by Tracy Wolff
I haven’t called her once, and though it’s killing me, I know it’s for the best. Her life is complicated enough—she doesn’t need to throw it away on a guy who fucks everything up no matter how hard he tries not to. A guy who makes more messes than he fixes and who nearly got her killed because he was too cocky, too stupid, to figure out just how bad things could go.
And she sure as hell doesn’t need to waste her time on a guy who is so stupid and self-absorbed he let his little brother become a drug addict right under his fucking nose.
It’s the reminder I need to get my head in the game.
“You want to put the joint out?” I demand, taking a seat in Joe’s desk chair so that we’re on the same level. “I want to talk to you.”
“You can talk to me while I’m smoking.”
“No, I can’t, because I don’t want to get high. And because weed is illegal and you shouldn’t be smoking it.”
“Jesus. You sound like a fucking cop. Since when have you been so concerned about what’s legal or illegal?”
“Since I found heroin in your room.”
“So that was you,” Joe sneers. “When it showed up missing, I figured it was. But you didn’t say anything, so…”
“I didn’t say anything that night because you were totally wasted. And after, I was a little busy with dodging dirty cops and taking care of my injured girlfriend. But I’m saying something now.”
“Okay.” He takes another hit off the joint. His punk-ass façade is in rare form today. At least, I hope it’s a façade. That’s what I’ve been telling myself it is for months now. Years, really.
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, you’ve said something. Okay, I got more, so it’s no biggie. You can go now.”
I stare at him incredulously. “You don’t actually think that’s how this is going to go down, do you?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I lean forward and rip the joint out of his hand.
“Hey!” He makes a grab for it, but I shove him back down on the bed as I pinch the end of the joint to put it out, then rip the thing to shreds and throw it in the trash can under his desk. “You can’t just come in here and keep fucking with what’s mine.”
“When what you’re doing is illegal, I sure as fuck can. I’m not putting up with that shit in my house. And I’m sure as hell not putting up with it from my little brother.”
“Your house? Your little brother?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
He jumps up, gets in my face. “Bitch, you don’t get to come in here and tell me shit. When you went to prison, you gave up any right to tell me anything. You get that?”
“I get that that’s what you believe,” I tell him, working hard to keep calm when there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to put him through a fucking wall.
“It’s the truth. You fucking got arrested. You fucking destroyed our family and sent Lena and me into hell. So you don’t get to come back now and try to make up for that shit. It’s too fucking late.”
His words hit me like a two-ton truck, probably because they’re nothing I haven’t said to myself a million times. I did abandon them. I did get them sent into a foster system that chewed them up and spit them out. I did fuck up, royally. Just because I’ve spent three years trying to make up for that doesn’t negate the fact that it happened. It doesn’t make up for what I did.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He snorts, pulling up his sleeves so I can see the cigarette burns on them. “Yeah, ’cuz sorry makes up for these. It makes up for all the shit that happened after you went away, doesn’t it?”
I stare at the burns and for a second I think I’m actually going to hurl. It’s not the first time I’ve seen them, but it doesn’t get any easier. Every time, I’m filled with rage—at the bastard who did that to an innocent kid and at myself for being such a fuckup that I put him in a position for it to happen.
“Oh, shut up, you asshole!” Lena’s voice rings out from the doorway and we both turn to see my sister storm into the room like some kind of avenging angel. “You’re making him feel guilty for something he had no control over and it fucking sucks. Especially since you’re doing it to distract him from the fact that you’re using hard-core drugs.”
I’m not sure which of us is more shocked at the way she’s coming down on him—Joe or me. We both stare at her in shock as the echo of her words rings through the room.
“Did shit happen to you when you were in foster care? Yeah, shit happened. But shit happened to me, too, and you don’t see me sitting around whining about it. You don’t see me drowning in alcohol and drugs and doing my best to piss my whole life away. And I can guaran-goddamn-tee you that shit happened to Nic in prison, shit neither one of us knows about. Shit he’ll never tell us about because he’s not that guy. He doesn’t want sympathy, he doesn’t want anyone to make excuses for him. He just wants to move on. Which is what you should be doing.”
“Lena, stop,” I tell her.
“I will not. I’ve sat by and watched him torture you for the last three years for shit you couldn’t control. I’m done sitting by, done watching him give you a guilt trip. He’s the one wasting his life, he’s the one ruining everything and he needs to get his shit together or he needs to get the hell out.”
“You want me to get out?” Joe leaps off the bed. “Fine. I’ll leave.”
“Don’t even try to pull that bullshit on me, asshole. I’m not Nic. And it’s not that I want you to get out. It’s that I want you to get your act together. Benji doesn’t need to see this every day and neither do I.”
He stares at her like she’s a ghost. “What the hell is wrong with you today? I’ve never done anything to hurt you or Benji. I never would.”
“Yeah, ’cuz getting home and finding his uncle passed out on the couch with tracks in his arm and heroin on the coffee table is so good for him. And it’s great for me, too, three days after some asshole cop is threatening to call CPS on me!”
“You let him see that?”
“Of course Nic and I didn’t let him see that.” She emphasizes my name, like it matters to her that I’m included in the discussion. “But if you keep this up, it’s just a matter of time before he does. And when he does, you don’t think it’s going to hurt him?”
For the first time in a long time, Joe looks shaky. “I’m not trying to hurt him.”
“Of course you aren’t. You’re too busy trying to hurt Nic and yourself to see anybody else. But there’s collateral damage to everything you’re doing and I’ve had enough. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to let you work out your rage. But I’m done now.
“You don’t get to bring drugs into this house where my kid lives. You don’t get to hurt yourself anymore while I just sit by and watch. And you sure as hell don’t get to hurt Nic when all he’s done is take care of us and try to make amends for everything that happened ten years ago. When, by the way, he was barely older than you are now. I love how you can make all these ridiculously bad choices, but God forbid anyone else does. And you don’t think you’re being an asshole?”
The room is silent after she finishes. Dead silent.
I don’t know what to think—what to feel—after her diatribe and a quick glance at Joe tells me he’s got the exact same problem. His jaw is clenching and unclenching over and over again and he’s looking everywhere but at her or me.
Then again, I’ve got the same problem. I’ve never felt so raw, so exposed, in my life and I don’t know what to do about it. Not when Lena just pulled up all the shit we’ve spent so long carefully not talking about and piled it in the center of the room like a goddamn fireworks display.
Joe finds his voice before I do. But that voice is trembling when he says, “Get out,” and then turns his back on both of us. When neither of us moves, he yells it. “Get out, get out, get out!”
“Look, Joe—”
Lena goes up to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know—”
“You don’t know shit,” he hisses, shrugging her hand off. Then he’s in his closet, pulling out a backpack and stuffing it with whatever clothes he can find. “But whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t,” I tell him, speaking for the first time in what feels like hours. My voice is rusty, and it hurts to breathe, to think. Fuck, it hurts to just exist.
“Please, don’t go,” I repeat and the words sound a lot less authoritative than I want them to. A lot less convincing, as well.
But I don’t know what else to say at this point, what else to do. Between Jordan and Joe, I feel like the whole fucking world is coming to an end and I want off the ride. I’m done. I’m just so fucking done.
“Wow!” Joe sneers as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Way to sound convincing there, bro.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. It’s not much and it won’t change anything, but it’s all I have to offer.
“Yeah, you’ve already said that. A bunch of times. Didn’t mean anything then, doesn’t mean anything now.”
He brushes past me and for long seconds I do nothing but stand in the middle of his room, the weight of all my past mistakes pressing down on me. I’m the one who did this. The one who broke up my family, who let my little brother get strung out on drugs, who failed at everything I promised my mother I would do.
I don’t know how Lena can so much as look at me.
God knows, I can’t look myself in the mirror—not after what I did to Jordan and sure as shit not after this.
Below us, the front door opens and then slams. It’s what finally has me moving, finally has me flying across the room and down the stairs to the front door.
“Let him go,” Lena tells me, putting herself in my path just before I reach the door. “He needs to figure his shit out.”
“He’s never going to figure anything out like this,” I tell her. “He’s not in the right head space.”
“How can he be when you constantly let him beat you up for shit that isn’t your fault? As long as you enable him, he doesn’t have to take responsibility for anything. Not the drugs, not the bad choices, not the fact that he’s become a total dick that none of us can stand being around.”
“You keep saying that, but whose fault is it if it isn’t mine? I’m the one who left—”
“You were arrested by a dirty cop, one who is so dirty—I might add—that he’s now dead. Killed by a cop from internal affairs because he was trying to kill you and Jordan.”
“He might have been dirty, but so was I. I boosted those cars. I did all the things they accused me of—”
“You didn’t have a choice!” she tells me, her voice ringing passionately through the small entryway.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I always had a choice. I just made bad choices.”
“You keep saying that, and maybe it’s true. Maybe you did make some mistakes. But so the fuck what? You were eighteen and had the weight of the world shoved onto your shoulders and you were scared to death. Is it any wonder you screwed up? You stole cars because you were trying to figure out how to make enough money to take care of us. You made mistakes because you were hurting and there was no one around to help.”
“I was an adult.”
“Joe’s practically the same age now that you were then. Do you think he’s ready for that kind of weight on his shoulders?”
“That’s different.”
“Why?” she demands, eyes narrowed and hands on hips and for a second all I can do is stare at her. When did my mild-mannered sister because this kickass woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone? And how the hell did I miss it? “Because you’re you? Super Nic?”
I sigh heavily. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m ridiculous? You’re the one who has spent a decade beating himself up over things he can’t change. Over things he had no control over.”
“I had control over whether or not I stole those cars. I did that, Lena, nobody else. So don’t sugarcoat it just because you don’t like the truth.”
“Believe me, I know exactly what you’re responsible for and what you aren’t. I’ve had a decade to think it over, too, you know. And yes, you boosted those cars. You took them to chop shops and pocketed the money. You mouthed off to Anderson and got yourself on his radar. That was all you.”
Her words hit like arrows with pinpoint accuracy, and the litany of my sins pouring out of her mouth hurts way worse than I thought it would. After all, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Nothing I haven’t thought a million times. But hearing it from her, from Lena whom I’ve failed so terribly, makes it a million times worse.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I know it’s not enough, “but I’m so fucking sorry—”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“There’s more?” I ask weakly, not sure I can take much more guilt. Then again, it’s no more than I deserve.
She snorts. “You’re talking to me. There’s always more.” She moves forward then, puts a hand on my arm as she waits for me to look her in the eye. “We’ve covered what you are responsible for, what mistakes you made. But we haven’t said a word about what you’re not responsible for.”
“Lena—”
“You aren’t responsible for Dad leaving. You aren’t responsible for Mom dying. You aren’t responsible for the system failing you and not giving any help to an eighteen-year-old kid who was trying so desperately to keep his family together. You aren’t responsible for Joe and me going into foster care—”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t interrupt. I’ve got the floor now.” She smacks my upper arm then, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to have me paying attention. “You also aren’t responsible for what happened to us there. Shit happens, Nic. You know that better than most. But you can’t spend your life dwelling on what went wrong. You’ll end up wasting all the time you have left.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m so fucking sorry that you got hurt. So fucking sorry that I wasn’t there to make it better.” My voice breaks. “So fucking sorry that I left you alone and some bastard took advantage of that fact and hurt you—”
“That’s what I’m trying to say. You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” She hugs me then, rests her head on my shoulder. “Through it all, I knew you loved me. I knew you weren’t like Dad, that you hadn’t chosen to go away.”
“Does it matter? I was still gone.”
“It absolutely matters. Because when you got out, you came right back here. You got me and Benji and Joe and the rest of the crew and you brought us back here. You cleaned us up, gave us a home base. And then you built Hotwired out of nothing so that we all had something to be a part of. Something we could be proud of. Yeah, Joe’s messed up and, yeah, it might take him a while to come around. But you saved him as surely as you saved the rest of us—”
“You make me sound like some kind of hero and I’m not. I didn’t save anybody.”
“You saved everybody. You saved me. You saved Benji. You saved Payton and Sean and Heath and Gabe and Jace. You definitely saved Jace. And though he doesn’t want to admit it, you saved Joe, too. So sitting there, saying you didn’t, is an insult to all of us. Because we know where we were before you got here. And we know where we would be if you hadn’t come back for us.”
She’s sobbing now, her voice shaking with emotion that rips right through me. Feeling like a real jerk, I pull her in for a hug, patting her back the way I used to when she was little. “Come on, Lena-loo,” I whisper, the childhood nickname slipping out as I gently rock her back and forth. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
“You never let us say thank you. You never let us tell you how grateful we are for what you’ve done—”
“I don’t want your gratitude! God, that’s the last thing I want. I did what anyone would do—”
“No, you didn’t. You did so much
more than anyone else would have. And the fact that you can’t see that, that you’re drowning in this bad guy image of yourself and letting it destroy everything you’ve worked for—everything we’ve all worked for—isn’t fair. Not to me. Not to yourself. Not to Jordan. Not to any of us. Because if a guy like you doesn’t deserve to be happy with a girl like Jordan, what chance do the rest of us have?”
I start to answer her, to tell her how ridiculous her whole argument is, when the front door bursts open. I look up, expecting it to be Joe. But it’s not. It’s Payton and her grin is pure malicious mischief when she drawls, “Knock, knock. Look who the cat dragged home.”
And I know who it’s going to be even before she pushes the door wide open. Even before she steps aside. Even before my eyes meet ones the same color as melted, bittersweet chocolate.
Chapter 27
Jordan
For long seconds, Nic doesn’t say anything and neither do I. I can’t. I’m too overwhelmed by the sight of him after four days without him. Too overwhelmed by the fact that I’m here, in his house and that he can’t run away from me this time.
He looks like hell. His face is tightly drawn, his mouth bracketed with pain, his eyes dull. He’s lost weight in the seven days I’ve been in the hospital and the bags under his eyes definitely look like they could hold everything I own.
And still he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Still he makes my toes curl.
Still I want to go to him, want to hold him and kiss him and tell him that everything’s going to be all right.
Except I don’t know if that’s true, do I. Because he walked out on me four days ago after I told him I loved him and left a huge, gaping wound right through the heart of me that no bullet could ever hope to match.
Because he didn’t come back.
And because he’s standing there staring at me like he’s seen a ghost—and not one that’s particularly welcome in his house.
“What did you do, Payton?” Nic growls. “You were supposed to bring her home. I had it all arranged—”
