We reach the top of the stairs, and when she’s safe enough away to not fall right back down them, I bump my shoulder lightly back against hers. “It’s not my story to share, kid,” I explain softly. “But it’s not good.”
She looks up at me, blue eyes studying mine closely. “It’s notnot good,” she says quietly. “It’sbad.”
I exhale quietly.
Then agree, “It’s bad.”
Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t let them escape. She hasn’t cried—at least not in front of me—not since I first found out what the man did to her. And tonight is no different. She blinks a couple of times, takes a few deep breaths, and then she nods, expression growing determined.
“So, how are you going to make it better for her?”
Like that’s a given.
Like it’s a given that I have the power to make everything better.
It’s all empty.
Joey’s words slide through my mind, sad and soft and punctuated with tears. And behind all of that, a steel framework I’ve always been in awe of. To the world she’s a woman who’s breaking barriers, who is leading a male-dominated organization without fear. But I always knew she was more—yes, she has a spine of steel, yes, she has no problem calling me or any of the guys on our shit. Yes, she’s a good leader and smart and hardworking and funny as fuck?—
But she’s so much more than that.
And the biggest part of themore?
It’s the temptation to take something I shouldn’t.
That Ican’t.
More so now that I know about Hiller.
Yet, looking into my sister’s knowing gaze, critically aware of the gnawing ache inside of me that’s been getting harder and harder to ignore as the years and months drift by, Joey’s confession still ringing through my mind, and I know that my sister isn’t wrong.
Joey is empty.
Alone.
She’s been hurt.
There’s absolutely no way, knowing all of that, seeing the impact it’s having on her, knowing the shit my sister lived through after what was done toher, and knowing the woman Joey is beyond all she’s survived andnotdo something about it.
It’s a done deal.
Something I know my sister knows too because her expression gentles, the glossy sheen of those tears comes back, and she reaches up to pat my cheek.
“You’re a good man, big bro.”
“I’m—”
Before I can finish the protest—that I’m pretty much as far from a good man as they come—she drops her arm and disappears into her bedroom, beer in hand.
I have no choice but to go into my own room—because it’s either that or stand there, staring at her closed door, far too many troubling thoughts ricocheting through my head. But even as I finish off my beer, dump my filthy suit on the floor next to my hamper, and drop into bed, those thoughts don’t go away.
And I don’t know what’s worse.
Knowing what happened to Joey.
Or knowing that I’m going to be the one to fix it.
SEVEN
