Down and Out(9)

Laughter bursts out of me. Did I just hear him right? “I have to make things right? I’m sorry, am I the one who gambled away our Christmas money when we were little? And am I the one who got popped for public intoxication at your Thanksgiving recital? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t remember doing that, but I must have if I’m the one who has to make things right. Oh, and I must be the one who left for a pack of smokes one day and never came back, right?”
“Look, I know he can be a douche and his track record sucks, but—”
“But what, Blake? You were there for every drunken spectacle, every hurled insult, and every pathetic morning-after apology. How can you stand there and defend him?”
“Because I’m just f*cking like him!” he shouts, shoving his finger into his chest as he stands. “The only difference is that you have my back and Dad has no one. He’s family, Declan, and we’re all he has left.”
Blake’s right. He’s turning out to be quite the screw-up, just like our old man. I mean, it’s one thing to get into a bit of trouble here and there in your early twenties, but he’s consistently gambling with money he doesn’t have, constantly mouthing off to the wrong people, and he always has some kind of shady “business” deal with some person or other.
I don’t know, maybe it’s my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t bailed him out every time he got into trouble he’d learn to clean up his own messes or—gasp—not get into trouble in the first place.
I don’t understand where we went wrong. Growing up, Blake and I were thick as thieves. He’s thirteen months older, but we might as well have been twins. Then dear old Dad left, and shortly after, Mom died. We were both pissed off and angry at the world, and Pops taught me to channel all that anger and hate into fighting, but he couldn’t get through to Blake like he had to me. No matter what Pops said or did, Blake couldn’t get rid of that chip on his shoulder.
Fast forward ten years and here we are.
I shake my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Dad burned his bridge with me when he walked out on us, so you are all he has left. Blood doesn’t make you family, Blake. You have to earn that shit, and he hasn’t, plain and simple.”
Turning to leave, my hand is on the doorknob as Blake says, “Pops would want you to make it right.”
I whip around and shove at his chest. “Don’t you dare bring Pops into this. He knew what a screw-up his son was, and he made his peace with that. He didn’t blame me for cutting Dad out of my life, and he wouldn’t blame me now.”
Blake’s eyes harden. “You sure about that?”
No.
“Fuck you,” I snarl, storming out of my office. It may not be the most adult way to end our conversation, but it could’ve been worse. It could’ve ended with my fist to his face, like last time.

I run a hand through my freshly showered hair as the gym’s back door slams closed behind me. I knew it’d be dark out, but damn. Everything around me is quiet and still. It’s got to be late.
Turning, I pull the handle on the heavy, rusted door to make sure it locked. My fingers twitch with this angry, jittery feeling I can’t quite get rid of, even after staying past closing to work out. Blake’s visit got me all knotted up and pissed off. So I pushed myself to lift more, run more, until I thought I might pass out. But apparently it wasn’t enough, because I still feel like I’m burning up inside. Usually when it’s this bad, I either need to break someone or f*ck someone.
As if right on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t even have to take it out to know that it’s Jamie. She’s been blowing up my phone since I ditched her the other night, and she doesn’t seem to understand my lack of response means I’m not interested.
But right now, I could give a shit about her obnoxious personality or that normally I think she’s the Antichrist. Because right now, Jamie’s the only one who’s got what I need. She requires zero effort and likes it as rough as I do. I could take all my frustrations out on her and she’d still turn around and ask for more.
Damn, she sounds like the perfect girl when I think about it like that. Why am I avoiding her, again?
Because when she opens her mouth, you want to strangle her.
Oh, yeah. That.
Maybe I can get her a ball gag. . .
I pull out my phone and glance at her text, rolling my eyes when I see this gem:
Jamie: I’m so wet right now. . .
I type out a quick response and hit send.
Me: Then get a f*cking towel.
I’m slipping my phone back in my pocket when a flickering light down the street catches my eye. The bulb in a streetlamp is going out, but that’s not what has my attention now. What has my attention now is the rusted hunk of yellow scrap metal parked down the street.
Otherwise known as Savannah’s car.
She left hours ago, so what is her car still doing here? Does she live around here?
I drop my gym bag on the pavement near the back door and jog across the small parking lot. Pausing to check for oncoming cars, I walk across the street and up a little ways.
Her backseat windows are boarded up with cardboard, which is weird, because the glass isn’t broken. It’s almost like they’re blocked out for privacy. . .
The thought dies in my head as I peer in through her rearview window, seeing baskets of clothes in the hatchback of her car. My already pissy mood takes a nosedive into dangerous territory when I spot the tops of her pale, bent knees in the backseat.
Oh, hell no.
“I knew it. I f*cking knew it.”