Pocketful of Shame: Pocket #2

by Chloe Walsh

  "I still say that if we can make it to Colorado without being blasted to smithereens, it's worth our while taking a trip to Boulder to see my cousin's half-brother," Presley declared, flopping down on the double bed in the middle of the room. "It's a long shot– no pun intended – but he might be able to help us."

  I rolled my eyes and tossed our bags on the twin bed in the opposite corner. "Pres, if you say one more word about your mysterious, resurrected hitman cousin, I'm going to lose my shit." For three damn hours, this was all I'd listened to. "We are not getting mixed up with a crime lord." I curled my lip in disgust. "And especially not one that goes by the name Lucky."

  Ripping off my t-shirt, I stalked into the adjoining bathroom and inspected the damage from earlier. I had a few cuts and scrapes on my arms and upper body from the broken glass we crawled through, but any bleeding had long since stopped and none of the cuts were deep enough to require stitches.

  Rummaging around in the cabinet under the sink, I withdrew a small first-aid box and flicked it open. Grabbing a pair of tweezers from the box, I plucked several tiny shards of glass from my shoulder before tossing the glass down the drain. Hands trembling, I gripped the sink and stared at the dry blood caked to my chest.

  Fuck, that was close.

  Without warning, imaginary visuals of my brother's last moments flooded my mind and I flinched. Those men. The guns. The smell of blood and gunfire. The fear of death. Jesus, he must have been so scared.

  Nostrils flaring, I bowed my head and tried to gain the composure I needed to not lose my shit right now. "I'm so sorry, brother," I whispered, words barely audible, as I visualized everything Romi had told us about the night in the alleyway. "I wish you would've come to me." Feeling helpless, I shook my head and continued cleaning up, forcing all thoughts of Chris to the back of my mind before I drowned in my grief.

  "He's not a crime lord," Presley said when I returned to the bedroom. "He's a semi-retired assassin." Squeezing a chunk of glass from his arm, he tossed it on the nightstand before reaching for the little first-aid pack I had tossed him. "And he's not my cousin. His half-sister Hayden is. Big difference."

  "She's the stripper, right?" Romi asked, leaning against the door, arms covered in scratches.

  "Hayden? Yeah." He shrugged unapologetically. "Mom's side of the family is a little ghetto."

  "Can you hear yourself right now?" I gaped at him. "Did you smoke, snort, or shoot something back in that convenience store in Albuquerque? Because you sound like a fucking loon."

  "In case it slipped your attention, the monsters are real, Holden," Presley growled, cracking open a soda from one of the bags. "The world we're presently drowning in is full of degenerates and criminals." He took a swig before continuing, "Now, you might be okay with being shot at, but I prefer to fight fire with fire. Lucky Casarazzi is our best bet."

  "Maybe he has a point," Romi offered, climbing onto the bed next to Pres and reaching for the first-aid pack. Pulling out a band-aid, she carefully covered a nasty looking graze on her elbow. "We need help, Sketch," she added, looking across the room at me. "It can't hurt."

  "Except that we don’t know this man, Ro," I bit out, beyond flustered. "How do we know he's not one of the bad guys? He could be a complete psychopath."

  "Oh, I have no doubt he is," Presley agreed. "But maybe we need a psychopath on our side."

  "And he is Presley's cousin," Romi offered with a shrug. "Uh, well, sort of."

  "Cousin's half-brother," Pres interjected.

  "Yes." Nodding eagerly, Romi smiled. "Practically family."

  "And he's beautiful," Pres told her, giving her this meaningful look. "We're talking Charlie Hunnam kind of hot."

  "Whoa," Romi breathed, eyes wide as saucers. "For real?"

  "Oh yeah," he drawled, waggling his brows.

  "Sorry to interrupt your little gossip session, but I can't be the only person to think this is fucking madness," I growled, throwing my hands up in frustration. "This is a very bad, very dangerous idea."

  "Got any better ideas?" Presley countered, leveling me with a look that said he knew I didn’t. "So, we're in agreement?" he continued. "If we make it to Colorado, we look him up?"

  "No, but I'm clearly outnumbered," I said in resignation. "But just remember that I was the voice of reason when it all goes to hell in a handbasket."

  "News flash, Sketch, we're already in hell," Pres replied, dumping the contents of his bookbag on the bed. "And without Chris's journal, we're sitting ducks." His brown eyes flicked to Romi and I could see the wheels in his head moving and plotting, trying to figure out how to extract more information, more damn secrets, without spooking her into a panic attack.

  "I think we should get a gun," Romi blurted, causing Presley's mouth to fall open. "We need to be able to protect ourselves if Catochi and his men find us," she explained, cheeks reddening. "We can't do that unarmed."

  "True, but I wouldn’t know what to do with a gun," Presley said, looking appalled. "My family is very anti-guns."

  "Well, Sketch knows how to shoot," she replied, and both pairs of eyes flicked to me. "He and Chris spent years going to the shooting range with their dad, right?"

  I shifted in discomfort. "Yeah, but that was just target practice."

  "Ya'll used to go on hunting trips, too, right?" she added. "You're good." She turned to Presley and said, "He's more than good. I remember overhearing our fathers talking about how Sketch could hit a moving target from a hundred yards out, without breaking a sweat."

  "I wasn't hunting people, Ro," I muttered, rubbing my jaw. "It's a lot different."

  "Is it?" she pressed, turning her attention back to me.

  "I’m not shooting anyone," I warned, bristling at the thought.

  "That's okay. I'm not asking you to," Romi replied. "I'll do it myself."

  "You." I cocked a disbelieving brow. "The same girl who can't shoot a straight line with a water pistol?"

  "Those men are hunting us, Sketch," she choked out, trembling now. "Treating us like animals. Like fricking prey! Why shouldn't we return the favor? Why shouldn’t we protect ourselves?"

  "Because when you aim a gun, you better be damned ready to pull the trigger," I told her, frowning. "And we're not killers."

  "You didn’t see what they did to your brother," she whispered, shuddering. "If you had, you wouldn't be so quick to say that."

  "Question –" Presley held a hand up. "Where do you propose we find a gun?"

  "Hell if I know," Romi replied, keeping her eyes on me. "But we need one."

  "And you're prepared to shoot to kill?" I folded my arms across my chest. "You're willing to do that? If it comes down to it, you're willing to take a life?"

  Her eyes blazed with fire when she said, "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe!"

  My heart thudded violently in my chest; beyond affected by her passionate declaration. "Ro –"

  "Us," she amended, cheeks flushed. "To keep all of us safe."

  "Alright, enough of the heavy," Pres interjected, holding his hands up. "We evaded death today, guys – against less than minimal odds. This is a victory. We should be celebrating." Climbing to his feet, he stretched his arms over his head and said, "I say we forget about our impending demise for the night and do what anyone our age alone in a motel without parental guidance would do."

  "And what's that, Pres?" Romi asked with a sigh.

  "Get stereotypically shit-faced, of course." Grinning, he looked to me and asked, "You down for some teenage debauchery, buddy?"

  "Oh, like you wouldn’t fucking believe."

  Presley's charms didn’t win the lady at the liquor store over, but my fake ID did. Several hours and countless beers later, and he was still bitching about it.

  "It's complete bullshit," he slurred. Bopping around the motel room with Meatloaf and Cher's Dead Ringer for Love blasting from his phone, he continued to rant, while necking Jack straight from the bottle. "Girls. They don’t get me, but that's oka
y. I can deal. Girls are attracted to –" he paused to point his bottle at me. "Well, there's no prize for taste."

  "What are you talking about?" I snickered from my perch on the floor. "Are you still sore over not getting served?"

  "Yep." Cackling into her beer bottle, Romi rolled onto her stomach and narrowly avoided falling off the bed in the process. "He's like a broken record."

  I snorted. "Dude, build a bridge and get over it."

  "Whatever," Pres sniffed, taking another swig and then hissing loudly. "It's all good." Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he nodded solemnly. "I have it on good authority that brains are sexy. Women love brains. Give it a couple of years and it'll be all me, dude. I'll be the Don. You wait and see. I'll be the irresistible one." He winked. "Beauty is temporary, but ugly is forever, pea-brain. Think about that."

  "Again, what the fuck, and I can't stress the word fuck enough, are you talking about?" I asked, slurring my own words now. "Pres, you're gay. What do you care what women want?"

  "Because I –" Frowning, he held a finger up and considered this. "Hell, you've got me there." Tossing back another mouthful of whiskey, he gave me an award-winning side-eye before muttering, "Photoshopped fucker."

  "You're a mean drunk," Romi laughed, pointing at Presley. "Meow," she snickered, scratching at the air around her with her hand. "So catty."

  "You two are pathetic," I chuckled, shaking my head. "Fucking lightweights."

  "Oh, you think so?" Pres slurred, barreling towards me. "Let's see how lightweight I am. Get your ass up, pretty boy."

  I arched a brow. "Yeah, I'm good where I am, thanks."

  "Come on, dude. Get up," he insisted, pulling on my arm. "I wanna play a game."

  "Oh, a game!" Romi squealed, clapping her hands and forgetting about the beer bottle she was supposed to be holding. It clattered to the carpet and foamy beer sprayed out of the rim. "Whoops," she blurted, frowning down at the bottle before yelping out another squeal. "We can use this."

  "You're a genius, baby girl," Presley declared. "Truth or bottle."

  "Yay," Romi agreed, tossing back the remains of the beer before pulling herself into a sitting position on the bed. "Spin the dare!"

  "You're both fucked off your heads," I noted, reluctantly climbing to my feet so Presley would stop digging his damn nails into my arm. "It's truth or dare or spin the bottle, and I'm not playing either one with your drunk asses."

  "Like hell you're not," Presley snorted, pushing me towards the bed. "And you're drunk, too." I was, but I could handle myself a helluva lot better than these two. "It's happening," he continued. "We're playing."

  "Please, Sketch?" Romi begged, patting a spot on the mattress next to her. "Play with me."

  Aw shit.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Romi

  Several hours later, and all of three of us were sprawled out on the bed, all still spinning a damn beer bottle around, and all beyond intoxicated.

  In fact, I was so drunk that I was beginning to think that I could drink myself sober. My knee wasn't aching anymore. Nothing hurt. This was the least anxious I'd felt in over ten months, and I was reveling in my buzz, thrilled to put my fears on the backburner for the night.

  Throughout the game of truth or dare, I'd learned more truths about the boys sitting on either side of me than I could hope to remember.

  Sketch caught his nanny banging his dad.

  Pres caught Victoria banging Chris.

  Sketch was the one responsible for the fire in the science lab in junior year.

  Pres lost his virginity when he was fifteen – in my damn treehouse.

  It was Presley's turn to spin and when the bottle landed on Sketch, he foolishly selected dare which was a mistake considering he wasn’t having much luck tonight, having lost both his shirt and pants in dares.

  "I dare you to kiss me," Presley slurred, grinning deviously at him.

  "You want me to kiss you?" Sketch chuckled, arching a dark brow.

  "With tongue," Pres taunted, waggling his brows.

  Sitting cross-legged in his boxers, Sketch balanced the last of the whiskey between his hands and smirked. "And you think I won't?"

  "I know you won't," Pres taunted. "I know what you macho, football dicks are like –"

  His words broke off when Sketch leaned over and planted a hard kiss to his lips. Flushed, I gaped as they kissed for a solid ten seconds, tongue and everything. A swell of annoyance built up inside of me and I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from ripping them apart. This was the first time I'd ever seen Sketch kiss anyone else and I didn’t like it one damn bit. I knew I had no right to feel jealous, it was a ridiculous emotion to feel considering Sketch was straight, but I felt the burn anyway and it wasn’t fun.

  When Sketch broke the kiss and pulled away laughing, Presley grabbed a pillow and placed it on his lap to hide the obvious bulge in his jeans. "Jesus Christ," he breathed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I'm ruined."

  "I never back down from a dare, Pres. You should know that by now." Chuckling, Sketch took a swig of whiskey and winked. "Don't be falling in love with me now, ya hear?"

  "Fuck, I think it's too late for that," Pres breathed, looking flushed. "Holy hell, dude. You're an amazing kisser."

  "You can thank her for that," Sketch slurred, flopping onto his back, while pointing his whiskey at me. "Taught me everything I know."

  "Thank you, Romi Dillon." Presley's bleary eyes flicked to me and I flushed with heat. "Damn, baby girl, no wonder you called dibs on him when we were kids. His lips are like pillows."

  "Shut the hell up about his lips," I snapped and then slapped a hand over my mouth.

  "Well, well, well," Pres mused, brows raised. "Who's the catty one now?"

  Drunk and embarrassed, I ripped the bottle of Jack from Sketch's hand and slugged a mouthful, dutifully ignoring the two pairs of eyes on my face. "Are we playing or what?" I huffed, resting my chin on the rim of the bottle. "Spin the damn bottle."

  "My turn," Pres announced, spinning the beer bottle that was resting on top of one of his hardback notebooks.

  "It's not your turn –" I began to protest, but he quickly hushed me by slapping a hand over my mouth.

  "Baby girl," he said when the bottle landed on me. "I dare you to make out with Sketch."

  "Wh-what?" My poor heart started to pound so hard it almost burst clean out of my chest. I glanced nervously to Sketch who was still lazing in a drunken stupor on the flat of his back before turning back to Pres. "I, uh, don’t know."

  "You don’t know?" Pres arched a brow. "You sure about that?"

  No. I wasn’t sure about anything now. Of course I wanted to make out with Sketch, but I didn’t know if he wanted to make out with me. Ugh, I felt like I was eleven years old again and being dared to kiss him in our treehouse. And yeah, he kissed me back earlier, but that was after a near-death experience. That was his adrenalin. "He, uh, said I wasn't supposed to kiss him again," I whispered, fingers digging into the sheets beneath me. "I'm, uh, I don’t think we should play anymore –"

  "Ugh, whatever, you big baby," Presley cut in, turning his attention to Sketch. "I dare you to show Romi how you really feel."

  Sketch winked. "It's not my turn."

  "I think we should wrap it up," I added quietly. "I'm getting tired."

  "Fine. Fuck you both. Damn game sucks balls anyway. I'm going to bed," Pres grumbled before unceremoniously falling off the bed. Landing on the floor in a heap, he croaked out, "Gimme a damn pillow."

  Snickering, Sketch tossed him a pillow before flopping back down and folding his arms behind his head. Sprawled sideways on the mattress with his long legs hanging off the side, he yawned loudly and closed his eyes.

  Unable to stop myself, I let my eyes drink him in because, let's face it, the boy was glorious to look at. From my cross-legged perch in the middle of the bed, my bare knee was touching his hairy thigh and every time he breathed, it caused the most wonderful friction against my s
kin.

  A few minutes passed by and the sound of a wounded animal dying – aka; Presley snoring – filled the silence.

  "I'll move, I swear. I just need a minute," Sketch said out of nowhere, startling me.

  "I thought you were asleep," I replied, feeling my heartrate pick up at a rapid rate. "And it's okay. You don’t have to move."

  A smile pulled at his full lips, but he kept his eyes closed. "I had fun tonight."

  "Yeah?"

  He nodded slowly. "Ain't smiled in forever."

  "I know the feeling," I whispered, plucking at a thread on the t-shirt – his t-shirt - I was wearing. "It felt good to just kick back, huh?"

  "Nah." He shook his head, still smiling. "Felt good to be near you."

  His words caused my heart to spazz out of control. "Sketch..."

  "Truth or dare, Ro?"

  "What?"

  "Truth or dare?"

  "Truth," I replied, barely breathing now.

  His smile deepened, letting me know that I'd picked the one he wanted me to. "Why'd you get mad earlier?"

  "When?"

  "You know when."

  My breath hitched in my throat but I forced the words out, "Because I was jealous."

  His brows furrowed. "Why?"

  "That's another question," I replied quietly. "You only get one."

  "That's true," he agreed, eyes still closed.

  "Tell me a truth," I whispered then, clasping my hands together to stop them from trembling."

  Sighing heavily, he placed his hands on his chest and remained quiet for a long beat before saying, "Presley said that you think I fucked Blaire Hale."

  Well, I wasn’t expecting him to say that. Heat crept up my neck. "Presley has a big mouth," I mumbled, casting a dirty look to his comatose side-kick, snoring on the floor.

  "He does," Sketch agreed, leaning against the opposite wall. "And I didn’t."

  "Didn’t what?"