Pocketful of Shame: Pocket #2

by Chloe Walsh

  "'Ew," she replied. "I'm not living with my husband. I'm living with you."

  "Okay," I chuckled. "It's a deal."

  She grinned at me and held her pinkie finger out. "Best friends forever?"

  I hooked my pinkie around hers and nodded. "Forever…"

  "Yoo-hoo…earth to Sketch? Okay, dude, you really need to stop staring through the window at her. It's really creepy. And when I say creepy, I mean Ted Bundy kinda creepy." Presley's voice dragged me from my thoughts and I spun around to find him watching me with a curious expression etched on his face.

  "What?" I grumbled, snatching the burger he was holding out.

  "Nothing," he replied. "Nothing at all."

  The back door of the truck swung open not a moment later and a droopy-eyed Romi appeared. The minute my eyes landed on her, I had to suppress the shiver threatening to ripple through me. Fuck.

  Presley was the first to react, rushing towards her. "Miss Dillon, just the girl we were looking for." He beamed. "I'm gonna need to pick that pretty brain of yours – whoa, baby girl, mind getting back in the truck? You're gonna blow our cover in that hospital gown."

  "Sorry," she replied, sitting back on the edge of the seat with her legs dangling out, feet bare. Resting her elbows on her thighs, she tucked her hair behind her ears and exhaled heavily. The gray hoodie she was wearing belonged to me and swamped her tiny frame. Rolling the sleeves up several times, she blew out a shaky breath and whispered, "I just really need to pee."

  "Can you hold it until we find a place to check in to?" Pres asked with a frown. "I really don’t think you should be out and about right now."

  "Um…" Squirming in obvious discomfort, Romi shrugged. "I, uh, guess?"

  "She needs to pee, dude," I snapped, instantly flustered. "No, she can't fucking hold it."

  When her eyes landed on me, I felt the tension seep back into my body at a rapid pace. There was a gaping ridge between us, so many fucking mistakes made on both sides, and I felt the weight of each one of them as we stared at each other. Being face to face like this after so much had happened made me feel acutely vulnerable. Worrying her bottom lip, Romi released a heavy sigh and shook her head. "I really can't."

  Unable to take her gaze a second longer, I rounded the truck and yanked open the tailgate. Rummaging around in my duffel bag, I grabbed a pair of sweats before making my way back to where she was sitting. "Here. Put those on if you're going inside." Thrusting the sweatpants on her lap, I quickly walked away, feeling my heartrate spike and my body temperature increase. My throat felt like sawdust and my heart was still crushed to pieces. Shit, I was never going to survive this road trip.

  Chapter Seven

  Romi

  Sketch came for me. In the midst of my inner turmoil – and there was a mountain of issues to weave through – that was all I could focus on. Presley, I could understand coming to help, but Sketch? His presence here blew my mind. Aside from one semi-civil conversation at the hospital in Lake Charles, we were far from being on good terms.

  "Atta girl," Presley coaxed, keeping an arm around my waist as he led me out of the diner bathroom and back to the parking lot. "I've got you." Walking with a boot was difficult, but it was the fog in my brain and weakness in my limbs that made it so much worse.

  "Oh god," I groaned when we stepped back into the afternoon sunshine and my eyes landed on Sketch, leaning against the side of his truck. His big arms were crossed over his chest, his piercing eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray Bans. He was staring straight at us, brows furrowed, legs crossed at the ankle. "How am I gonna do this, Pres?"

  "Be near the moody, brooding, tattooed jock without weeping?" he offered with a chuckle. "I'll let you know when I figure it out, baby girl."

  "I'm angry," I admitted tightly, voice raspy and torn. "I'm so fucking hurt."

  "I'd be worried if you weren't," Pres said with a sigh, keeping an arm looped around me. "But he's here. That has to count for something, right?"

  "He's here because he thinks I can help find his brother's killer," I croaked out bitterly. "That's it."

  "Bullshit," Presley argued. "You might be a broken little bird, but you're not obtuse, so don't insult my intelligence by pretending that you can't see how fucking sorry your lion is for clipping your wings."

  "He's not my anything." I shivered. "Not anymore."

  "Isn't he?" Presley rolled his eyes. "Don’t lie. He's always been your everything. Hell, even Chris knew that." My body stiffened, but he didn’t stop. "You're broken, but you'll mend," he continued, keeping his voice low. "As long as you have air in your lungs and blood in your veins, you're repairable. Right now, you have both. I'd call that a small victory. And the glitches in your brain? No worries. We can patch those up, too."

  Not finding anything to say, I let those words sink in.

  "All good?" Sketch asked when we reached the truck a few moments later. A mixture of resentment and excitement roared to life inside of me at the sound of his voice. For the first time since arriving in Texas, I found myself feeling my emotions again, feeling everything.

  I didn’t want to feel confused or conflicted. I wanted to stew in my anger for a while longer. I wanted to feel justified in my bitterness, but eleven years of spending every spare second of my days with him had my heart and brain at war. Goddammit, I hated that there was a but…

  "Yes," I croaked out, focusing on the present.

  "All good in the hood," Presley added, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

  Sketch's gaze flicked to Pres and he frowned at him before rounding his side of the truck, muttering under his breath.

  Chuckling softly, Pres helped me into the backseat before taking his perch in the front.

  "Do you think the cops are looking for her?" Sketch asked the minute we were back on the road.

  "Does a bear shit in the woods? Of course they're looking for her," Presley replied. "They're probably looking for you, too."

  "Me?"

  "Minor, remember?"

  "And what about you, genius?" Sketch shot back. "Don’t forget to include yourself in the missing teenager debacle."

  "Nope," Presley replied breezily. "I'm eighteen and accounted for. I'm actually visiting the University of Chicago this week, touring the grounds and planning my future." Smirking, he added, "Mom's so proud. She loved the postcard in the mail."

  "Stamped in a Texas post office?"

  Presley grinned. "Never said I sent it."

  "You clever bastard."

  He chuckled. "Book-ups before hook-ups, brother."

  "I'm not your damn brother."

  A few minutes of tense silence later and Presley started to toy with the radio, barking out a laugh when Taylor Swift's The Way I Loved You drifted from the stereo. "Well, this is awks," he chuckled, before crooning out the bittersweet lyrics in his fashionably dramatic style.

  "Turn the damn thing off," Sketch grumbled, his eyes locking on mine in the rearview mirror. "So, who's Catochi?"

  He didn’t ask how I was feeling. No, he was all business and I appreciated it. I wasn't remotely close to being ready to go through another round of deep and meaningful conversation with him.

  "Smooth, dude," Pres groaned. "Real smooth."

  "Never claimed to be," Sketch shot back, keeping his eyes on mine. "Well? Catochi?"

  It took me a moment to register the name Catochi in my mind but once I did, a cold sweat broke out across my brow. "He was there that night –" Swallowing deeply, I pressed my fingers to my forehead and tried to ward off the nervous breakdown threatening to swallow me up. "In the alleyway."

  "The alleyway?" both boys asked and I could feel their eyes burning into my skin from the rearview mirror. "What alleyway?"

  "That's where they beat him." Numb. "Then shot him." I was so fucking numb. "And then left him to bleed out."

  Sketch and Presley were both shouting, but I zoned them out, unwilling to take another trip down that particular memory lane.

  "You need to pull over
and let me drive," Presley commanded when the truck swerved into the middle of the road.

  "I've got it," Sketch snapped, straightening the wheel.

  "You clearly don’t and I refuse to be another teenage roadkill statistic, so pull the fucking truck over."

  "You saw this, Ro?" Sketch demanded, voice cracking. "You watched it happen?"

  I nodded weakly. "Saw it. Heard it."

  "Jesus Christ," he strangled out, truck swerving again. "And this Catochi prick? He's responsible?"

  "He's one of four," I replied, numb.

  "One of four?"

  "Four men," I confirmed, clenching my eyes shut as a tremor racked through me. "One Chris."

  "Romi, you need to tell us everything," Presley said in a much calmer tone.

  "I don’t remember," I whispered.

  "Bullshit," Sketch snarled. "Don’t fucking lie now."

  "Calm down," Presley snapped. "Shouting at her won't do any good."

  "She remembers," Sketch growled.

  "Maybe I don’t want to remember," I shot back, body rigid. "Maybe I'm not supposed to."

  "That makes no sense," Sketch hissed.

  "Maybe it does. Maybe it makes perfect sense," Presley muttered, turning in his seat to face me. "Did someone tell you to forget, Romi?"

  Body locked tight with tension, I nodded stiffly and plucked at an invisible thread on the sweatpants Sketch had given me, while desperately trying to empty my mind. Don’t think about it. It hurts too much. Just keep on forgetting. You're not ready for the truth. Close your mind…

  "Tell us, Romi."

  "She can't."

  "Yes, she can," Sketch argued. "Come on, Ro. You can do it. I know you can."

  You can do it.

  I know you can.

  Breathing hard and fast, I tried to steady myself, but mental images continued to ravage me. "If I talk, you die," I strangled out, fingers digging into my flesh. "If I leave Pocketful, you die. If I put a foot wrong, you die!"

  "I know you're scared, Romi," Presley replied, tone thick with emotion. "Of remembering. Of something happening to Sketch, but if you don’t tell us, we can't protect you or ourselves."

  "We're sitting ducks here, Ro," Sketch said in agreement. "Completely defenseless unless you start talking."

  "Defenseless." I flinched. "That's what he said."

  "Who – Chris?" That was Presley.

  Sniffling, I nodded. "He said he didn’t want to leave me defenseless so he wrote it all down."

  "Where?"

  "In his journal," I replied wearily.

  "What journal?" Presley asked. "Where is it?"

  "I don’t know," I croaked out. "It was in his car the night he died."

  "Where did it go, Romi?" he demanded. "We need that journal."

  "I don’t know," I cried. "I don’t want to think about it."

  "You don’t get a choice," Sketch growled. "Start fucking talking."

  Inhaling a steadying breath, I clenched my eyes shut, feeling the tears trickle down my cheeks, as I forced the words out. "When Chris left me at the restaurant, the men followed him outside. He told me to wait – to call Presley if he didn’t come back. I didn’t listen."

  Silence fell around us, both boys quiet as mice, and I forced myself to continue. "I tried to find him. He called and I –" shivering, I swallowed deeply and pushed on, "I could hear his breathing growing labored. He was trying to warn me – screaming at me to get away from Pocketful." A tear slid down my cheek. "I kept trying to tell him that I wasn't in Pocketful – I thought he was confused or something. I didn’t know what was happening until I – until I heard the gun shot."

  A pained growl tore from Sketch's chest. "Keep going."

  "I don’t –"

  "Please," he ground out. "Just keep fucking going."

  "I could hear them," I squeezed out. "On the phone and in real life. That's when I looked down the alleyway and saw them. They were so close to where I was standing." Sniffling, I whispered, "Chris was lying on the ground. The four men were standing over him. Taunting him. Watching him bleed out."

  "Jesus Christ," Presley groaned, twisting around in what looked like physical pain.

  "I hid behind a dumpster and listened," I continued, trembling violently. "They were talking about me – telling Chris that they wouldn’t hurt me just yet because their boss had bigger plans for me."

  "What the actual fuck?" Sketch demanded, his voice a furious snarl.

  "I don’t know, okay?" I cried out. "I don’t understand any of this either."

  "Keep going, Romi," Presley coaxed, sounding pained. "What happened next?"

  "Then one of them realized Chris was on the phone with me." I sniffled. "And they beat him for it. Then the man – Catochi – he got on the phone and started speaking directly to me." Flinching and cowering at the memory, I choked out, "He said I had to clean his mess up. Make it all disappear. He said if I didn’t – if I opened my mouth or left Pocketful – then he and his men would kill the other brother."

  "Sketch," Presley filled in knowingly.

  Sniffling, I nodded. "After they left, I tried to get Chris to a hospital, but he refused. He said no cops. He made me help him into the car and he told me to drive back to Pocketful – he said we didn’t have a choice. That we had to do this because they knew."

  "Knew what?"

  "I don’t know," I sobbed. "He kept telling me that it was his fault and that he was sorry, but he couldn’t leave me defenseless – that's why he gave me the journal. He said it had everything I needed in it. He told me to keep it safe." Shaking my head, I released a pained breath. "I'm sorry. I don’t know where it is."

  "It's okay," Presley ground out. "What happened after he gave you the journal?"

  "He made me promise that I would crash the car," I cried, tears scorching my cheeks. "He said it would buy us some time."

  "Time for what?" Sketch demanded.

  "To get away," I sobbed, wrapping my arms around myself. "Nothing in Pocketful is as it seems."

  I didn’t realize I was screaming until the truck came to a sudden halt and Presley's voice boomed with authority. "She's freaking out. Get back there and hold her before she climbs back inside that head of hers, dammit. I'll drive."

  "Are you insane?"

  "Do it, Sketch."

  "Why can't you do it?"

  "Because you can't drive for shit right now and I'm not the one that can pull her out of this."

  "Well I can't, okay? I can't!"

  "Don’t be a baby."

  "I'm not a fucking baby."

  "God help me, if you don’t get your ass in the backseat and calm her down, I will make it my life's mission to torment you –"

  "Alright!" The sound of a car door slamming filled my ears seconds before another one opened. Moments later, Sketch was climbing into the backseat alongside me and the familiar scent of freshly cut grass, soap, and peppermint was filling my senses.

  "It's okay." His hands were like lightning bolts of heat on mine, causing my skin to warm and tingle. "Shh, you're okay."

  I wasn’t okay, didn’t think I would be again, but I didn’t argue with him. I could see no good that could possibly come from this, but I continued to spill my secrets. They would be as frightened as I was. That wasn’t a victory. That was a travesty.

  "You've been protecting me," he continued. "It's my turn to return the favor."

  "You can't."

  "I can try."

  "He died, Sketch," I strangled out, pathetically seeking out the warmth of his chest. "He fucking died right there in the passenger seat and there was nothing I could do but watch it happen!" Messed up or not, the steady rhythm of his heart was grounding me. "After that, I did exactly what Chris made me promise him." Sniffling, I tried to catch my breath before choking out, "I crashed the car – just like he told me to. Except I messed up, because I should've taken myself out with him!"

  A shudder racked through Sketch's huge frame and after a moment's hesitation, his
arms came around me, unbuckling my belt and pulling me onto his lap. "No, you shouldn’t have."

  Several minutes of tense silence had settled between us and my heart was bucking around nervously. Did they all hate me? Blame me? Think it was my fault? Was it? God, I was so confused, it was hard to breathe.

  "And that's it?" Sketch finally broke the silence. "That's how my brother died?" His voice was hoarse, his eyes bloodshot. "He accepted it."

  Numb, I clasped my hands together and nodded weakly. "I tried to take him to a hospital, I tried so goddamn hard to change his mind, but he wouldn't listen. He said that it wouldn’t matter because they would keep coming for him." My breath hitched in my throat, but I forced the words out, "He said he was a dead man." A sniffle came from the front seat and my heart cracked clean open. "I'm so sorry, guys."

  "Yeah," Pres strangled out, voice thick with emotion. "Me, too."

  "Is there anything else?" Sketch demanded, tone shaky. "Ro, if you know anything else, you have to tell us now."

  "It's all cloudy," I strangled out, way past my breaking point. "I can't think straight."

  "Romi –"

  "That's enough, Sketch," Presley barked from the front seat. "For now."

  For now.

  A shiver rolled through me at the thought.

  Chapter Eight

  Sketch

  Later that evening, we were checked into a nearby motel that accepted cash, and I wasn't feeling nearly so homicidal. Relieved not to be spending the night behind the wheel, I carried a comatose Romi into our room before making a second trip for our bags. She passed out in my arms earlier and hadn't woken up since.

  Still reeling from her reluctant revelation, I set our bags by the door and stretched my arms over my head, feeling my muscles click back into place. My t-shirt, still damp from her tears, was irritating the hell out of my skin so I yanked it over my head and tossed it on a chair.

  "You were right," I stated in a quiet voice, keeping my eyes on Presley. "About her being the key."