by Jo Raven
He growls, and manages to get a hit in, his fist glancing off my jaw, but I’m too angry to feel any pain right now, physical or otherwise.
“You’ll never talk to Gigi again, hear me?” I grab fistfuls of his sweater and snarl in his face. “Never go near her, or I’ll smash your face in.”
He’s scowling now, his smugness gone. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
With an effort, I let go, giving him one last shake before I do, and he lurches out of my hold.
He crosses the living room, grabbing his jacket on his way, then turns and gives me a rictus of a grin, his teeth bloody. “As for your girl, brother, no promises.”
Opening the door, he gets out, and is gone.
Shit. I grab fistfuls of my hair with both hands and resist the urge throw things and to howl out my anger. I can’t fucking believe he had a “talk” with Gigi, that he had the nerve to come here and gloat about it.
That I wasn’t there to make sure he didn’t hurt her.
He said he didn’t. But the cold fear won’t quit. How can I trust he didn’t touch her? Even if he told me the truth, how can I trust his memory when he’s high most of the time?
Fuck my promise. Why should I protect Seb, when it’s others who need protection from him? When Gigi is at his mercy when I’m not around?
But how can I choose her over the family who took me in?
Can I do that? Dangerous, believing I have a choice, when all this time I knew my place, my purpose. All this time… all these past years I thought my purpose was to take care of my family. That’s what I was spared for, what my life is based on.
If I lose that purpose, what have I got left?
Over the next days, I keep myself busy, working my ass off at work, cleaning the apartment, working out with the weights in my room. Wearing myself out.
Hoping the fear for her will fade.
But no such luck. Every time I remember Seb’s words, every time I imagine him with her, I feel fucking sick.
And the nightmares that left me alone for a couple of weeks are now back with a goddamn vengeance, rolling me under, drowning me in dark wells with flashing lights and fangs that snag and tear, and screams that never end.
I need this to stop. Mom’s deterioration isn’t helping any with the way my thoughts are spinning, and Seb turning into a real fucking asshole is doing a number on me.
But above all, it’s Gigi, and my worry about her. There’s no way around it, no matter how I try.
I have to check on her, see she’s okay.
Problem is, I don’t even have her number or her address. She never called me, and after last time, the way she looked at me, the way I reacted… Yeah, what did I expect?
Sitting on my sofa, late at night, eating green beans straight from a can and drunk off my ass, I decide to hunt her down. Ask her, dammit.
So although I avoid social media like the plague, I Google her and find her on Facebook. Creating an account takes a few seconds. I put my name as Rett and shoot her a quick message.
‘Did Seb touch you?’
Just that. All I need to know.
Christ, not true, I want to ask if she’s okay, if I could see her again, if we could fuck again. I wanna know if she thinks of me, of my cock inside her, of my mouth on her, of how she came wrapped around me, if she likes me…
I’m so fucked.
And I don’t expect an answer from her, so imagine my shock when she replies what seems like seconds later.
‘He didn’t.’
Good. Fucking awesome. There’s my answer. Now I can sleep at night, right? I should put down my phone and get some rest.
Instead I type, ‘You okay?’
And wait for her reply, breath caught in my throat.
Wait longer.
Wait until I wanna throw my phone against the wall.
‘You joined the gang because of Seb,’ she types.
I stare at the words, my breath coming out in a rush. The hell? What else did he tell her? What is she thinking?
‘Because of a promise to your mom,’ she goes on.
Shit.
I rake my hand through my hair, not sure what to reply. Is there anything to say? She wasn’t asking a question, but it feels as though she was.
‘They’re my family,’ I finally send back. ‘I look out for them.’
It’s the truth.
‘Seb said to stop protecting him.’ She writes. ‘That he doesn’t need you to.’
That motherfucker. ‘I can’t do that.’
I wait, and wait, but she doesn’t write again. The green dot beside her name goes white, which I guess means she’s not online anymore.
Yeah, what else is there to talk about, right? It’s not like we’re friends anymore, or anything else. In any case, she wouldn’t understand. She never had to fight for a family, never had to try so hard to keep them.
Seb and Mom, they’re all I have left.
My excuses feel weak tonight, though, and I lie down on the sofa, stretch my legs and close my eyes, try to remember what it felt like to hope for a better tomorrow, what happiness felt like.
I bet I’d felt it once, with my parents. Even with Connor. Affection. Peace. The sense I belonged, that someone wanted me there.
That I fucking mattered.
Sleep is creeping up on me, turning my limbs to lead, sinking me into the mud, then floating me down a dark tunnel. Dread fills me.
Tunnels never bring anything good.
“How’s my baby doing?” a woman says. She’s looking at me. My mom. A flash of a smile. Eyes twinkling.
“Hanging on okay back there, buddy?” a man asks, turning to look at me.
Dad.
The car jerks.
A light fills the tunnel.
Someone is screaming.
It hurts. I don’t want this. I wanna go back to before. Go home.
My leg burns.
I don’t know where I am. What happened. It’s so dark, and it hurts so fucking bad, and I don’t know what—
Bang.
Bang.
The car is caving in, crushing me, and I yell for help, but nobody can hear me. I’m covered in blood, and I’m going to die together with them, but I’m still alive.
The banging grows louder.
“Jarett, goddammit, open the fucking door!” Bang. “Open up, you dipshit.”
Another bang.
Oh fuck me. The door.
“Just a sec.” I roll off the sofa with a groan, rubbing at my face. “Gimme a goddamn minute.”
But Seb doesn’t stop until I drag myself to my feet and stagger to the door to let him in.
“Took you long enough.” He shoves me aside and lurches inside, not any steadier on his feet than I am. “Thought you could leave me outside, huh? Thought I’d let you?”
“Oh shut up.” I bang the door shut, then regret it when the pain in my head spikes. “I was asleep. You woke me up. Where’s your fucking key?”
“Lost it.”
“The hell you did.”
“Can’t remember where I left it.”
“You serious right now? You lost the key?” Headache or not, my voice is rising, like my temper. “Christ.”
“Stop yelling.” He drops down on the sofa where I was asleep a moment ago and rubs his hands over his face. “I’m not feeling that well.”
“No shit.”
He looks up, eyes bloodshot, sweat running down his face. A shiver goes through him.
Yeah, he looks like roadkill. As much fun as the high has to be, the lows don’t make it seem worth the trouble.
And as much as he pisses the hell out of me, he’s my brother.
“Get into bed. I’ll make you coffee.”
His mouth twists into a sort of smile. “Thanks, Jarett.”
“Yeah. And tomorrow you’ll tell me you don’t need a fucking babysitter, and to fuck off. Jesus.” I rub at my eyes, the images from the dream haunting me. The screams, the smells, the blood. My knee hurts lik
e hell when I turn to go to the kitchen, and I don’t know if it’s phantom pain from the dream, or if I fucked it up again. “Why the fuck am I doing this? Wait, don’t answer.”
“Jarett. Look, I… I’m sorry I woke you up. And that I lost my key.”
I turn back around, startled. “It’s okay.” Blood. Pain. Darkness. My stomach churns. “I had a nightmare. I’m fucking glad you woke me up.”
“Was it about your parents again? That sucks, man. I thought you were past that.”
“Yeah, me too.”
And having this conversation with him in the middle of the night, when the last time we talked we beat the shit out of each other, is so fucking weird.
But this is the other side of Seb, one I never get to see anymore. He’ll never qualify for sainthood, but he can be decent when he isn’t trying too hard to be an asshole. When he forgets how important and awesome he is and acts like a human being.
By the time I make him the coffee, he’s fast asleep on the couch, fully dressed and in his heavy jacket, and I stare at him for a long time, after I place the mug on the low table.
I’m trying to see his mom in him. Does he have her eyes, her face, her hair, her colors?
Her kindness?
Is he the son I can never be? Is he worth my promise to her? Is he worth staying in the gang, pushing Gigi away, putting myself on the line?
Is he worth my life?
But then I think, what worth is my life anyway? Not much, that’s for sure. Nobody will miss me if I’m gone. I’ve lost those who mattered to me, those who cared for me.
I might as well make sure he stays alive.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gigi
“Here, listen to this one,” Merc says. “It’s a good song.”
He passes me his huge over-ear Bose headphones, a gift from all of us to him for his eighteenth birthday. I swear the guy studies, meets his friends, eats and sleeps and takes a dump without taking them off.
Curled up in a kitchen chair, my mug of tea steaming in front of me, with my brother and new music to check out, I’m in my happy place. No classes today, as we’re supposed to be studying for midterms, and I’m chilling out.
Note the “supposed.” I should be studying, but I need this time. I need to collect my thoughts. Because I don’t know what to do.
Finding out why Jarett joined the gang, getting a glimpse inside his head and way of thinking, isn’t enough to redeem him. Or to rescue him. It’s obvious he believes he’s doing the right thing. How do you rescue someone who can’t see the sinkhole opening under his feet?
The moment I put on the headphones, the beat thumps through me, echoing in my skull and every bone in my body. Whoa. Nice one.
“Good for when you can’t sleep,” Merc says, smiling.
“You mean you can’t sleep because you get such a mega headache from this song.”
“Oh suck it up, Ginger. You’ll love this song. Listen to it first, and then pass judgment.”
“We shall see about that, Mercurius. And I’ve never been a ginger. Not about to start now.”
“Pardon me, missus,” he says with a terrible British accent. At least I think it’s British. “I see now ye’re a propah blond.”
“God, please tell me this isn’t how you come on to girls.”
He looks offended. “I don’t need to fucking come on to girls. I’ll let you know, girls flock to me.”
“That so.”
“Ah-huh. All the time. They go on their knees, begging to go out with me.”
“Why am I not convinced?”
He grimaces. “Some sister you are. No support at all.”
“Aw, Mercky. You’re cute. I’m sure girls are falling over their feet to get to you. They’re so blinded by you they can’t see any other guy. They cry out your name as they come on someone else’s cock and can never find true love because of you.” I pause for dramatic effect. “How was that?”
“Screw you.” He pouts and makes sad eyes at me. “That was fucking awful.”
I laugh. “I thought it was being supportive.”
“That’s it, I’m not making any more playlists for you.”
“Aw, don’t be that way. You know I adore your playlists.”
He grins. “You’d better.”
But he knows it’s true. We share the same taste in music. He says he taught me everything I know in that respect. I insist I am the one who got him hooked on alternative pop, hip hop, and indie rock music since I’m older by a year.
It doesn’t really matter.
Merc and me, we’re close. Closer than we are with Octavia. She was always kind of like a second mom to us. But Merc and me, we’re thick as thieves. We’re like twins. He knows about stuff that happened to me. I know about stuff that happened to him, that nobody else knows.
And we pretend we know nothing and that nothing ever happened, that life is a unicorn’s rainbow fart and smells of roses.
That’s how we roll. It’s easier to get through the day—and night—that way. Besides, I kind of like the smell of roses… and my illusions. They’re warm and cozy like this kitchen. I try not to think I lost my trust in men, in people, my confidence in myself, and that now I fake it every day.
Try not to remember that the only place I’ve ever felt safe since we left Destiny is Jarett’s arms. That all I want is to grab my phone and call him, find him, meet him.
“Gigi? Hey.” Merc tugs the headphones off my head. “What did you think of the song?”
“It’s awesome,” I say, and can’t even remember the melody. “Gimme.”
“Goes on your new playlist,” he says with a grin, pleased with himself. “Songs for the winter.”
“That sounds sad.” I take a sip from my tea. I think of Jarett’s bare apartment and shiver involuntarily.
“Nah. Winter is a good time. You know, a time to rest and reflect, a time for secret changes under the surface.”
“Wow.” I gape at him. “That was deep.”
“Read it somewhere,” he says sheepishly, cheeks coloring, and jams the headphones on his head. “Going to make that playlist.”
“You do that,” I mutter, watching him as he leaves the kitchen, blond hair standing up in all directions.
I’m happy when I make him smile. When I see joy in Mom’s, or Octavia’s eyes. I want the people I love to be happy.
I want Jarett to be happy, and safe.
But he’s not mine to care for, to worry about, to want and to love. My trail of clues has gone cold.
So he’d do anything about his adopted family. So maybe he’s steadfast and true to those who help him.
But why should I be glad when he seems to care more about his creepy asshole of a brother than me, or even himself? It sounds like his promise is an excuse to stay on the wrong side of the law. And that’s not good.
Not good at all.
When I return to the kitchen later to make myself a sandwich and grab a glass of milk, my thoughts still on the same man, the same dilemma, I find Mom baking.
Figures I was so lost in my own mind I didn’t notice the divine smells wafting up. My stomach must have noticed, though. No wonder it’s been rumbling for the past hour, demanding to be fed.
Mom glances up from the row of perfect cakes she’s baked and smiles. “Hi, sweetie. Merc said you were home today. Feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I took a nap. Speaking of which…” I frown. “Have you talked to Tati? I had a weird dream that the baby was yelling at her through her belly that he wanted out.”
She snorts softly. “You’re probably just antsy, like I am. But your sister is fine, I just talked to her. Now come help your mom ice these cakes. You’re so much faster than me.”
I shuffle closer in my fluffy bunny slippers and tug my overlong sweater down, over my LaRue leggings with their print of cute Dead Sugar Skulls. “Move over, heathen. Only I can ice these cakes properly.”
“Thank you.” Laughing, she kisses my cheek and busies herself g
etting another cake out of the oven.
“Wait, how many cakes have you baked, Mom? This has to be illegal. I know you don’t get paid for this, but you’ve practically opened a bakery in our kitchen.”
“Shush now. Get to work, or I’ll never be ready on time. And no dipping your finger in the icing!”
How does she always know?
“Doing the usual rounds today?” I grab the spatula and get to work.
“Yeah. Least I hope so. I got no driver today, so I’ll have to call a cab. Always harder. I wish I’d learned to drive. You should, Gigi.”
“I’m planning on it. Matt said he’ll teach me after the baby arrives.”
She arches a brow. “He’d trust you with a car?”
“Psht.” I slather icing on the cake in front of me. “Why wouldn’t he? He can see how careful and studious I can be.”
“Have you met you?” my mom, the traitor, says. “And did you notice you just spread icing on the table, too?”
Crap. I shake my head and bite my lip not to laugh. Whatever. My brother-in-law is pretty awesome. He’ll teach me, and then someday I’ll buy my own car.
Mom wants that. She wants for me to be independent, because she never really was. By the time she moved away from her home and parents she never talks about, and got a job, she became pregnant with Octavia, then me, and then Merc. She was trapped from the start. No time or money for driving lessons, let alone buying a car.
She’ll never tell you she was trapped, though. She talks of my childhood with such joy, she makes it sound like a perfect time, when I know for a fact she was working three jobs to make ends meet.
While our douchebag of a father had it all and never gave her a cent to help out. Never acknowledged us. Never wanted anything to do with us. Instead, he trained his own son from his legal wife to look down on us and call us names on the street.
“What’s wrong with you today, girly?” Mom is frowning down at the cake I’m supposed to be icing. “You’re not concentrating. Want me to do that?”
“No. Sorry. Just a lot on my mind.” I focus on finishing the cake, then start on the next one. “Going to visit Becky again? Your friend who lost her memory?”