by Chloe Walsh
All touchy-feely.
All loved-up.
Blinking rapidly, I looked on in a sick state of masochistic destruction as my brother, the one fucking decent family member I had, leaned in and pressed a kiss to my girl's lips.
Pain, more pain than I'd ever experienced, ricocheted through my body, causing my legs to shake and my body to buckle.
Two months. We'd been broken up two damn months and she had moved on – to my brother, no less. Needing to move before I passed out on the floor, I barged past them, ignoring the glimmer of guilt in my brother's eyes when our eyes met across the crowded hallway. His eyes told me he was sorry. Mine told him to go fuck himself.
Fuck him.
Fuck her.
Fuck the whole damn world...
"Fuck them both," I slurred, with a shake of my head. Nursing what I thought could be my ninth or tenth beer, I tipped the bottle back and drained the contents before ordering another shooter from the busty blonde behind the bar.
"You sure you want this, sweetheart?" she drawled, leaning across the bar to pour another shot of Jack into my glass. "I have it on good authority that whiskey ain't no good for healing a broken heart."
"I ain't trying to heal it," I mumbled, reaching for the glass. "I'm trying to numb it."
"Uh-huh." Tossing a cleaning rag over her shoulder, she leaned against the bar, tits spilling over the tiny shirt she had on, and smiled. "And how's that working for you?"
Tossing the amber liquid down my throat, I swallowed deeply and pushed the empty glass towards her. "Keep 'em coming and I'll let you know when it starts working."
Smirking, she reached for the bottle and poured me another. "You know –" she pushed the glass towards me, but didn’t let go. "I might know another cure."
My brows furrowed and I kept my glazed over gaze locked on the glass – on the red-painted fingernails curled around mine. "And what's that, ma'am?"
"My shift finishes in twenty minutes," she purred, releasing the glass. "How 'bout you meet me out back and I'll show you?"
I arched brow. "Are you propositioning me?"
She smirked. "Why else do you think I'd risk getting fired to serve you? We both know that I.D you flashed me is bullshit, pretty boy."
"Wow." I tossed my shot back before continuing, "Now, I kinda feel like prey."
"So, what are you?" she laughed. "A sophomore in college?"
"Try senior in high school," I replied, too drunk to lie. "And I'm sorry, but I can't fuck you tonight." My brows furrowed. "Or any night."
"Because of your broken heart?" she teased, still grinning.
"Because I would be a massive disappointment," I slurred.
"Well shit." Her brows shot up. "A good boy. I wasn't expecting that."
I shrugged. "I'm full of surprises."
"And the girl?" She leaned closer. "The one you're drowning your sorrows over?"
"Fucked me over," I declared. "Fucked my brother in the process." I frowned deeply, feeling my brows mash together. "Now the brother is dead, the girl is waiting at a motel for me, and I'm…" I waved a hand around aimlessly, "here with you."
She winced. "Ouch."
I nodded. "Sucks to be me, huh?"
"Still love her?" she asked then. "Your dead brother's girl?"
I thought about it for a moment before pushing back my stool. "She was never his girl, ma'am." Climbing unsteadily to my feet, I tossed a few bills on the counter and asked, "Do you happen to have a phone?"
"No cell?"
None I could risk using. Drunk or not, I wasn’t that stupid. "Nope."
"There's a phone out back," she replied, giving me a strange look.
Nodding, I offered her a small salute before making my way out of the bar. Drunk as I was, I managed to find the payphone easily. Picking up the receiver I clumsily pushed a bunch of change into the slot and dialed one of the few numbers I knew by heart.
"Why didn’t you stop him?" I slurred, forehead pressing against the cool wall, with the phone welded to my ear. "Why didn’t you help me?"
My father's voice was even when he asked, "Are you with her now?"
"If I am, are you gonna tell him?" I shot back. "Are you gonna let him take her again?"
Silence.
"I couldn’t do shit back then," I continued, leaning heavily against the wall. "I was too young. Too fucking powerless. But you could and you didn't."
"It was complicated."
"I loved her." I clenched my eyes shut, breathing hard and fast. "More than anything and you let him take her from me. Hell, I don’t know shit about being a father, I ain't gotta kid, but if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't let my asshole best friend beat him to a pulp."
"There's a lot you don’t understand," he replied. "I've done the best I can for you, son –"
"Chris could have her, but I couldn’t?" I choked out, hemorrhaging in my pain that only seemed to be intensified by the alcohol flooding my veins. "Why, Dad? What's wrong with me?"
"Are you planning on coming home anytime soon?" he asked, not bothering to answer me. "Don’t think your absence has gone unnoticed at school. Your coach is furious with you."
"Why don’t you love me?"
"Holden –"
"Why doesn’t Mama love me?"
"You're drunk," he finally replied. "You need to sleep it off and come home –"
"Love you, too, Dad," I slurred, slamming the receiver down before I took another mental kicking.
Chapter Fifteen
Romi
Reeling from Sketch's confession, I lay awake all night, taking comfort in the arm Pres had slung over my shoulders and the sound of his soft snoring, while I kept my eyes glued to the door. Time crawled by at a snail's pace, with the dark eventually being replaced with the dawn, but Sketch never came back to the room.
"Your dad wanted me out of the picture. He wanted me away from you so badly that he was willing to uproot your entire world and ship you off to a boarding school in Europe to make that happen. So, I made a deal with him…. I did what I thought was right…I kept my side of the deal. Your father didn’t."
So many lies. So many bitter regrets. None of which I could do a damn thing to change. Sketch was right when he said hashing up the past wouldn’t change the present. The only thing we could do now was try to crack the puzzle Chris had left behind. Still, I couldn’t let what Sketch said go. I couldn’t let it rest, not until I said my peace.
Numb, I climbed out of bed, taking care not to wake Pres, who had deemed me the little spoon to his big spoon earlier in the night. Getting around with the damn boot was a curse, but I managed to hobble over to Presley's pile of discarded clothes and snag his phone.
Tapping in the number I knew by heart, I crept into the adjoining bathroom before placing the call. With my heart in my mouth, I pressed the phone to my ear and waited until he picked up.
"Cal Dillon."
"How could you?" were the first words that came out of my mouth. Balling my free hand into a fist, I sank down on the closed toilet lid and hissed, "I trusted you."
"Romi?" The relief in my father's voice was evident. "Oh, thank god you're alright, sweet pea. Half the country is out looking for you. Where are you?"
"Answer me," I demanded, keeping my voice hushed. "Why, Dad?"
"Romi, you need to tell me where you are –"
"No," I hissed. "You need to tell me why you made him break up with me?"
There was a long stretch of silence before my father sighed heavily down the line. "Of course. You're with him right now, aren’t you?" His voice took on a harder tone when he said, "Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"
"Do you have any idea how heartbroken I've been?" I cried hoarsely. "I love him, Daddy. For my whole life, I've only loved him. I've only wanted him, and you took him from me."
"Just tell me where you are and I'll come get you," he tried to change the subject by saying. "We can talk about Holden then."
"No," I spat. "You took him from me. He
hates me now. Do you get that? He can't even look at me because he thinks I betrayed him with Chris. He sacrificed his own happiness to keep me in Pocketful because he thought that's what I needed, and you just stood by and let it happen. You saw me cry for months – you saw me lose my fucking mind over him, and you let it happen. I can never trust you again. Never. You took him from me and you locked me up. I begged you not to send me there and you didn’t listen. I told you I loved him and you didn’t listen. You never listen –"
"Enough!" my father bellowed down the line. "Tell me where you are right this instant, young lady."
"Why?" I demanded bitterly while I kicked off my sweatpants. "So you can send me back to hell?" I shook my head and wiped my nose with my sleeve. "No, this time you can go to hell."
"Ramona –"
"Goodbye, Dad."
"No, no. Don’t you dare hang up on –"
I ended the call before he had a chance to finish and tossed the phone in the nearby sink. Dropping my head in my hands, I dug my fingers into my scalp and drew in several deep breaths. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Swallowing several times to clear the huge lump in my throat, I concentrated on keeping my breathing even and not giving in to the panic attack threatening to overtake me. Breathe, Romi. Just keep breathing. Nice and slow.
A knock on the bathroom door stirred me from my thoughts. "Romi?" Presley's voice came from behind the door moments before it creaked open. "I'm not coming in, okay?" he hurried to say before sticking an arm around the door and dropping several shopping bags on the bathroom floor. "Just wanted to give you these."
"What's all this?"
"Sketch had me pick some stuff up for you," was all he replied before closing the door.
Sketch.
Sketch.
Sketch.
Oh god…
"Pres?" I called out, feeling weak.
"Yeah?"
"You can come in here –" My voice cracked and I wet my lips before continuing, "I really need to get clean and I need some help."
"Sure thing." The door swung open again, revealing a disheveled and sleepy looking Presley.
"Where'd you go?"
"Pocketful."
"Why?"
"To find the journal."
"And did you find it?"
"Not as of yet, but I will." Standing in nothing but a pair of Halloween themed boxer shorts, he scratched his bare chest and eyed me with a sympathetic expression. "So, who'd you sneak in here to call?"
"My dad," I replied, my one good knee bopping restlessly while I tugged on the Velcro straps of the boot. Tearing the straps free, I tossed the boot away and stared down at my discolored and recently stitched knee and then my puffy ankle.
"Whoa, should you be taking that thing off?"
"Don’t know," I replied honestly, dragging Sketch's hoodie over my head. "Don’t really care. I just need a shower that doesn’t consist of washing in the sink."
"Jesus Christ, Romi!" Padding into the bathroom, Presley trailed his fingers down my spine. "Did Sketch feed you at all?" His eyes narrowed. "You look like you've lost ten pounds."
"He did," I admitted. "I'm just…I can't eat."
"Well hell, no wonder you look so weak," he grumbled. Disappearing into the bedroom, he returned a moment later with a packet of M&M's. "Here you go, girl, and don’t even think about telling me you're not hungry." Popping the bag open, he thrust it into my hands. "You need to get some sugar into you."
I gave him a small smile before pouring a few of the candies into my hand and popping them into my mouth, relishing in the chocolatey goodness when it hit my taste buds.
"So." Lowering himself to the floor, he leaned against the tub and hooked his arms around his knees. "Would it be fair for me to assume that this impromptu call to your dad – not to mention Sketch passed out in the backseat of his truck with an empty bottle of JD – is because he finally told you about your breakup?"
"He slept in his truck?" I croaked out.
Pres nodded. "Saw him from the window."
"Oh."
"Ya'll had a fight? Over the breakup?"
Swallowing down a mouthful of chocolate, I nodded slowly.
Pres watched me carefully. "And I'm guessing the reason you avoided all conversation with me last night is because it didn’t end well?"
Appetite gone, I set the half-eaten packet down and offered him another nod, this time with a sniffle.
"Ah hell," Pres groaned. "Okay, baby girl." Closing the space between us, he wrapped me up in his arms. "Tell me everything."
"I don’t even know where to start, it's so damn screwed up," I sniffled, burying my face in his neck, crying hard and ugly. "He hates me."
"Sketch hates everyone," he said with a sigh. "Everyone in the whole entire world except –" pausing, he leaned back and tapped my nose, "for Romi Dillon."
"That's not true anymore."
"It's about the truest thing I know," he argued. "Even when he thinks he hates you, he doesn’t. He can't. It's physiologically impossible for that boy to do anything but adore your skinny ass. It's been ingrained in him since he was five years old." Smiling softly, he added, "Tarzan loves Jane. Sketch loves Romi."
"You don't understand," I whispered brokenly. "You didn’t see the way he looked at me last night. Like I'd… stabbed him through the heart and the back."
"Sketch is no angel," Pres reminded me. "In fact, ten months of publicly labeling you as his brother's killer gives him the edge in the asshole stakes, so I wouldn’t be so hard on myself if I were you."
"That's what I thought, too," I replied. "You have no idea how many nights I've laid in bed, vowing to myself that I would never forgive him for the way he treated me."
"But?"
"You didn’t hear him last night. His words. His explanation. His…truth." Cringing, I tucked my tangled hair behind my ears and blew out a shaky breath. "I think I broke him, Pres. And Chris? He was my boyfriend and your best friend, but he was Sketch's brother. His twin. His death is crippling him. He's in so much pain."
"As are you," he reminded me. "Doesn’t give him the right to take it out on you – regardless of whether you were lying or not."
"But I was lying," I whispered.
"Yes," he agreed with a nod. "You lied to protect him and he lied to protect you. That's an unfortunate pattern, don’t you think?"
"I don’t know what to think anymore."
"Do you still have feelings for him?"
"What kind of a question is that?"
"The important kind," he replied. "The only question that matters."
"Pres, I don’t just have feelings for him. I drown in him. Daily," I admitted hoarsely. "I've never not had feelings for him."
"Damn," Presley whistled. "Tell me what he said last night."
Dragging in a pained breath, I relayed everything Sketch had told me, leaving nothing out.
"Huh," Pres said when I was finished. He clicked his tongue and pushed a hand through his dark curls. "So, he's still trying to protect you from the truth."
"Wh-what do you mean?"
"Your dad didn’t just warn him off you, Romi," he told me, expression angry. "He had Sketch attacked. They beat him. Badly. Bad enough that he spent two weeks in the hospital recovering from his injuries."
I shook my head in horror. "No."
"Yes," Presley countered with a nod. "Remember when Sketch dropped off the face of the earth right before you guys broke up? And then when he came back, you said he was different? Like a closed book? Well, he was in St. Catherine's that whole time, Romi."
"Oh my god." My stomach churned violently. "How do you know this?"
"Chris."
"What?" I gaped at him. "Chris knew?"
Grimacing, he nodded. "Yeah."
"What the hell, Presley." I jerked to my feet, only to fall back down on the toilet, my left leg unable to take my weight without the support of my medical boot. "Then why didn’t he tell me?"
"I honest t
o god have no idea," he replied, placing a hand on my good knee. "For the longest time, I thought it might be because Sketch asked him not to say a word, so I kept my mouth shut, too, but then I spoke to Sketch about it and he never knew that Chris knew. I swear I would've told you if I realized."
My face caved and I dropped my head in my hands. "Oh god, Pres. What's happening here? Why would Chris not tell me? I never –"
"Would have dated him if you knew?" Pres offered with a sigh. "Yeah, I think that's pretty clear, Romi."
"Then why would he do that?"
"I think that's also pretty clear," he growled, eyes darkening. "But that's not him. He wouldn’t screw Sketch over like that. Not unless..." His eyes widened as awareness dawned on him. "Not unless he had no other choice." He turned to stare at me. That's it."
I blinked in confusion. "What is?"
"I can't believe I didn’t see it before now." His eyes danced with triumph. "But that's it. That has to be it. You're a freaking genius, Romi Dillon!" Lunging forward, he pressed a quick kiss to my forehead before jumping to his feet. "Now, take your shower and get dressed," he ordered, rushing for the door. "I need to wake Sketch."
"Presley, wait –"
"Gotta go, baby girl," he called over his shoulder. "Take your shower. We'll talk later."
"But I can't –"
The door of the motel room slammed shut, letting me know that he was gone.
"Get into the tub on my own," I finished with a sigh.
Chapter Sixteen
Sketch
Jack Daniels kicked my ass last night and I was wallowing in regret; sweating out whiskey and drowning in my sins. I planned on doing so in peace, but the maniac banging on my truck window had other ideas.
"Sketch, I need to talk to you!" Bang, bang, bang. "Come on, I can see you in there." Bang, bang, bang. "Shake a leg, dude, this is important."
Peeling an eye open, I winced when the early morning sun attacked my senses. Slapping an arm over my face, I squinted until a familiar goofy face came into focus, nose pressed up against the glass of the passenger door window. "Jesus fucking Christ," I groaned, burying my face in the crook of my elbow. "Go away, Quinton."