Bridger’s already digging out his phone before I finish. “What do I tell him?”
“Tell him to bring whatever he’s got,” I mutter. “God only knows if Clay’s even alone.”
He starts the call, pressing the phone to his ear as the line rings.
And all I can think about isLo. Her soft skin under my hands. Her thighs around my waist. Her breathy moans in my ear as she trembled under me—aroundme. The way she broke apart when I pushed her just right, how she cried when she came, like it was too much and not enough all at once. If anything happens to me today, those are going to be my last fucking thoughts.
Not the beatings. Not the scars. Not the blood.
Her.
And still—my hands tighten on the wheel, white-knuckled and pulsing—going up against Clay?
That shit’s never been easy. Not for me. Not for my brothers. He didn’t just hurt us. Hebrokeus. He always found a way to win. To twist the knife and call it a gift. Every tattoo I’ve got covers a scar. A memory. A lesson taught with fists and fury.
I tried to live his way. Tried to wear the same rot like it was armor. Tried to believe that being feared was the same as being strong. But Clay? Clay knew how to hurt you in a way that made you apologize for bleeding.
Bridger ends the call with a sharp exhale. “Reese is on his way. Says he’s about ten minutes from the school. He knows where it is. Said he’s passed it a bunch of times since he’s been here.”
I nod once, eyes on the road, mind already there—on Cody, on Clay, on how this is all going to go to hell fast.
Bridger shifts beside me, angles in my direction, and I catch it out of the corner of my eye, the way his fingers twitch, how his knee bounces like he’s holding something in that’s about to rip free. “Fuck, Damian,” he says, voice breaking. “I’m freaking the fuck out. I haven’t seen him in seventeen years. I was thirteen when he went away, and he would…” He trails off.
“He’d gut you wide open,” I say after a beat, my voice low and rough, “and then scream at you for bleeding on his floors.”
Bridger lets out a jagged breath, nods once, and stares out the windshield like maybe he can see the past clawing through the glass. “We never talked about him,” he says. “What he did.”
“I know.” I want to shut it down. I want silence. I want to think about Lo. Not the fists. Not the closets. Not the sound of Cody’s bones cracking or my mother’s silence echoing like consent.
“I went to therapy, Damian.” His voice is soft now. Broken around the edges. “I never told you or Cody, but… after he went in, I went. I did it for years.”
I nod, throat thick. “I knew.”
“What?”
I glance at him, then back at the road. “You think I didn’t know when you started quoting self-regulation bullshit every time I went off the rails? You’ve been counselingmefor years, Bridger. Fuck you—but thank you.”
A small laugh slips out of him. It’s shaky. Worn down. But it’s there.
“I’m proud of you,” I add. “Of both of you. You and Cody. You lived through some dark shit. Clay didn’t leave any of us clean.”
Bridger goes quiet. Then, after a beat, he says the one thing I knew was coming. “But you lived throughmore, Damian. You were the closest to him. You were there the longest. You wereold enoughto remember all of it. And you stayed alive longer.”
My jaw tightens. My chest aches. I take my eyes off the road for half a second. Look at him. “I’m good,” I say. And it’s not a lie. Not this time. “I have Lo. She’s what keeps me whole. I found peace in her. She’s the only thing that makes this life feel like it’s worth surviving.” I swallow down the knot in my chest. “That’s why he has to die. I won’t let him cast a shadow over the only light I’ve ever had.”
Bridger shifts beside me and huffs out something that’s half a breath, half a laugh. “We’re getting on that plane today,” he says. Not hopeful—certain. Darkly upbeat, like he’s choosing to believe it because there’s no other fucking option.
“Yeah, we are,” I say, teeth clenched in a grin that doesn’t quite reach the surface. “We’re gonna do this fast. In and out. Because I need to get back inside Lo.”
Bridger makes aface. Like he just bit into something sour and didn’t want to admit he liked the taste. “You guys have alot of sex,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose like he’s trying not to smile.
“Yeah,” I say, unapologetic. “We do.”
He snorts and looks out the window. “Jesus. I go through women like expired milk. I think I make them nervous.”
“You do,” I deadpan.
He laughs once, then his smile fades, replaced by something tighter—shakier. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his palms against his jeans. “We’re going to see Clay. My hands are sweating. That ever happen before? Not with Joel. Not with Zero. Not withanyof the other psychos we’ve dealt with.”
