by Chloe Walsh
Presley shook his head. "No, forget the men. They're small fish in an ocean of sharks. I've compiled sharks, my friend."
"But those men clearly had something to do with it," I argued.
"Yes, Sketch, they clearly did, because they were clearly sent by someone much higher up the food chain," he replied. "Why hunt the help when the employer is pulling the strings? Think about it."
I stilled. "I'm listening."
"Number one on the list," he said, tapping his finger against the pad. "The mysterious Jacob Toretto."
The name on the piece of paper hidden in Chris's secret cubbyhole in the floor. I nodded my approval. "Good choice."
"I know, right?" He grinned. "I've seen that name appear dozens of times in various journals and textbooks belonging to Chris. I didn’t know what it meant at the time – still don’t, but I think it's safe to say this Jacob guy is top of our list."
"Who's next?"
"Chris Capaldi."
"My brother, the murder victim?" I shook my head. "You truly are a headcase."
"Chris senior," he corrected. "As in, daddy dearest."
"My dad?" I stiffened. "Why?"
"Why not?"
"Because he was Chris's father," I shot back, feeling oddly defensive.
"So," Presley scoffed. "He's your father, too, Sketch, and we all know how un-fatherly he can be."
I flushed bright red, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. "He loved Chris."
"I know, and I mean no offense," Presley added with an apologetic grimace. "But considering the way you've been treated, it's plausible."
"No." I shook my head. "Leave my dad out of it."
"But –"
"No," I snapped. "Strike him off, Pres."
Wisely holding his tongue, Presley scratched my father's name off his list before asking, "What about your mama?"
I glared at him. "She's number three?"
"Sure is."
"The woman who genuinely is in a state of cata-phobia since my brother's death? You think she'd kill her own son? The same woman who was at home with me the night he died? Seriously, asshole?"
"Catatonia," he corrected with a small tug of his lips. "And we have to be open-minded here, Sketch."
"By suspecting only members of my family?" I arched a brow. "Hell no. Forget it. Strike my folks off that damn list. He was the apple of their eyes. Ain't a damn thing either one of them would've done to harm a hair on golden boy's head."
"Golden boy." Presley let out a whistle. "Ooof, am I sensing some deep-seeded sibling hostility, mister black sheep of the family?"
"You know what I meant," I muttered, rubbing my jaw.
"I sure did," he agreed. "But speaking of your parents – have they tried to contact you since we left Pocketful?"
"Wouldn't know. Turned my phone off."
"Is that wise?"
I brushed off his question and changed the subject, knowing full well that it didn’t matter whether I had my phone turned on or not. Nobody was going to come looking for me. "Who's number four?"
"Cal Dillon."
I grunted my approval. "Now that I can get on board with."
Pres chuckled. "I bet."
"What about Vic-whore-ia?" I suggested then. "Put her down as number five."
"Already beat you to it, buddy."
"Number six?"
"Uh, I've only got five."
"Five?" I deadpanned. "I thought you were supposed to be a genius? So far, all you have is a list of my parents, Romi's asshole dad, the whore fucking both of our dads, and some faceless dude. Good job, Pres." I gave him two solid thumbs up. "You're on fire."
"Got any suggestions?"
"What about people at school?"
He shook his head. "Nah, your brother was adored. And besides, this is bigger than some shitty high school grudge."
"Enemies of the family?"
"Know any?"
"No." I sighed in defeat. "None that I know of."
He smirked. "Not so easy, is it?"
"Well, you said all of this started when Chris started digging around in Vic-whore-ia's business." I waved a hand around aimlessly. "I say we start there."
"Or we could wait until we get Romi back and ask her?" he suggested. "Chances are she knows a helluva lot more than us, dude."
"No point." Sighing, I bowed my head and dropped my hands to my hips. "She's not ready to talk and we're not gonna force her."
"We're not?"
My head snapped up. "No, Presley. We're not."
"Feeling a little protective there, Sketch?"
"Careful."
"What about you?" he asked then.
My eyes narrowed. "What about me?"
"Well, think, Sketch." Removing his glasses, he blew onto each lens before wiping them with his sleeve. "Was there anything out of the ordinary that you and Chris spoke about before he died?"
"Dude, my brother was fucking my girl," I growled. "We weren't exactly swapping secrets before he died."
He placed his glasses back on his nose. "You guys were fighting?"
"Well, no. Not exactly fighting." I blew out a pained breath. "I mean, we still talked and hung out and stuff. We were just…distant."
"Hmm." He clicked his tongue and scribbled something down on his notepad. "Interesting."
I bristled. "Asshole, if you write my name on that list, I will legit snap your neck."
"For how long?" he asked then, confusing the hell out of me.
"How long what?"
"How long were you and Chris estranged for?"
"We weren't estranged, Pres," I snapped, agitated. "We were just –"
"Distant," he filled in impatiently. "Yes, yes, I know, but for how long?"
I glared at him, suspicious. "What does it matter?"
"He was protecting us from something," Pres replied, tone sharper. "You were the one he was most insistent on being kept out of this…whatever the hell this is." He waved his pen around aimlessly. "Therefore, I need to know everything that went down between you two. Every teeny, tiny, insignificant detail. How else am I supposed to come up with a theory or crack the damn puzzle he left behind?"
"Jesus Christ, Pres, I don’t know." I blew out a frustrated breath, brain officially fried. "For a while."
"And what constitutes as a while in the land of Sketch Capaldi. Hmm? Hours, days, weeks, months –"
"Since Romi," I barked, running a hand through my damp hair. "Okay? Happy now? Since they started dating."
"That far back?"
I nodded stiffly, feeling the familiar pang of pained betrayal hit me square in the chest.
Presley made an O shape with his lips. "Well then."
"Don’t give me that look," I warned, pointing my finger at him. "You have no idea what that was like for me. Having to watch that. Them. Together. After –" I shook my head, feeling my entire body tremble. "I did my best to deal so don't you dare judge me for taking a step back."
"Oh, you'd be surprised what I understand, my friend," he replied with a sad smile. "And I'm not judging you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," he replied with a shake of his head. "It is, as you said earlier, irrelevant."
"Did he know?" The words slipped out before I had a chance to take them back or stop myself. It was a question that had tormented me for two long years. "Chris," I continued, dreading the answer. "Did he know what Cal did to me?" I swallowed deeply. "Did he know why I had to break it off with her? That I was forced?"
"Sketch, I really don’t think you want the answer to that –"
"Did he know, Presley?" I repeated, voice shaking right along with the rest of me. "Did Chris know?"
"Yeah, man, he knew," he finally replied.
I was unprepared for the pain that hit me square in the chest. It was so strong, so fucking horrendous, that I had to press a hand to the skin covering my heart to steady myself. "And he still did that to me." It wasn't a question. Just a whispered statement. A crushing reality chec
k.
"Yep," Presley agreed with a sigh. "What a pickle indeed."
"A pickle?" I turned to glare at him. "A fucking pickle, Pres?"
"Hey, I didn’t fuck your girl," he replied, holding his hands up. "Don’t shoot the messenger."
"Just change the subject," I blurted, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Quickly. Please. Before I lose my fucking mind."
"You don’t wanna talk about Chris?"
"I do," I ground out. "Just not them."
"Chris and Romi as a couple?"
"Presley!"
"Okay, okay, relax." He held his hands up. "Just take a breath."
"Just don’t talk about them like that." Grimacing, I dropped my towel and reached into my duffel bag for a fresh pair of boxers. "I can't hear it, okay?"
"Ah, yeah, sure thing." Pushing his glasses up his nose, he reached for one of the notepads. "Care to put some pants on before we go any further?" He flicked his wrist, gesturing to my body. "While I am entirely unoffended by your blatant display of cock and balls – nice tatts, by the way – it's a little more than distracting, dude. And when I say a little, I mean a lot. "
I frowned. "What?"
"Jesus, you're a shower, aren't you?" he groaned, twisting onto his stomach. "Holy hell, so I totally get that it's normal for you and your jock buddies to prance around the locker room in your birthday suits, but if you could refrain while sharing such small quarters with me, I'd really appreciate it."
"Do you have a condition or something?" I asked, morbidly curious and grateful for the distraction.
"A condition?"
"Yeah, like ADHD or something?"
"Now why would you even say that?"
I shrugged. "Well, you're all jittery and shit, you never stop talking, you're always tapping or drumming on something. Also, I've shared a bed with you for the past four nights and I'm telling you now, Pres, that you squirm around constantly. In fact, you're doing it right now; twisting and shifting around on the bed like a damn slippery eel." I squinted, taking in his flushed expression. "And you sort of look like you're in pain, if I'm being honest."
Presley arched a brow. "If by condition you mean I get hard when I see an extremely attractive, naked man, then yes, dude, I have a condition."
"You do?"
"No, dumbass, I don’t have a condition," he drawled, tone laced with sarcasm. "And I don't typically display traits of eel-like behavior, as you so tactfully put it, but you're hot and you also have a tendency to get naked around me." He shrugged unapologetically. "I'm only human."
"I…huh?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm gay, Sketch."
My brows shot up. "You're gay?"
"I sure am," he replied, giving me a hard look. "Is that a problem for you?"
"What?" I blanched. "No, dude. I'm just…surprised is all." I scratched the back of my head, feeling stumped. "You're gay, Pres?"
His lips twitched. "You really didn’t know?"
"Uh…" I shrugged sheepishly. "No?"
"Jesus." Smirking, he shook his head. "Chris was right. You really are clueless."
"How did I not know this about you?" Stepping into my boxers, I quickly pulled them up my hips. "We've known each other since kindergarten."
"That is true," he agreed, tapping a pen against his notepad.
"So," I mused, padding over to the bed. "Are you out?"
"Define out."
"You know what I mean," I muttered, sinking down beside him. "Do your folks know and shit?"
"That would be a negative," he replied, scribbling furiously on the notepad. "I mean, I'm not ashamed or anything, I'm proud of who I am and my sexuality doesn’t define me, but you know my father, Sketch." He sighed and tossed the notepad away. "He's the definition of a good ol' boy. Not to mention the fact that our hometown didn’t join the rest of the world in the twenty-first century."
"What do you mean?"
"Pocketful, Sketch." Exhaling heavily, he flopped onto his back and folded his arms behind his head. "It's stuck in the fifties, dude. Old views. Old morals. Old politics. Old thinking. Old freaking plumbing. Old everything."
I thought about it for a moment before reluctantly agreeing with him. "It's bullshit. You know that, right? You are who you are, man." Sighing, I flopped onto my back next to him. "No judgement from me."
Presley nodded stiffly. "Appreciate it."
"What about your mama?" I asked, craning my neck to face him. "Does she know?"
"Yeah." He smiled. "She's known since I was ten."
"You knew since then? Hell, dude, I didn’t even know anything about myself at that age."
He choked out a laugh. "Now, don’t be lying to yourself, Holden Capaldi. You knew well and good what your preference was back then." He waggled his brows. "You sure spent enough time figuring it out with Romi in that treehouse of hers."
Smirking, I nudged his shoulder with mine. "So, I'm sexy, huh?"
He rolled his eyes. "You're alright."
"What about Chris?" I asked. "Did he know?"
"Yeah." His smile faltered for a brief moment as a surge of pain flickered in his eyes. "He knew."
"And Ro?"
"Yeah, she knows."
"Damn, Pres, think you could've given me a head's up," I chuckled, resting my hands on my stomach. "I can't believe I wasted half my life hating on you because I thought you were into Romi."
He grinned. "Ah, yes, it was truly an amusing experience watching you puff out your chest like a damn gorilla whenever I veered too close to your precious, pom-pom cheerleader."
His words hit me hard and my laughed died off. "What am I gonna do, Pres?" Admitting defeat, I let my shoulders sag, feeling thoroughly deflated. "I hurt her, man. So bad. The shit I did to her. The things I said." I glared up at the ceiling. "I was a complete monster."
"Apologize," he replied simply. "Mean it, and hope for the best."
I shook my head. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm still mad at her."
"For getting with Chris?"
Yes. "No." I cleared my throat. "For lying to me for ten months. For keeping the truth about my brother's death a secret. For making me feel crazy. For making everyone else think I was losing my damn mind. For not trusting me to do right by her. She could've called me that night, man. She could have called either one of us, but she didn’t. She made a decision and the consequences are crippling."
"What would you have had her do, Sketch?" he asked, turning to face me. "She thought she was protecting you. She made a promise to Chris."
"I know," I groaned, running a hand through my hair. "And I get that, okay, I do, but I can't change how I feel about it."
"All I'm gonna say on the matter is Romi Dillon is a good girl. She is, man, and you know it. She's loyal and faithful, and the girl adores you. Always has. So, apologize, own your shit, and make it right."
"I just…" I blew out a harsh breath. "I need the whole picture, you know? Right now, everything's all jumbled up and nothing makes sense. If she could just hold it together and explain how they ended up in that car, I think I could make some sort of peace with it."
"You know we can't take her back there, right?" he said then.
I locked eyes with him. "Back to Pocketful?"
He nodded slowly. "Her father will send her straight back to Tully House, or worse, somewhere further away. You'll never see her again."
"God, I hate that man," I hissed, jaw clenched, as I turned back to face the ceiling.
"You've gotta help her, Sketch," he added. "And I don’t just mean break her out of prison. I mean really help her. As in, the pick up the pieces, healing kind of help."
"How can I heal her when I'm the one who broke her?" I asked quietly.
"No idea," he replied. "But you've gotta try. I've been withdrawing the maximum limit at the ATM from both of our bank accounts for four days. That leaves us a little shy of six grand. It's more than enough to get by without leaving a paper trail behind once we leave Hou
ston. We'll make it work until I figure out our next move."
"She jumped from the treehouse," I confessed, biting down hard on my bottom lip. "She didn’t fall, she wasn't pushed, she just…quit."
"Shit," he muttered.
I sighed heavily. "Yeah."
"And you're worried?" he offered knowingly. "About her state of mind?"
"I'm more than worried," I admitted, turning to look at him. "What if she tries it again? We can't leave her on her own once we break her out, Pres. Not for a second. Plus, she's in a cast – or a boot, or whatever the hell they call it. She's totally fucking wounded."
"She's traumatized," he stated. "She knows more than she's letting on. She's the key to this, Sketch. I'm telling you, she's the fucking answer to everything and the sooner we get her talking the better."
"You think that'll help her – talking?"
"Can't hurt."
"I hope you're right."
"Well, it's not safe for her at home right now – and it's not safe for you either," he said after a long pause. "Not until we put a name and a face to the asshole/assholes behind Chris's death and figure out what he was trying to protect us from. So, I suggest you and Romi find a way to heal those wounds you've put in each other and build some kind of bridge. Ya'll need each other and I need you both. The past needs to stay in the past."
"Yeah," I replied, brows furrowed. "You're right."
"I'm always right," he chuckled, checking his watch and then springing off the bed. "Now, are we gonna do this or what?"
"I'm ready." I sat up and watched him flitter around the room like a caged butterfly. "Are you sure this is gonna work though, Pres?"
"That's Dr. Hardy to you," he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye as he placed the lanyard with the swipe card he'd snagged earlier around his neck. "And trust me, I've seen this work a million times on TV. We go in, you distract the nurse, I'll free the patient, we stuff her in your cart, and then we roll the hell out of dodge. Easy as pie."
"You saw this work on television so now you think it's gonna work in real life?"
"Sure did and sure do."
"Wow." I deadpanned. "Now I'm really convinced."
"You should be." Reaching into his bookbag, he withdrew a pair of green scrubs and tossed them at me. "We've got this, Sketch. But –" He held a finger up. "On the off-chance that it doesn’t work and we get caught, I'm totally throwing you under the bus because I'm not built for prison." He chuckled nervously. "Full disclosure."