My poor city boy, delinquent of an upper-middle class father who embezzled money at his hometown bank for some city officials, a white collar criminal. Joshua's time with us has been peaceful to say the least. He saw a few tense moments, had a few guns pulled on him, but he came at a time when we were withdrawn from the fire. We'd been taking the time to heal the burns from spending so much time in the heat. We were also at the end of a massive debt from a bust that nearly shut everything down, which he still doesn't know to this moment. Of course, to him it was huge. It was the fast life.
I can tell him what I want from him. I want his long lines wrapping me, hard from moderate weightlifting. I want his mess of hair tickling my back as he holds on so tightly, and I want his confident hands on my body. I don't want love. I realize that my train of thought has left me idly staring at him. His expression is all wide, like a deer in some cosmic headlight.
I slide my gaze to the left to Isaiah, my portrait of worry. He makes the connection, calculates my gaze. I glance to his cigarettes, Camels – god, they make me think of my brother. I'm usually not a fan of Izzy's Wides. Hell, I usually don't smoke, but he knows I'm not above it in a moment such as this. I bummed my first one from him, after all, the night Charlie beat the shit out of my first lay. It feels like forever ago.
Isaiah offers the stick he's about to light, always the gentleman. He leans in with his flame, catching my eye as he sets the tiny fire between us. I inhale and give him a quick wink, a quiet sign that he doesn't need to freak out just yet. If I know him, my gesture will only make him freak out more.
His eyes narrow. I know he's sizing me up. Am I bluffing? He wants to predict my movements, but he has no point of reference and he hates it. He makes the tiniest sigh as the fire dies. He doesn't believe my bravado, but as always, he won't say it.
I have studied his art of breathing in a cigarette, slowly, introspectively, like it's a personal joke, as if there is some great secret being relayed from hidden caves atop the tallest mountains. He must see himself as I take a deep hit and exhale through a deadpan expression. Tar and nicotine drag along my taste buds, giving me some small comfort in this heavy situation.
Not even ten people had the balls to stay and listen to me. Fewer than ten, yet the ones who did are the biggest distributers in the city's network. It seems the right people understand that I'm not fucking around. And Izzy hates it, all of it.
I can no longer speak. Some strange knot has lodged itself against my vocal cords. It's all I can do to keep my breathing under control. Half a cigarette is all I can stomach, so I hand the rest back to him.
He accepts, his actions are steady, but his eyes are hesitant – not quite disappointed, but knowing and heartbroken. He can sense my restlessness. Whether I like it or not, he knows me much better than I know him. He knows the dam on my reaction is about to break.
“Get out of here,” he all but whispers. “We can handle the clean-up.”
The tears nearly break as I push past them for my escape.
Dear Charlie, the best and most frustrating brother of all time, this weight is already so heavy. I never knew the true strength of your character until I started picking up the pieces of your world, the pieces of our world that you held so damn steady for me. I don't want to lay low without you, that's far too much time to think about how you're not here. You'd be so pissed at me right now, but if you were the one left, you'd understand.
Chapter 14 Den of Phantoms
Frederick
The sound of glass scraping against itself and the floor makes the hairs on my skin stand on end. It's nearly five in the morning. The blues playing on the house system grate against my nerves. The guitar scales drag along my anxiety, a slow climb, a hard fall.
My hands are white against a broom handle. Otherwise they'd be visibly shaking in the wake of my fury. I should feel better for just having shot the biggest regret of my life at close range, but I don't. I know that only revenge can follow revenge, that it doesn't have any definable end.
“You know this is a biohazard, right?” asks Noah as he situates the metal dustpan in front of the last bit of blood, glass, and bone.
His voice breaks the silence that had taken us, the absence of a brother we'll never bury. I grudgingly push the broom forward. I want to fling the thing, to break something else.
“Shut up,” answers Jack as he surveys the shade that hangs precariously, splattered red and punctuated by a rather large blast hole.
It's not as if any of us can say we didn't expect some level of drama to erupt tonight, yet somehow none of us expected anything quite like Derrik. Jack sighs his frustration as he rips the shade from the door.
Noah makes a small tsk and he eyes the bloody swirls on their gray tile floor. For once, he
