That shouldn’t surprise me. “Keaton asked me outright a few weeks before the wedding, but I deflected. I should’ve known he would speak to Keanu about it.”
“Keanu never mentioned it to me. I think he’s concerned it will upset me, but I overheard them talking. I know how scary it is, Kent, and it’s not for me to tell you what to do, but if you were to tell anyone in your family, it should be your triplets.” A single tear seeps from the corner of her eye. “It’s why you reacted so strongly to Keaton and Austen,” she quietly says.
I nod. “I’m a shitty brother.”
“No. It’s not your fault, and you’re taking the first step to make things right. I’m proud of you.”
“You shouldn’t be.” I automatically think of what I did to Presley.
“I just have one more thing I’d like to say.” She withdraws her hand, lifting my glass and giving it to me, urging me to drink. I guzzle the sweet, refreshing drink while she composes her words.
“It’s wonderful you have Presley, and I’m sure she is more than willing to support you, but you’ve got to do the heavy lifting by yourself, Kent. I stood behind your brother for years, letting him shelter me, and it was only when I stood on my own two feet and took active steps in my recovery that I began to heal. I’m not saying that is what you are doing, or will do, but make sure you are not hiding behind her because it will only complicate things and delay your recovery. You have been on your own dealing with this, so I’m glad you have Presley now. Youwillneed her, so don’t push her away. Let her support you, but don’t let her become your crutch or your enabler.”
I’m sitting in my car at the curb outside Sandrine’s townhouse ten minutes later, tossing the therapist’s card back and forth between my fingers. Selena said Denise knows she might be receiving a call and I can call her anytime because she doesn’t keep regular office hours. Selena’s reassuring words and Presley’s commitment have bolstered my courage, so I stop acting like a pussy and dial her number.
A few hours later, I’m walking toward Ramshackle with a massive bouquet of flowers in one hand and a palmful of hope in the other. I did it. I called Denise and made an appointment for tomorrow after work. I’m terrified. Like really fucking scared. But I also feel weirdly elated. It feels good to be taking back control of my life, and though I know I have tough times ahead, I feel ready to face the challenges head-on.
Bugger scoffs at me when I appear in the doorway, and I flip him the bird. The bar isn’t that busy for a Thursday night, and I fight a smirk as I stroll across the room. Imogen said the female clientele has been disappearing in droves since word got out about Presley and I being together, and I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t a tiny bit smug about that.
Presley is chatting to some dude at the bar, and she looks angry. She is the only one behind the counter because Ford’s shift ended when hers started. Imogen is out on the floor, taking orders at one of the booths, so no one is watching the altercation between my girl and the mystery dude. I can only see his back since he’s straining across the counter, waving his hands around as he appeals to her. He’s tall and broad, wearing a black leather jacket with some snake emblem on the back. It’s too dark to read the words, but it looks like a gang affiliation jacket.
Clayton.
He’s in a gang and up to his neck in illegal activity, or so Presley has hinted at.
This must be her errant foster brother.
I enjoy a slight chuckle as I watch her spew venom from her mouth. She’s giving him hell, and so she should. He let her down when she needed him, and that’s not cool.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, but the few females in the bar have. They stare at the flowers in my hand with a mixture of envy and derision. I have Presley’s note tucked into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, and I’ve missed doing this. It didn’t seem appropriate to continue showering her with flowers and notes while she was in mourning. But today is a day for celebration, and I’m not to be deterred.
I close the gap between us, keeping my eyes on Clay. He wears his dirty-blond hair in a messy man bun on top of his head—a look I always think looks ridiculous on any man. Prickles of apprehension sweep over me out of nowhere, and my heart accelerates for no reason. I move a little closer, and Presley’s head jerks up when she hears my approach. Her face lights up, and it does funny things to my insides. Clay straightens, turning his head a little, and the prominent dragon tattoo on his neck is hard to miss.
An image flashes behind my eyes, and the smile drops off my face.I’ve seen that tattoo before.My pulse pounds in my neck, and blood rushes to my head. The flowers slip from my hands as he turns fully around and I come face to face with the man who has haunted my dreams and tormented my soul every day since the attack. Shock splays across his face as he stares at me. The flowers scatter across the floor, and water gushes all over the place. I’m vaguely aware of Presley calling my name. Rage pummels my insides from all angles. A red haze creeps over my eyes, and naked fury charges through my veins.
His throaty laugh reverberates in my brain, and the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat assaults my nostrils. My cheek burns, and my skin crawls like a thousand fire ants have burrowed their way inside me. Pain reverberates around my body, and I puke as blood leaks down my legs and tears pour from my eyes. Taunts surround me, and I double over as booted feet kick me on the ground.
I’m moving before I’ve even processed the motion, jumping over the counter and grabbing the bat I know Ford keeps back there. Clay snaps out of it, moving for his gun, but he’s too slow and no match for the pent-up aggression I plan on unleashing on his ass. I swing the bat, my inner voice rejoicing when it slams into his skull with a loud thwack. The gun flies across the floor out of his reach, and he staggers back, clutching the side of his head.
Screaming surrounds me, but I switch off, cloaking myself in the darkness that reemerges from the black hole inside me, hopping back over the counter and swinging the bat again before he can retaliate.
I hit him repeatedly with the heavy wooden bat until he’s down, flat on his back, blood covering his swollen face, his body incapable of fighting back. Then I jump on him, pounding my fists into his face and his upper body, letting vengeance have its moment because I have wished for this day for over eight years, and there is nothing or no one who can stop me from destroying this asshole. Because he did his best to destroy me, and payback is long overdue.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Presley
“Bugger,” I yell, screaming at the bouncer. He’s standing by the doorway watching my boyfriend beat the shit out of my foster brother, doing nothing to stop him. He jerks his head in my direction when I call him. “Do something!” I roar. I’m terrified Kent is going to kill him, but every attempt I’ve made to pull him off Clay hasn’t worked.
Kent isn’t present. He’s locked in his head again, and my touch and my words are falling on deaf ears.
My head and my heart hurt. I’m confused and scared, and different theories are already floating through my mind. But thewhywill have to wait, because right now I need to ensure Clay isn’t murdered in cold blood in front of an audience and that Kent doesn’t spend the rest of his life behind bars.
I stomp toward Bugger, ready to grab the bat off the floor and beat him myself if he doesn’t do something to stop this. Seeing the look on my face spurs him into action, and he grabs Kent by the shoulders, trying to pull him away. Kent resists, his torn fists still pummeling Clay’s almost unrecognizable face, but Bugger is a fucking beast, and he yanks Kent back, holding him in a headlock, talking low in his ear.
“Call an ambulance,” I tell Mo. She’s standing by my side, her face frozen in terror. “Now, Mo!” Clay isn’t moving, and I drop to my knees to check if he’s still alive. My heart is racing, and adrenaline pumps through my veins, but my head is numb, and I’m just going through the motions, doing what needs to be done because focusing on practical stuff is the only way I can cope.
Pressing my fingers to Clay’s neck, I’m relieved when I feel a pulse. It’s not very strong, but he’s still alive.
