“I’m so fucking glad you came,” he says, arms wide, grinning like this is a family reunion.
I don’t think. I just move. Fast. Violent. A goddamn hurricane of fury as I charge the stage.
Clay throws down the crowbar, the clang of metal hitting the wooden stage echoes in the dead air. He pulls something from the waistband of his jeans. A gun.Who the fuck gave this psychopath a gun?
“You might wanna rethink that,” he says, cocking it, aiming the barrel at Vick’s head. “Unless you’re in the mood to watch some brain matter redecorate the stage.”
I don’t even slow. Ilaugh. Shrug. “Don’t give a shit about him, Dad.”
He narrows his eyes and shifts the gun. Points it toward the body slumped near the base of the wall. “How about now?” he says.
Fuck, Cody. The steel sight aimed right between my little brother’s eyes. My world stops like someone grabbed my lungs and squeezed. My feet root to the floor, every cell in my bodyscreamingto move, but I can’t. Ican’trisk it. Not now. Not when he’s got Cody at gunpoint. My arms tremble. My handsball into fists. I hear my breath—jagged, too loud. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth, in my skull, behind my goddamneyes. Rage and adrenaline surge in my blood, blistering hot and unrelenting. My whole body is shaking with it, vibrating like a live wire ready to snap. I want to tear Clay apart with my bare hands. But I can’t move. Not yet. Not if Cody dies the second I do.
My father smirks. “Now this ain’t the right way to welcome your father home,” he drawls, voice slick with sarcasm. “I mean, I haven’t seen you boys in years... Look at you. All grown up.” His lip curls, yellowed teeth flashing in a way that makes my stomach turn. “Got me wonderin’…” he says, cocking his head. “Just how much of a man you think you are,boy.”
He spits that last word like a challenge, like he’s daring me to come closer so he can put me in the ground for good. But I don’t take the bait.
Not when I see the smallest movement out of the corner of my eye. Bridger. He’s moving low, slow, like muscle memory from a lifetime of sneaking through rooms where a single floorboard creak meant fists and blood. He steps up onto the stage near Cody’s body and crouches beside him, checking for a pulse, for breath—anything.
I shift left. Just an inch. Then another. Trying to draw all of Clay’s attention back where it’s always belonged—on me.
My shoulders square. My jaw locks. And I’m fifteen again. Skinny. Bloody. Standing between this monster and the two boys cowering behind me. Buying them just enough time to run for school, to get the hell out, to escape whatever rage was coiled tight in Clay’s fists that day. “You want to test me?” I say low, gravel in my throat. “Thenfucking do it.But leave him out of it.”
His eyes spark. Clay doesn’t move the gun.
Not a twitch.
His arm stays steady, aimed like a curse at Cody’s limp body. But his eyes? They’re locked on mine. Hungry for something ugly. Some reaction he can feast on. Rage. Fear. Weakness. He was always good at sniffing that shit out.
“Boy,” he says again, slow and deliberate, “you got a funny way of showing respect. I get out, come lookin’ for my family, and what do I find?” He sneers. “My motorcycle shop? Sold. Some pussy with a ponytail runs it now. You know what he calls it?” His mouth pulls back like he’s going to vomit the words. “‘Cherry Custom Garage.’” He spits on the floor. “Fuckingcute.”
I keep shifting to block Bridger’s movement, my eyes never leaving Clay’s. I can feel the sweat dripping down my spine, my fingers twitching, the throb in my jaw from clenching it so damn tight.
“My house?” he goes on, voice rising. “Myhome? Some fat-ass family with kids in soccer cleats live there now. Turned my den into a goddamn playroom.”
His thumb taps the hammer of the gun.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I take another step left, slow enough not to set him off, just enough to keep his line of sight on me and not my brothers.
And Delilah?” he snarls. “Where the fuck is my wife? She promised me you boys would be there when I got out. Said you’d all be there.” His voice cracks, just a hairline fracture before it hardens again. “But none of you were.”
My chest tightens. His words are venom—but there’s something behind it. A hollow echo. The crazy words of a man who expected loyalty from the people he broke.
Bridger’s almost has Cody now. He’s pulling him to his feet, trying not to let Clay hear the quiet shuffle of movement.
I keep my stare locked on Clay’s, watching the frayed ends of whatever soul he once had unravel behind his eyes. He tilts his head again, scanning me like he’s reading every inch of weaknessI’ve ever buried. “You know who never turned on me?” he says, his voice taking on that smug, slow swagger that used to come right before a belt, a fist, or worse. “Joel. And Zero. They were loyal. Not little bitches pretending they’re better than the man who raised them. But, I can’t find them. Strange, right?”
Fuck, I wish I had my gun. I’d shut him up already.
“Then I heard about this pretty little piece of ass you’re shacked up with. Abaker,huh?” His sneer deepens. “Some soft-bellied whore with flour on her tits. That what you traded my life for?”
Yeah, a bullet between his eyes would be perfect right now. Fuck, I should have checked to see if Reese had his gun.
“Joel and Zero were keeping things in line,” he spits. “Butyou?You’ve got your cock buried in a cupcake and your head up your ass. Living in the armpit of hell—New fucking Jersey.”
I lunge forward a half-step before I can stop myself, but Clay doesn’t flinch. If anything, he lights up. Then—Cody groans. It’s faint. Just a sound of pain. A shift. But it’s enough. Clay fires. The sound of the gunshot cracks through the hollow auditorium like lightning splitting sky.
