you –"

  "And because I'm not a liar," I added quietly.

  "What does that mean?"

  I didn’t respond.

  "God," she bit out, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "If you knew the half of what I wanted to say to you…"

  I stiffened. "Then say it."

  "You really want to have this conversation?"

  "It's been two years in the making," I shot back, quickly shrugging on a pair of jeans so she couldn’t see how badly I was shaking. "And we're gonna be spending a lot more time together." I shrugged stiffly. "You might as well get it all off your chest."

  "Fine," she snapped, and then she unleashed her fury. "You might not have used your fists on me, but you used your words." Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. "Your words cut me open and you enjoyed watching my insecurities bleed out. You savored my pain. Every time I bled out emotionally, you thrived on it."

  "You're wrong. I didn’t enjoy any of it," I snapped, feeling cornered in this bathroom by the tiny girl blocking the doorway. "I was desperate. My brother was dead and you were the only one with answers. You wouldn’t talk. I did what I thought I had to do –"

  "I was innocent!" she cried out, throwing her hands up. "You made my life a living hell for ten months. Even when I told you I didn’t do it, you kept on going. You wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t hear me. I was so scared, Sketch, so fucking scared, and you abandoned me. Made me feel dirty." Reaching up, she pushed her hands through her tangled hair. "Everyone in town turned against me, everyone at school, and that's fine. I could've handled that, but not you." Tears filled her eyes. "You were my best friend in the whole world. How could you think I would do that to Chris? To you?"

  "I fucked up," I hissed, dropping my hands to my sides, feeling completely unarmored. "I know that, okay? What else do you want me to say, dammit!"

  "I want the word, Sketch," she growled. "I want you to say it."

  I blew out a pained breath, knowing exactly what she wanted from me. "I'm not ready to say it."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Partially because I'm still mad at you," I admitted honestly. "But mostly because it's not enough."

  "You're a real piece of shit, you know that?" she sobbed, and damn
if that didn’t cut me wide open. "You've caused all of this. Every bad thing that's happened to us is your fault. My father was right to warn me off you."

  "Your father?" I demanded, pissed now. "The same prick that locked you up in a fucking institution? Oh yeah, Ro, your precious daddy is a real stellar guy." Unable to stand still, I paced the bathroom floor. "Christ, you're so fucking clueless."

  "Don't you dare call me names," she warned shakily, pointing a finger at me. "Never a-fucking-gain, Sketch Capaldi!"

  "Don’t tell you the damn truth?" I countered hotly. "You are clueless. Fact. You're fucking blinded when it comes to that man – always were. And you say all of this is my fault?" I released a furious snarl. "You're the one who was with Chris the night he was killed. You're the one with all the damn answers. You're the one keeping secrets. You're the one that got with my goddamn brother! Meanwhile, I'm the one being kept in the dark. I'm the one whose heart you fucking crushed. I'm the one who was lied to. But I'm still the one who came and got you out of there!"

  "You're the one who put me in there!" she screamed at me. "You were cruel and heartless, and you drove me crazy!"

  "And you drove me crazy!" I roared back at her, chest heaving. "I lost my girl and then I lost my brother. Chris is gone. Ain't never getting him back. But you –" I clamped my mouth shut and shook my head. "Forget it."

  "Say it," she said hoarsely, tears trickling down her cheeks. "We're getting it all out so just fucking say it, Holden!"

  "I was glad, okay!" I roared. "That night the Sherriff came to my door and told me that my brother was dead? I couldn’t breathe. Hands down, it was the worst night of my life. But I coped. Wanna know why? Because you were okay! Because you didn’t die, Romi."

  Her breath hitched. "Sketch…"

  "Because the person I loved more than my own blood was still breathing," I continued, my words bleeding out, as I stalked past her into the bedroom. "My brother was dead, laid out on a slab in the fucking morgue, and all I could feel was immense gratitude that it wasn’t you. That you survived. Something died inside of me when Chris was murdered, but the whole damn lot of me would've been snuffed out had it been you."