Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(38)

On my way to his office, I inwardly curse the timing. But of course something like this happens now. It’s like an unseen force decided things were going too good for me—it needed to throw a wrench in; make things interesting.

Then I berate myself for being so self-centered. Thinking that everything revolves around me, and he somehow wanted to ruin my day. That’s about pathetic. But what I don’t want to happen is for him to upset her; that’s why I continue to accept the calls. Make the trips. Pay the money.

By the time we reach his office my hands are clenched so tightly, my knuckles throb. I forcefully flex my fingers, pumping my hands until some of the feeling comes back. Then I take a seat in a chair opposite the counselor’s. He’s new, I think. I’ve never been to his office before. Usually it’s Miss Rinehart’s office where I take the collect calls.

He picks up the black phone and hits a button, then hands it to me. “I’ll be just outside,” he assures.

I nod, placing the receiver to my ear. “This is Ryder Nash.” My voice comes out harsher then I intend, my words clipped.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice says, stern but polite. “Mr. Nash, I’ll need your TelCon account number in order for this collect call to be accepted.” I recite off the numbers I’ve had memorized since the very first time, and she connects me to Newfall Penitentiary.

Not the holding facility, I note. He’s already been transferred.

The line clicks a few times, my heart pulses in my ears, then, “Hey, bro.”

It’s like the air is kicked from my lungs. I’m struggling to breathe, to work my suddenly barren voice up to an audible octave. I force the words past the hard knot in my throat. “Jake.”

“Damn, don’t sound happy to hear from your big brother, or anything.” He laughs.

I can’t tell if he’s been locked up for days or weeks. Or maybe even months. He always sounds the same; as if it’s all some kind of joke. Like it’s all the fault of the “system” and he’s the victim it keeps picking on.

“How long you been in the pen? They transfer you today?” I ask this, because whenever he was first picked up, he didn’t bother calling then. He knew that he was in for a while. Or maybe he called Mom first. That thought has me tightening my grip on the phone, my knuckles aching from the pressure.

“Nah,” he says. I hear him moving around on the other end, probably trying to get privacy from the other inmates. “I’ve been here a little while. I transferred from shit holding a couple weeks ago. I just—” He breaks off. “I didn’t want to bother you with it until I had my first hearing. Thought I might make bond or OR.”

I press the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth, biting back my words. I’m about to tell him that I doubt he’ll get out on OR—own recognizance—or even make bond. He most likely used up those wild cards a while ago.

“You didn’t call Mom, did you.” There’s a hint of threat in my voice, and I know he hears it clearly, even though I’ve phrased it carefully.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t call Mom. Shit, Ryder, what the hell?”

“Then you need me to bail you out?” I want this conversation over with quickly. Needing him to get to the point of his call. Because I know he wants something, and I’m f*cking sick of the phony calls, like we’re just two brothers shooting the shit.

“Time’s ticking,” I say.

I hear his deep breath over the receiver. “I just f*cking said that I didn’t make bond, hell. I was actually just calling to check in.” He never calls just to check in when he’s not in jail. “Make sure you were good.”

“I’m good, Jake. When are they planning to release you?” I’m sure he’ll end this conversation with a request for a ride. Which I’ll agree to. Only because I don’t want our mother bothered. She’s got enough problems; she doesn’t need to deal with this shit anymore.

“Not sure.” The line is silent for a minute, and I refrain from asking the obvious: what he did to get put in there this time. I don’t really want to know. And it’s old hat, anyway. “You still playing ball?”

I nod, like he can see me. “Yeah. Going to the championship this year.”

“Damn.” Another long, silent beat. “You don’t sound too stoked about it. Shit, that could’ve been me.” He chuckles. “You know that you could’ve quit a long time ago. Hell, you never even had to start playing, Ryder.”

My back teeth clamp down hard. I forcefully relax my jaw to speak my next words. “Didn’t I? Look, let’s not go there. Just tell me when I need to be there to pick you up. I have to get back to practice.”

“Right.” I hear the sarcasm. “Well, then. You’re welcome. Glad I could be of service to your dreams, bro. To think, I thought I was bailing you out back then. Helping you so that you didn’t have to play that f*cking sport. That was the whole point, remember? And now—” He huffs, and I can envision his gritted teeth. The scowl pulling at his features that are similar to mine. I know just what he looks like right now. I’ve been seeing that guy too often in the mirror lately, and that insight makes me ill. “You don’t owe that man anything,” he says. “You can do whatever you want to do. Dad’s dead.”