“Why-”
“I mean Icandrive but it ain’t legal yet!”
“Wha-”
“And damn sure not that far!”
“Wher-”
“And even if I could I ain’t got a car or truck or fuckin’ dirt bike! And this is why I need one!”
“Pause the track, little bro’,” I manage to say, frame crumbling slightly forward in concern. “Take a deep breath.”
“I can’t! Not now! There’s no time! I-”
“Wemaketime,” escapes alongside me doing the action. “We’ll do it together.”
“But-”
“Whatever it is can wait one more sec, Bronson.” The firm declaration momentarily silences him. “Deep breath in.”
This time he audibly executes the instruction.
“Deep breath out.”
Once more, I can hear the action complete.
His stress level lowering.
My own recalibrating.
The beating in my chest now vibing more to a Kenny G track and less an Iron Madden cover.
“What’s goin’ on, Bronny?” Calmly investigating occurs in spite of the yelling I’m fairly certain is coming from the hallway. “What’s the emergency?”
“Grams.”
Chapter 22
Gillian
Assaulted, avenged, and exposed all in the amount of time it takes to floss and brush before bed.
I would be impressed if I wasn’t blatantly mortified.
And humiliated.
And a tad horrified.
“Do you wanna press charges?” inquires Hennington, thumbs hooking onto the pockets of her Dalvegan green wide leg pant suit bottoms.
“Of course, she wants to fucking press charges!” my brother yells, hands slamming violently onto the nearby examine table he’s been pacing behind. “What kind of fucking question is that?!”
The woman everyone in the barn is terrified of – for good reason – slowly angles her face in his direction, tone even despite her twitched glare. “The type ofquestionthat’s my fucking job as the ownerandthe GM to fucking ask.”
“Language,” reminds Margot Adelstein, her taupe skinned, second in command.
Hennington sucks her teeth, briefly shoots her eyes up to the sky, and shifts her focus back to me. “It’s also the type of question thatyou,Gillian Blanc, need to answer for yourself.”
