Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(89)

“I swear to fuck, if you don’t get out...”

“You’ll do what? Push me away, too? Sorry, bro, it might work with other people, but I know you. So lash out all you want... yell at me, curse me, threaten me... I’m not going anywhere, ever.”

“Strong words for someone busy packing boxes to move the fuck out.”

“It’s not like that and you know it.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever,” he says, mocking me.

I turn to him, stepping toward him, getting right in his face. He doesn’t back up, doesn’t balk. He doesn’t even look afraid. “I might’ve raised you, Pretty Boy, but you’re not a kid anymore, so don’t think I won’t knock you the fuck out.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Strong words for someone busy freaking out because I’m moving out.”

The little son of a bitch is mocking me again.

I shove against him, pushing him backward, forcing him out of my way. Without saying a word, I go around him, walking out.

“I’m serious,” he says, calling after me as I head for the stairs. “You should go to her, talk to her.”

“Fuck off.”

“Get some sleep first, though,” he continues, following me, stopping at the bottom of the stairs as I trudge up them. “And take a shower, too, because, bro... you’re looking a bit like something out of a horror flick.”



I know what you’re thinking: this guy, he’s finally going to get his shit together. He’s going to wake up from a deep sleep, having dreamed about a different kind of life, or it’s going to hit him like a ton of bricks when he’s in the shower, washing up, rubbing one out. He’s going to realize his brother was right. He’s going to see that he’s in love. And he’s going to go after the woman, like some goddamn hero, and they’ll live happily ever after, always and forever.

But this isn’t some chick flick rom-com. John Hughes isn’t directing. My brother’s not fucking his girlfriend on my couch while watching this on my television.

That’s not how this goes.

I sleep. I eat something. I finally shower. I mope for days, making everybody miserable. A week passes. My house is filled with boxes. My brother finally got the keys to his rinky-dink apartment.

Three pops in every day, keeping me updated.

The house Scarlet and her little Pearl went to turned out to be hers. Her home. The house she told me about... she still has it. You see, all along I thought men like ol’ Mello Yello were milking her out of every penny, that they were stealing everything she stole, because she had nothing that I saw, but it turns out she was just hemorrhaging money trying to keep up with two lives—the one she’d been drifting through when I met her and the one she always intended to go back to.

She already had her picket fence.

She just needed help getting back to it.

She’d been paying the rent, been paying the utilities, keeping the place going even though she couldn’t stay there, even though it wasn’t safe, because she planned to one day have that life back.

She never lost hope, despite everything.

You have to respect that.

Or well, I do.

It’s around dusk on Friday evening. The guys are out, doing what they do, making money and raising hell, everything right back to normal. My brother’s at work. His girlfriend is... well, who the hell knows, but she’s not here. It’s quiet, so very quiet... not a peep in the house.

It’s peaceful. It’s boring.

I’m back to being bored out of my fucking mind.

After peeling an orange, I stroll out of the kitchen and head down the dim hallway. Just as I make it to the foyer, a chime echoes through the house. Doorbell. I divert that way, yanking the door open, coming face-to-face with Seven.

I sigh. Loudly.

“For your sake, I hope you’ve got a good reason,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, “because it has been way too long since I shot somebody, and you’re still hanging out on the top of my list.”

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Because we’re family.”

I take a bite of my orange, regarding him. “Because we’re family.”

“Yes,” he says. “Family’s not perfect. We make mistakes. We don’t always like each other, don’t always get along. So maybe I’m the black sheep of this family, and I deserve whatever happens to me because of it, but we’re family, and when you’re family, you deserve a chance.”

I continue to eat my orange. “You know I killed my mother, right?”

“Yes.”

I nod. “Just making sure.”

“But that’s different,” he says. “Family’s more than blood. Family is who we choose. So I’m not asking you to forgive me, not asking you to forget... I’m just asking for a chance to earn back your respect.”

I stand in the doorway for a while, long enough to finish off my orange, neither of us saying anything until I’m done. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my car keys.

“Come on,” I say, stepping out onto the porch. “Let’s take a ride.”

If the guy was smart, he’d bail right now, run like hell at the suggestion, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods, taking my keys and heading for my car without questioning where we’re going. Guts.