Never Doubt Me: Judge Me Not #2(3)

Will tries one final time, like a last stand, to stare me down. “Hit me,” he urges with a cocky up-tilt of his chin.

I shake my head and resist the urge to laugh. “Not gonna happen. But I give you props for having some big-ass balls, baby brother.”

“Quit calling me that,” Will hisses.

I hold my ground and he, no surprise, capitulates.

But he tosses out this last, “Shit, I’ve got nothing more to say to you anyway. In fact, we’re out of here.” He turns his back on me and beckons to his girlfriend. “Come on, Cass.”

Will doesn’t know it, but he’s not going anywhere. I grab the back of his T-shirt and spin him around roughly.

And that’s when he takes a swing at me.

Easily, I lean out of the arc of Will’s fist and he misses me by a mile. Stumbling a little, he winces, making him look more like ten than fifteen.

“Will,” I whisper.

Despite the fact he just tried to hit me, all I feel is compassion, regret, sadness. Like flash cards flipping in my head, a barrage of memories starring cute little-kid Will, small and uncoordinated, block out everything else. My little brother may be growing up, but in so many ways, he’ll always be the little boy who tried like crazy—but continually failed—to keep up with me.

I’m still feeling bad for him when he takes a second swing.

Doesn’t matter, since, once again, I am much too quick for him. I catch my brother’s fist, long before he makes contact with his intended target, my jaw.

I guess Will’s second attempt to punch me is enough for Kay. She screams out my name, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch her starting down the porch steps. Her action, however, prompts Cassie to follow, and Kay has no choice but to stop on the second to the last step in order to stop Will’s girlfriend from racing to him.

With Kay and Cassie occupied, I turn my attention back to Will.

Shit, there’s real fear in his eyes. He must think I’m about to lay him out. “Not really the plan,” I mutter under my breath.

I take a step back, and it’s then that I realize Will’s hand is still in my grasp and I’m crushing four of his five fingers.

“Sorry,” I mumble as I let go.

My brother stumbles back and rubs his no doubt aching appendages. “You’re such a dick,” he croaks. “I f*cking hate you.”

“Well, I f*cking love you,” I retort, “you dumb little shit.”

Will’s rendered speechless. But he shouldn’t be. He can deny it all he wants, but he knows in his heart that I love him right now, today, as much as I ever have. Probably more. Just because we’re not getting along at the moment doesn’t mean I don’t care for him. And just because I was locked up in prison and missed four years of his life sure as shit doesn’t mean my love for him just up and faded.

Just like in the past, I’d do anything for my brother. Despite my big proclamation when he first arrived that I wasn’t going back to prison as a result of his runaway antics, in all truthfulness, I would. In a heartbeat.

Hell, my criminal career began with me attempting to help Will.

When I was seventeen, our fractured family found an apartment near the Vegas Strip, and with Dad gone, Mom took to disappearing for days at a time. Money ran out quickly during her absences, and Will and I often went hungry. Luckily, there was a convenience store around the corner from our hovel. So when the choice I faced was let my brother starve…or steal…

Well, let’s just say I wasn’t about to let my brother suffer.

I’d hustle over to the convenience store and stuff my backpack with junk food while the store clerk’s head was turned. Then, back at the apartment, I’d dump my loot out on the two twin beds in the tiny room we shared. Will and I would kick back and feast on all the chips and candy I’d lifted. Since it was always f*cking hot as hell in our room (the air conditioner in the living room never quite reached the back of the apartment), I’d open the one lone window to let in some air.

Will and I would sit on the floor, crunch away in relative silence, and wait for that one small breeze. Our eyes would remain glued to the one thing decorating the otherwise blank walls—a sketch of a tree house I’d drawn for my brother when he was five. That sketch was our indicator of better things to come. We’d wait and wait for the sketch to start flittering. When the piece of paper would move at last, even just a flutter, Will and I would whoop and high-five, like we’d just won the f*cking lottery or something.

Trust me, it was like we had hit the jackpot. When you’re in hell, it’s the little things everyone takes for granted that mean the most.

“Hey.” I kick at one of Will’s shoes, adding another dusty scuff mark. “Remember that tree house sketch? The one I drew for you way back when, the one you taped to the wall in that shit apartment we had.”

Will’s green eyes slowly meet mine. He purses his lips and nods.

Encouraged, I continue, “Remember how we used to watch for the sketch to move to see if we were going to get lucky and catch a breeze?”

“Yeah, I remember,” my brother responds softly.

But when I add, “You used to say that sketch gave you hope,” he quickly looks away.

“You still got it?” I press.

“Shit, Chase, enough with the trip down memory lane.” Will puffs up his chest and tries to act nonchalant. “That stupid sketch is long gone.”