“What, and risk getting my ass whooped for hanging out at a fucking dive bar at sixteen?” He shakes his head. “Besides, how the hell was I supposed to know that’s what you thought? You never said a damn thing.”
He’s right. My habit of hiding shit that makes me feel bad isn’t my most admirable trait. I’m still processing the dog thing, so I don’t have time to think about it.
“Killer didn’t die?”
“Well, probably at some point,” Paul says. “It was twenty years ago. Dogs don’t live forever.”
I grunt and scrape my hand over my chin. “Hell, he probably ended up in a dog fighting ring or something.”
“Jesus, man.” Paul reaches across the table and whacks me on the side of the head. That gets the attention of a guard, who starts toward us with a frown. I wave him off.
“It’s cool,” I assure him. “Brotherly love, not assault.”
The guard shakes his head. “Watch it.”
“Roger that.” I salute him, then turn back to Paul. “What is your problem?”
“You, dumbshit.”
He’s the only person who can call me that and not have me take it personally. Am I an asshole for being so touchy about that? It’s just a word, after all. Words aren’t exactly my strong suit.
Paul is still talking, so I order myself to pay attention. “What is it with you, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always have to come up with the worst-case scenario. You know what your problem is?”
I sigh. “No, but I figure I’m about to learn from a guy doing six years hard time for robbery.”
“Yeah, well sometimes the people who’ve screwed up the most have the best lessons to offer.”
Okay, he has a point.
“Can’t argue with that,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over the spot where my chest has started to ache. It’s been aching for twenty-four hours. “Fine. What is my problem?”
“You can only see the worst-case scenario. There’s no happily-ever-after as far as you’re concerned.”
“So?” Not a very mature response, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Why’d you and your chick split up?”
“Because she’s a high-society snob who thinks I’m worthless and stupid.”
Paul rolls his eyes. “Did she actually say that? Did she tell you, ‘Dax, I’m a snooty socialite who’s too good for you, and oh, by the way, you’re too dumb to pour piss out of your own boot?’”
I fold my arms and try to stare him down. “Not in so many words, no.”
Paul shakes his head again, but he’s starting to look mad. “You jackass. You’ve got every chance in the world right now to have everything—the cool job, the money, the smart, hot girl.”
“I never said she was hot or smart.”
“Please,” Paul mutters, studying my face so intently that I want to glance away. “You wouldn’t be this broken up about her if she were a dog-faced idiot.”
I grunt again to concede the point, so Paul keeps talking. “You’ve got everything going for you, and you’re going to piss it all away because you’re too fucking chicken to believe you could have any of that. To believe you deserve it.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Is there any chance he’s right? That my jailbird thief of a brother has a point?
I swallow hard, not liking that direction of thought. Not wanting to admit I might be wrong.
