I sweep my hands gently on his sharply made bed. That fucker made his bed with military precision every morning without fail. It still looks perfect.
I lower myself to the mattress, that annoying lump forming in my throat as I lie down flat on my back.
It’s eerie to lie in his bed, resting where he did, but I need this closeness to…something or someone. He was all I had for years. I’m not ready to give that up yet.
I turn to look at the framed photo of us on his nightstand. I remember when he showed it to me. I gave him shit for being sentimental, but he said it’s the only photo he had of me with a smile on my face.
I grab the photo and bring it closer to my face. We were in my office, Hendrix goofing off while I worked. When he got my attention and I looked over to see his phone on the front facing camera, I flipped him the bird with a sarcastic smirk on my face.
Only Hendrix could make me smile. Not even Carter knew me well enough to make a full grin bloom across my face.
Hendrix was my person.
I gently set the picture back where I got it, not wanting it out of place.
Not cleaning out Hen’s room is probably some sort of coping mechanism or some shit, but I’m not there yet. Soon, maybe. Right now, I just need to feel close to him.
Staring at the ceiling, I say, “Someone is after me, Hen. I don’t know who, but they threatened me. Here, listen to this fucking letter they had sent to me via a fucking courier. Can you believe that shit? A fucking courier.” I read out the threat to him, scoffing when I’m done. “Who do you think it’s from? Someone from a rival family?”
I close my eyes, waiting as if he’ll answer me. My heart twists at the silence, but I don’t dwell on it. I’ve had months to get used to Hendrix no longer answering my questions.
My hand goes to the scar on my rib, and I rub at it until my head clears.
“Yeah, I don’t know either,” I say. “But I’m going to findout. Five million dollars? I’d sooner give them my fucking trigger finger.”
My eyes grow heavy with exhaustion and agony. I just need a few minutes to rest, to get my head on straight. Just a few minutes.
Sleepingin Hendrix’s room was a bad idea. I dreamed about him and woke up with my face wet with tears. I rarely cry, and this is the first time I’ve cried for my friend. The tears wouldn’t fucking stop and I spent almost an hour in his room, sobs racking through me.
Hen and I grew up together; he’s been the one person I could count as mine since my mom was murdered. Dad and Carter were always closer, since Dad had to teach Car the ropes for the business. Mom and I were almost inseparable, same for me and Hendrix. Now they’re both gone and I have no one.
When I get to my dad’s house, I immediately walk over to the bar, drinking three fingers of whiskey in one go before I even speak to anyone.
I pour another glass and make my way over to the table, sipping it as I try to school my face into a blank expression, hoping the hurt doesn’t show.
It’s like someone stole the sound from the room. Everyone is quiet, glancing between each other before their eyes land back on me.
I must look a fucking mess, my face pink, eyes red and my hair all over my head from the constant glide of my fingers. It’s a wonder I even got dressed in something nice instead of my favorite ratty jeans and a t-shirt.
Maybe I should have. Carter never dresses up for dinner.Like now, he has on a black crew neck shirt and a pair of black jeans. Dad never makes him wear a suit, always giving him the benefit of the doubt.
I scoff and sip from my glass.
“Declan, son, you okay?” Dad asks, laying a hand over mine.
I slide my hand from under his and down the rest of the whiskey. “I’m good. I’m getting another drink.”
“D,” Carter starts, but I hold my hand up, cutting him off.
I’m so tired of the two of them coddling me. They think I’m a hothead and I don’t know how to think logically, but it’s because they won’t let me. The only way I can get their attention is with my fists or my gun.
They never let me in. Sure, Dad taught both me and Carter the same lessons, but it was always more important if Carter knew them. He got the extra attention. He got more from Dad. Without Mom, I was left with whatever energy that was remaining after his time with Carter. Now with Hendrix gone, I have no one to talk to about it, no one that I trust with that weakness.
At the bar, I pull down a fresh bottle of expensive whiskey and fill my glass. Instead of nursing it, I gulp it down in a few swallows, then pour another three fingers.
Before I can step back to the table, Nico walks up behind me. “Pour me one.”
I try to push past him, but he grabs my arm. Heat sears through me from his touch, but it’s quickly tamped down by a swirling inferno of anger and pain. Anger that my revenge did nothing to bring me peace and pain that both of my favorite people left me behind.
