The Long Road Home [The Final McCassey Brothers Book]

by Lauren N. Sharman

  Blackie looked down at her. “You're goddamn right I'm scared,” he admitted without hesitation. “For forty years, I ain't needed much more than a right hook or semi-automatic weapon—and sometimes a little fast talkin'—to take care of whatever was threatenin’ me or my family. It's how I survived growin’ up in Dolan's house, how I kept my brothers alive each time the old man went after them, and how I made it through servin’ all that time in prison.

  "Ain't none of them things gonna work this time. You got a problem that can't be fixed the way I'm used to fixin’ things, and that's scary as hell for a man like me."

  Unwinding herself from the blanket, Georgia sat up. Stifling a yawn, she maneuvered her body until she was sitting across from Blackie, staring at him.

  Quietly watching her, he looked confused.

  With trembling hands—something she knew was caused by her withdrawal—Georgia reached out and grabbed onto his hand. “My mom used to say that you could get through anything as long as you had someone by your side. I never understood the true meaning of that until I came to Hagerstown and met you guys. I know I'll be okay, Blackie, because I have you, Judd, and Rebel looking out for me."

  "That ain't true. We can't do nothin’ to help you."

  "Yes, you can,” she assured him. “You're doing it. Right now. Just by being here, you're helping. If you weren't around, I'd be alone."

  He looked like he didn't believe her, but didn't argue, either. Instead, he changed the subject ... dramatically. “Why don't you want to call your mom?"

  Before Georgia had the chance to speak, she was hit with a surprisingly sudden wave of nausea. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Blackie had just enough time to guide her toward the bucket on the floor before she got sick.

  So far, vomiting had been the worst part of heroin withdrawal. Georgia could take the chills, tremors, and muscle cramps, but the vomiting had to go.

  However, the instant Blackie asked the question about her mother was the first time in three days that Georgia had been grateful for the distraction of having to throw up.

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  Chapter 7

  Having a relatively easy afternoon on the fourth day of her detox should've been Georgia's first clue that she was going to pay dearly for the welcomed lull in her misery.

  She'd heard that no one had an easy fourth day ... that was typically the day after someone's withdrawal symptoms peaked.

  Although she was very tired and lethargic, and had had several bouts of nausea, she'd only thrown up a handful of times.

  She should've been much more miserable.

  Instead, she'd been sitting on the bed watching a Washington Redskins game on an old black and white TV with Rebel all afternoon, half-heartedly learning the ins and outs of the NFL.

  During halftime, she'd even managed to take a quick shower, dress in a pair of sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, and eat a small bowl of the homemade chicken noodle soup that Rebel's wife, Gypsy, had sent over.

  "It's good, huh?” Rebel asked when she'd finished.

  Georgia nodded as she handed him the empty bowl, remembering all the tasty dishes her mom used to make. “Gypsy's a great cook,” she told her brother. “You're lucky; I bet she makes stuff like this for you all the time."

  "She loves cooking; makes a ton of food every Sunday during football season when the guys come over."

  "Is that where they all are today—Blackie, Judd, and the rest of your cousins—at your house watching football?"

  "Your cousins, too,” he reminded her.

  Yeah, my cousins, too.

  "As far as I know, they're all there. Originally, we were supposed to be hunting."

  Georgia's heart fell. They missed their hunting trip because of me!

  Almost as if he'd read her mind, Rebel elaborated. “You're not the reason we didn't go hunting, Georgia. Traditionally, the weekend after Thanksgiving is the one us guys spend hunting. We postponed it this year because there was so much going on then. Not only was Dusty still recovering from surgery, but she and Judd were getting ready to get married."

  Georgia knew that Judd and Dusty—who'd apparently been in love with each other since they were kids—had gotten married just a week earlier. But she still wasn't convinced she hadn't been the cause of their canceled plans.

  "The cabin on Ten Acres burned down six weeks ago when Dolan tried to incinerate Judd and Dusty. The boys and I cleared away the charred debris immediately, framed in a new building, and got it under roof, but the walls haven't been enclosed yet.

  "The old cabin might've had a dirt floor and been well over a hundred years old, but it had a nice little set-up inside with cots, supplies, and a woodstove that used to get so hot, not even the devil himself would've been able to stand it. And I'm not talking about Blackie, either,” he said with a chuckle. “When that stove was fired up, it made the room hotter than hell."

  He paused for a moment, then chuckled again and shook his head as if he was laughing at himself. “Maybe we've all gotten a little soft; none of us wanted to sleep out under the stars like we did when we were teenagers. It's just too damn cold this year."

  She laughed with him then, enjoying the feeling of not only having something to laugh about, but someone to laugh with, too. “Well, I don't think you guys are soft; I think you're smart. I love the outdoors, but draw the line at sleeping outside when the possibility exists that I could wake up with my sleeping bag covered in snow."

  Rebel laughed again, which made Georgia happy. None of them had had much to laugh about in the past few days. “I think that was pretty much the way everyone felt. Deer season is long enough that there'll be plenty other weekends to go hunting. It's always been sort of a guy thing, but that's just because the girls weren't interested; not because we excluded them. Maybe you can come with us sometime."

  Georgia had heard a lot about Ten Acres—the ten acres of land that their great-great-great grandfather, Patrick McCassey, had won in a poker game back in 1832—over the past few days. “Ten Acres sounds like an interesting place and I'd like to see it, but I think I'll leave the hunting up to you guys. Maybe if I stay behind, Gypsy can teach me how to make that soup. I never had a chance to learn to cook many things."

  Rebel reached over and tousled her hair. “I'm sure she'd like that. Gypsy's really looking forward to meeting you, Georgia; all the girls are."

  All the girls.

  Gypsy, Angel, and Dusty; her sisters-in-law. Georgia was looking forward to meeting them, too ... sort of. From what she'd heard from her brothers, their wives were all good women. Strong, tough women who not only stood toe to toe with their men when they felt they needed to, but stood by them, as well.

  It sounded as though each of her brothers was loved unconditionally, and for that, Georgia liked the girls already.

  But would they like her?

  Blackie had told her that his wife, Angel, had killed her ex-husband in self-defense when she was seventeen. And that Judd's wife, Dusty, had not only ridden with an outlaw biker gang for a while, but had also shot a few men. Out of all the women, Gypsy seemed to be the only one who hadn't been involved in some kind of violence.

  "That don't mean she ain't tough,” Blackie had assured her, “she just don't show it the way Angel and Dusty do."

  Still, even with everything they'd all done over the years, none of them had been involved in anything close to what Georgia had experienced. Being raped by her own father, addicted to heroin, and sold to filthy men who didn't do anything more than use her body was nothing to be proud of.

  Her brother's wives had all moved on. They were respectable women who had young children.

  Georgia just knew she wasn't going to fit in.

  The girls weren't going to like her.

  How could they, when she didn't even like herself?

  * * * *

  Somewhere around midnight—after a good three hours of feeling relatively normal—Georgia polished off another small bowl of Gypsy's soup.<
br />
  "Are you sure you don't want any more?” Rebel asked. “There's plenty here."

  Still in her sweats, Georgia declined the offer and crawled back into bed. “No thanks, that was perfect. I don't think I should eat too much, anyway; don't want to press my luck."

  She sunk beneath the blankets and rested her head on the pillow, loving the feeling of being in such a warm, safe place. Just as she was ready to close her eyes, Rebel surprised her by leaning down and kissing her forehead. Then, he literally tucked her in.

  Georgia watched in amazement as he went down the length of her legs, tucking the blanket underneath them. And even though the gesture touched her, Georgia felt a little silly. She was much too old to be tucked into bed by her big brother. “You don't have to do that, you know. I'm not a little kid."

  Rebel finished what he was doing and sat down beside her. “Says who?” He winked as he pushed a loosely curled lock of her hair away from her face. “You look pretty damn little to me. And I'm thirty-five, so at nineteen, that makes you a kid. If you don't believe me, ask Blackie."

  She laughed. “No thanks, I already know he'd say the same thing. Only it wouldn't come out of his mouth anywhere near as clean as it did yours."

  Rebel laughed, too. “Yeah, well, speaking correctly—and cleanly, for that matter—isn't one of Blackie's strong suits. But he means well, Georgia."

  "I know,” she assured him. “Sometimes, though, listening to him talk—especially when he's angry or frustrated—reminds me of..."

  Georgia allowed her voice to trail off, because even though Blackie's mouth was as filthy as their father's had been, Blackie was nothing like Dolan, and she suddenly felt guilty for even suggesting such a thing.

  Thankfully, Rebel let the subject drop.

  "You need anything else?” he asked.

  Georgia shook her head. She was fine, and she was tired. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to get a few hours sleep, something she hadn't been able to do since her withdrawal symptoms had begun.

  Looking up at Rebel, she suddenly noticed how exhausted he looked. The guys had been staying with her in twelve hour shifts; none of them getting anything close to the amount of sleep they needed during the night. Right now, Georgia felt fine. She'd be okay to stay by herself until morning.

  She hoped.

  "You should go home,” she suggested. “Really, Rebel. It's been hours since I've been sick, and I'm really tired. I think I might actually be able to sleep for a while. I should be fine."

  He looked at her skeptically, but she continued to push. “You guys have given up so much for me in the past four days. There's no need for you to hang out here and watch me sleep when you could be home sleeping with your wife in your own bed."

  When he began to look like he was almost convinced, she added the clincher. “Not only that, you're re-opening the garage tomorrow and have to be at work in less than six hours. Please go, I'll be okay."

  He sighed and shrugged. “Fine. I'll go. But you have to promise me that you'll call if you need anything. I live right down the street; I can be awake, dressed, and over here in less than five minutes."

  She promised. Even though she'd already decided that no matter how bad she started to feel, she'd go it alone until Judd came to see her at six o'clock the next morning.

  Georgia liked Rebel, she really did. But most of the time, felt very uncomfortable around him. He was smart and respectable, and she didn't feel like they had very much in common. To tell the truth, half the time, she wasn't really even sure what to say to him; always feeling like no matter what she said, it was never the right thing.

  "Here's the phone,” he said, placing the large, cordless handset on the nightstand next to the bed. “And here are our numbers. Blackie's is first,” he pointed out, “then Judd's, and mine's at the bottom."

  "I'll be fine, Rebel."

  "So you said,” he said with a hint of sarcasm, almost as if he didn't believe her. “But just in case you're not, I want you to call me. Understand?"

  "Yes, I understand. Thank you for your concern, but I swear I'll be okay.” She pulled her arm out from underneath the covers and waved him off. “Now go home to your wife and family."

  Wordlessly, Rebel switched off the light and turned away, hesitating only a moment before walking out the door.

  The click of the door closing was like music to Georgia's ears. Thankful to finally be alone, she felt the same way she did when she was nine years old and her mother let her stay home alone for the first time. Happiness, excitement, and a sense of freedom washed over her.

  Her brothers hadn't let her out of their sight in four days. Four days. That was a long time to be watched every minute of the day. The only time she'd had any privacy was when she went to the bathroom, which was inconveniently down the hall, and even then one of them was always waiting outside the door.

  Yes, she would definitely be fine.

  Georgia would show Blackie, Judd, and Rebel that she was as tough as they were; that she could handle anything, just like they could.

  All she had to do was make it through the next six hours.

  Closing her eyes, she maneuvered herself just a little—doing her best not to ruin Rebel's tuck-in job, because he'd taken such care to make sure she was comfortable—and settled in.

  An entire hour passed before the first leg cramps began. Georgia woke with a start when her left calf began to feel like it was being squeezed in a vice. Doing her best to rub it out, she sat up too quickly and was hit with a sudden wave of violent nausea. Since it was pitch black in the room, she had to guess where her bucket was, and hoped she hit it when she leaned over the side of the bed.

  Her hopes that the feeling would pass were short-lived when she broke out into a cold sweat. Unable to crawl back under the covers because she was still throwing up, Georgia lay on top of the blankets shivering, crying, and wishing she hadn't sent Rebel home.

  She had no idea how much time had passed since she first began to feel bad; she only knew that it seemed like it'd been hours.

  This was by far the worst she'd been since starting her detox. Right this minute, she didn't care about the promise she'd made Rebel ... didn't care that someone—probably Judd—was going to walk in and find her in the morning, and probably be scared to death that she was dying.

  If she was lucky, she would die.

  If she was lucky, Blackie wouldn't have flushed her stash of heroin down the toilet.

  If she was lucky, there would've been just enough light in the pitch black room to guide Georgia to the window ... the window that she knew opened by simply sliding the lock a little to the right ... a window she also knew she could fit through ... where she could end all the pain right now...

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  Chapter 8

  Judd wasn't sure if it was a good or bad sign that Rebel's pickup truck wasn't in the parking lot when he arrived at the garage at five-thirty Monday morning.

  Rebel was supposed to have been sitting with Georgia until six o'clock, when it would've been Judd's turn to take over. But he wasn't at the garage ... at least, he didn't appear to be.

  What the hell is going on?

  Judd opened the middle bay door and left it that way, just in case. “Rebel!” Judd hollered as he entered the quiet, dark garage and flicked on the lights.

  No answer.

  That's strange. Judd was sure his younger brother would've at least come down from the apartment and turned on the lights; especially since they were reopening the garage for business in thirty minutes after the long, four-day weekend.

  Deciding that maybe Rebel had fallen asleep and didn't hear his name being called, Judd crossed the garage and headed for the set of metal steps that led up to the apartment.

  That's when he heard it.

  From the hallway, the noises were muffled. But once Judd opened the door to the apartment, they were clear as day.

  Not only was Georgia crying; she'd been sick, too. The odor was so strong
it'd already reached the doorway. Why hadn't Rebel emptied the bucket?

  Reaching inside, Judd felt along the wall for the light switch. Once he found it, the room was instantly lit with one hundred watts of electricity.

  The picture of what came into view turned Judd's stomach.

  Drenched in sweat and shivering uncontrollably, Georgia was sitting on the floor wrapped in an equally wet bed sheet, huddled in the corner of the room near the window. Her hair was soaked—some of it matted to her head—her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and her nose was running.

  She lifted her head and looked up when he entered the room, but didn't say anything, and made no effort to clean her face, even by wiping it on her sleeve or the sheet, to make herself more presentable.

  He knew right then that Georgia was in trouble.

  Judd wanted to run to her. He wanted to hold her and comfort her like he would one of his nieces when they were hurt. But he knew he needed to approach her carefully.

  Taking a few tentative steps in her direction, Judd spoke calmly and quietly. “Georgia?"

  "I c-c-couldn't g-g-get it o-open,” she said through chattering teeth, her nose so stuffy from crying that she sounded as if she was talking with a clothespin on her nose.

  What was she talking about? “Couldn't get what open, honey?"

  She attempted to sniff, but her nose was too stuffy. Instead, she lifted her sleeve and dragged it across her face, then took in a deep breath. “T-the w-w-window."

  "The window?” Why would she ... and then it hit him. Either she'd wanted to open the window to air out the apartment, or she'd wanted to jump. By the looks of her, something told him that she didn't give a damn what the room smelled like.

  Oh God, Georgia had wanted to kill herself.

  And if she'd been able to get that window open, she would've succeeded.

  Shit! Where the hell was Rebel?

  Before Judd could say another word, Georgia leaned over, grabbed the trashcan next to her, and threw up.

  Judd did run to her then, sweeping her hair away from her face and holding it behind her neck as she retched.