#Junkie (GearShark #1)(88)

The hand reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

“I need to make a call first,” Con said. I hated the smugness in his tone.

I tried to get up, to push off the asphalt, but I was disoriented, and blood blurred my vision.

“You might want to come back,” Con said, and I was confused. “You left something when you drove away.”

My phone was dropped beside my head.

“What the fu-uck did you do?” I gasped.

“Let’s go,” the guy who called off the “fight” said.

They left me there alone. I rolled onto my back and blinked up at the sky.

Get up, Trent. Get the f*ck up!

With a hiss, I forced myself into a sitting position, using my hand as a prop. I swiped the blood out of my eyes and blinked at my Mustang nearby.

Pain radiated in my body, and the world around me tilted as I stumbled to my feet.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think.

These guys were supposed to be my brothers. We’d been living under the same roof for years.

I was betrayed. Beaten. Pissed off.

And all because of what?

Because they thought I was gay. If this was what happened when someone suspected I was gay, what would happen when they found out I actually was?

What will happen to Drew?

I fell into the back of my car and used it to guide myself down to the ground. I leaned against the back fender as various parts of my body throbbed.

In the distance, the familiar rumbling of the Fastback cut through the night. My eyes roamed the lot until it fell on my phone lying a few feet away.

That son of a bitch called Drew. He couldn’t see me like this.

My legs buckled when I first pushed off the ground, and I fell back. Headlights bounced close, and I held up an arm to shield my eyes and forced myself to stand.

“Trent!” Drew called over the sound of the running engine.

“I’m fine,” I said. He probably couldn’t hear me.

His pounding feet and a string of curses came close, and then he was there, wrapping one arm around my middle and helping me stand.

I sagged into his side, grateful for the support.

“Oh my God, T. What the f*ck happened to you?”

“I’m fine,” I insisted again.

“Who the f*ck did this?” he growled. His voice radiated with anger, and the arm holding me shook with rage.

“Drew?” I said, trying to focus on his face, but my one eye was swollen shut.

“Yeah?” His voice gentled.

“I want to go home.”

“Hospital,” he insisted and half dragged me to his car.

“No.” My voice was firm. “Home.”

He stopped long enough to pick up my phone, and then he was helping me into the car. I let my head fall back against the seat and my eyes close. I pressed a hand to my side, my breathing shallow.

“T,” Drew said from the driver’s seat. I felt him stare. His voice held so much worry and fear.

I smiled. It hurt, but I did it anyway. “I want to go home.”

He made a choked sound and then the car was flying. The sound of the engine growling as he sped through the streets was sort of like a lullaby.

“What the f*ck happened?” Drew’s voice was broken.

All the nasty things they said as the blows rained down filled my head as my body throbbed. I whispered the only response I could.

“Hate.”





Drew

“Ivy!” I roared when we stepped in the front door.

It rattled when I kicked it shut behind us, and I led Trent farther into the house.

Ivy appeared at the top of the step. “The baby is sl—” She gasped. “Oh my God! What happened?”

“I need the first aid kit,” I rasped.

“I’m fine,” Trent insisted for like the hundredth time.

He was not fine.

And whoever did this was dead.

He looked like dog meat. His face was bloody and bruised. One eye was already swollen shut. There was a cut on his ear and a gash in his head.

Trent’s lip was busted and his teeth were stained red. I could tell by the way he favored his side and breathed shallow breaths his ribs were probably broken. Or maybe just cracked.

Like one was better than the other.

I wasn’t sure where else he was hurt, but I knew he was in places I couldn’t see.

The helplessness I felt when my headlights bounced over a stumbling man in the parking lot just minutes ago washed over me all over again. The way his legs just buckled and he sat there supported by his car.

Alone in the dark. Bleeding.

If that hadn’t been bad enough… I realized it was Trent.

It made me sick inside.

The absolute panic that gripped my chest to see such a strong, capable guy down like that ripped me open. It was an image I would never be able to erase from my mind.

It would haunt me forever.

At first, he seemed disoriented, making me worry he might have a concussion. Or maybe it was just the pain.

Clearly, he was jumped and taken by surprise. There was no other explanation. Trent wouldn’t lose like this in a fair fight.

When he told me he wanted to go home, his words were like a jagged knife to my gut. I worried he needed the kind of medical attention I wasn’t able to give, but how could I argue with such a heartbreaking request?