He kicks into a run, plowing back to me.
“Braver Hund. Fuß.”
He heels at my left side in time for an engine to barrel down the road. My pulse quickens, the weight of this meeting, the second in two weeks, bothering me.
Brent’s blue truck rolls into the spot beside mine, and I don’t miss how Max’s eyes perk up, curious. He revs the truck’s engine before jumping out, a chuckle leaving his grin.
I breathe through the heat creeping up my neck.
“Hey, m-man! What’s going on?” Brent’s hands tremble as he fumbles with his phone.
Brent and I went to high school together, and we were inseparable throughout my time at college. He’s my age, thirty, but the wear on his face—he could pass as ten years older. I don’t miss the sweat that beads on his forehead, wrinkled with his raised brow. His skin is pale, stretched over sharp cheekbones that were once filled out. Dark circles cling underneath his bloodshot blue eyes, faded and unfocused. While his hair is blond, it’s darkened by grease and unkempt, sticking limp to his sweaty temples.
“Brent. What do you need this time?” I shuffle on my feet.
He shoves his hands in his baggy red hoodie, the sleeves frayed. His fingers fidget inside his pocket before he yanks them out again, sharp and sudden.
“Need you to s-spot me another hundred. I promise this is the last t-time.” He sniffs, dragging shaky raw knuckles across his nose.
I shake my head, hating myself. Thishasto be the last time.
What type of friend would I be if I gave him this money?
“What’s it for this time?” I ask, dragging a boot in the dirt to make a semicircle.
Brent rolls his eyes. “Don’t do this. You owe me!” His restless leg bounces. He wipes at his nose again and again, like it’s a nervous tic.
I do. I owe him.
It eats me alive that he can use our past to manipulate me now.
“Just tell me,” I demand, ripping my hat off.
“I need more J-Jackpot, okay! We can’t all be p-perfect momma’s boys riding on the right side of the law.” He gnaws at a knuckle.
I riffle through all the thoughts swirling through my mind. All the reasons I shouldn’t give him the money, enabling him. The looming events from that night nine years ago that make it possible for Brent to even ask me such a thing right now—for me to consider it.
It started three years ago when Brent came back into town from his time away, though I’m not sure where he went away to. Our interactions were normal the first few weeks after he returned. We hiked, went to grab a beer, and even had a double date, but one night he came to me, all mumbling and shaky like he is now. He wanted money. Wouldn’t tell me anything aboutwhy he wanted it. I assumed it was for gas or something—turns out I was wrong.
“Brent,” I say. “You need help. Let me help you man.”
“Help me? Like I helped you? You owe me! I spent six months in prison for you.”
My stomach bottoms out.
“All of this”—he gestures to my uniform—“wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for me. So yeah, you owe me. Y-you seem like a simple guy, Noah. Living in a cabin in the woods with your sidekick dog. I’d hate for your life to become complicated.”
I snarl at him.
Brent rolls up his sleeves and holds out his tattooed arm, palm up expectantly. The black inked raven flexes as he beckons at me. “Don’t make me t-tell your superiors about what really happened that night. Your job, this l-life you’ve bought yourself, would disappear in an instant.”
He snaps his fingers.
My hand shoots out, grabbing for the collar of his shirt and twisting the fabric tight in my fist. I jerk him closer, feeling the tension in his shoulder as he stumbles forward, face inches from mine. My knuckles press hard against his chest as he tries to grapple with my arm, heartbeat hammering under my grip.
My jaw clenches while the words I want to say stay lodged behind my teeth. I let the silence stretch on, hoping to convey just how close he is to pushing me over the edge. Max barks.
I never asked him to take the fall all those years ago. He did that all on his own.
