Mr. Weston shot me a covert glance, almost as if he was checking to see if he should talk to Angel about Peter’s odds, and then he closed his eyes briefly. “You’re doing it, kid. Okay? I promise you, you’re doing everything you can. If he won’t help himself, you can’t do it for him.”
At the front of the courtroom on the left, a door opened, and Gaffin came in using a black walker with a stony-faced guard at his back. Gaffin gritted his teeth and his face twisted in an acid expression that I knew wasn’t going to lead to anything good. Angel tensed, and I grabbed his hips and guided him back to the seat at my side.
In spite of the obvious problem Peter had walking, he moved fast, except his right foot dragged, which should have made him less dangerous. Gaffin landed his poisonous focus on me, and I wished I’d kept Angel home. Or that I’d stayed home. I hugged Angel closer. No, there was no way I could’ve left him here alone.
Old memories rushed me—pain, rage, and hate…fear. The walls seemed to tilt toward me. Angel pulled my hand up and pressed his soft lips to my palm, and everything righted itself. I glanced at him, and while he was fixated on his father as well, he was also holding on to me for dear life. I was his anchor and he was mine. I’d been missing his comforting presence most of my life and hadn’t even known what I was looking for. Angel let out a scared whimper, and I glanced up.
Peter’s lip curled as he stared directly into my face from about ten feet away. I didn’t look much different today than I always had, and it was clear the rusty gears were turning in his sick brain. Today, in a suit someone had unearthed for him—ten years out of date—it was easy to see Peter was still an attractive fucker. His pretty face had always seemed like an injustice when we were younger. How could someone who looked so good be such a nightmare?
“Fuck, Uhlig?” Peter wasn’t keeping his voice down, and Mr. Weston shot to his feet. “I thought you were a dope dream. What the fuckin’ fuck? What are you doing here?”
Angel cowered against me, and I wanted to stand and block him entirely from sight. My throat froze the way it sometimes had when Peter confronted me as a kid… before I found my voice and learned to bellow right back.
Mr. Weston scurried over and moved out a chair for Peter, gesturing him frantically to the seat. “Bring it in. You have to stop or you’ll violate courtroom decorum.” He said that last part loud enough that it was clear he was trying to let the judge see him make an attempt to wrangle the situation. My gut sank.
“Fuck you. Who the fuck said I needed a lawyer? You’re all a bunch of lying rat bastards in it for green.” He glared at Mr. Weston and then Angel. He sent his nasty look at me, and I felt like I’d transformed into a stone statue. Something horrible passed over his face and warped down the corner of his mouth, and it was clear he already knew what was going on between me and his son. I couldn’t regret holding Angel, though, when he was so upset. “Oh, fucking really?” he snapped, clearly focusing his rage on me again. “I knew Angie was batting for the other team.”
Angel tensed so much he vibrated against my side.
Peter snorted. “But with you? No.” He picked up his walker and threw it toward us. I shot up with a hand out. Mr. Weston was already on it, knocking the metal walker to the floor, but rage tore through me and I stayed standing to glower. There was a collective intake of breath from the people who’d taken the seats nearest us.
“You do anything that might hurt Angel again, and it’ll be the last—”
“Stop!” Mr. Weston said. His nostrils flared and he gave me a tiny shake of his head. Fury had me wanting to ignore him.
Peter made the last few steps to the table and leaned his hands against it, shoulders heaving like he’d run a marathon.
“What is going on?” The judge was on her feet, and the bailiff started toward Peter along with the guard who’d followed him in. Everyone seemed stunned at what had happened, and no one was rushing Peter. I guessed since he didn’t have a weapon anymore speed wasn’t of the essence, unless he wanted to pick up the table and throw it. I ground my teeth because now I could imagine in terrible Technicolor how Angel had broken his wrist.
“Dad, please sit,” Angel begged from behind me, oddly making me madder. My sweet little brother, my boyfriend, should not be pleading with this monster to do anything. “You’re making this worse.”
“I don’t fucking care. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this fucking mess!” He pointed at me, and my heart almost stopped. This was exactly what I’d been dreading. This moment. This accusation. The cops had never come after me when I was younger. Could they now? Had Creed, Merit, and I made Peter Gaffin worse than he would have been otherwise by hurting him that day so long ago?
“You started that fight then, just like you started this one.”
Angel stood, and I could feel his gaze boring into me, but I only looked at Peter.
“Did you take a break from plowing my boy to tell him all about it? He fucking know about that fight? That why you’re fucking him? To get at me?” He swung his toxic attitude toward Angel, focused in on him. He wavered on his feet and a terrible part of me hoped he fell and split his skull. “You havehimnow to take me out, kill me?” Peter jabbed a finger at me, and I wanted to duck. “Because you were too fucking puny and weak to do it? Did Uhlig tell you he wanted me dead, and you jumped all over his fuck stick?”
I froze, hadn’t even considered the possibility that it might look something like that to Peter. The air leaked out of my lungs, and I shook my head, not sure what to say.
Peter didn’t seem to have that problem. He stumbled toward Angel along the table and shouted, “You finally met someone who hates me as much as you do? Tell that judge you want me dead, you piece of shit, no good excuse for a son!” He sucked in a deep breath like he was gearing up to continue his rant, and I flexed my hands. Maybe I would kill him if he kept going.
Judge Whitaker slapped her hands on her desk and seemed ready to fly over and drag Peter out of her courtroom herself. She pointed at the bailiff, who started forward again.
“You left because you want me dead, Angel.” Peter’s eyes bugged and took on a deranged strangeness I couldn’t quite place, and much as he pissed me off, this was sad, too. “You don’t care about me. Just like everyone else fucking hates me!”
Angel bounced to his feet, and I wasn’t expecting it when he darted forward. I barely had the sense of mind to wrap my arms around him and drag him back against me. He fought, hard, but when a man in a uniform started toward us instead of Peter, I shook my head at him and he cringed back.
“No, Dad. I left because you… you know why!” Angel raised his cast and didn’t say anything else.
“Mr. Weston,” the judge yelled to be heard, “get your client under control this instant, or he’s going to be removed from the building.”
“Your Honor, I’d love nothing more. Any direction on the matter would be welcome.” He cupped his hands together and bowed her direction with a shrug.
On the other side of the room there was a round of obnoxious laughter from the lawyers at the prosecution’s table, which only seemed to puff Peter up with more hate.
“Do you remember doing this?” Angel demanded and shook his cast toward Peter.
