Long Way Home (Thunder Road #3)(88)

Oz is like his father, Man O’ War. He’s a huge solid wall of muscle and intimidating to those who threaten his family. He’s also a big soft teddy bear to those he loves. By the way he’s watching me, I can spot the spark of pain because he doesn’t know how to help not only me, but also Chevy and Razor.

By blood, Oz is an only child, but we’re his family. Chevy and Razor his brothers, me his sister. Isaiah had a lot of things right. Sometimes the best family is the kind that doesn’t share blood.

I glance over at Chevy and Razor and they’re both looking down at the table, the equivalent of crying into their beers without shedding a tear. Sadness is a bowling ball rolling down pins in my stomach.

This entire situation has become too big. The Riot, being kidnapped, being watched, being threatened, helping the detective and now Chevy finding out that the foundation on which he has been raised is crumbling.

Since Dad died, I’ve tried living life on my own. Thinking that if I did, it would hurt less, but I’ve been hurt anyway and all that’s happened is me ending up lonely.

I’m tired of hurting.

I’m tired of being alone.

I’m just plain exhausted.

I can’t do this on my own anymore. Neither can Chevy, and by the way Razor is looking like he was run over by a truck, he’s close to collapsing, too. I meet Oz’s eyes again and mouth, Help us.

He blinks. I don’t ask for help, and even when we were closer, I hardly ever asked for help from him. He rightly thought of himself as the leader of us and I used to constantly fight him for the position.

I’m not fighting now. I need a friend. So does Razor, and so does Chevy. We need someone who is thinking straight and God knows it’s not the three of us. If Oz truly is our brother, our friend, our leader—he’ll figure out how to shake us out of this stupor.

We were stronger together as a group and we need that strength again.

Oz slams his hand down on the table, causing it to shake and Chevy and Razor to snap out of their trances. “Enough of this bullshit. Everyone in the woods—now.”

He swings his legs over the bench to stand.

“It’s Violet’s party,” Razor says.

“Yeah, I got that in the text, but we’re sitting here like it’s her wake. Get up now and in the woods before I kick all of your asses.”

Razor smirks, Chevy snorts and the first rays of hope blossom inside me. Chevy rises to his feet. “I’d like to see you try to kick my ass.”

“Not try,” Oz says. “I will.”

“He’s always had a big head,” Razor says to Chevy as he stands, but then winks at me. “He thinks he’s bigger and badder than us. I say we drag him out into the woods and kick the shit out of him. Birthday girl gets first swing.”

“I’m game,” I say, and just like when we were ten, we leave the party behind and fade into the woods.

“You guys talk a good game.” Oz walks backward and his feet crunch against the fallen autumn leaves. “But I’m not seeing action.”

Chevy and Razor share a side glance that spells all sorts of trouble and within seconds they’re on the balls of their feet and plowing into Oz. It’s a mangled mess of arms, legs, grunts and laughter. A playful wrestling match that’s half serious, half not, and, at least once, either Razor or Chevy pops up with Oz in a hold and they egg me on to take a swing.

I can’t do much more than laugh as Oz always finds a way to slip out of their hold, but ends up back on the ground. It’s eight all over again. Ten all over again. Thirteen all over again. Sixteen, too. It’s every year, every age, three boys who are becoming men with just enough of Peter Pan in them to keep them young.

As they wrestle, we keep moving farther and farther into the woods. Into our playground. The place where we’d spend hours frolicking and playing and being as free as wild children let loose into the world without a care.

I reach the old oak first and brush my fingers along the rough bark. I close my eyes and I can almost hear our giggles as we ran around this tree, feel the wind blowing through my hair as I pushed myself to beat Oz in a race to touch this tree first. I remember the feel of the dirt under my bare feet as I made the hike from Olivia’s to the pond so we could swim in the cold water in the hot summer sun.

All three boys laugh as they stumble to their feet and they’re a mess of dirt and leaves in their hair, but what’s important is that they’re smiling. I miss this. I miss seeing them smile.

“Hey,” I call out, and they all stare at me. “Not it.”

“Not it” is shouted into the night, and like always Razor is last. He socks Oz in the shoulder as he announces how each of us sucks.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not it.” I waggle my eyebrows and then go running off into the night. And as if I’ve never been weighed down, I fly. Feet barely touching the ground, not feeling the sting of branches as they catch my arm. My knee aches in warning, but I ignore it. I need a few minutes to feel free and my body needs to allow me this moment.

Laughter is everywhere. From Oz somewhere to my right, from Chevy somewhere on my left as they trade insults with each other and from Razor as he counts down using a new curse word in place of a Mississippi. The laughter is also from me. It springs from my throat, and there’s this warmth and energy that originates in my toes and is flooding my system.