Inside, the alcohol was hitting the kid pretty hard. He could barely stand. Boomer made him drink three glasses of water and take some painkillers.
It might help with the hangover he was going to have tomorrow, but it wasn’t going to do anything for whatever had broken him.
Make no mistake. If Boomer ever learned who had shattered this kid, he would track that son of a bitch down and kick his fucking ass.
Boomer knew what it looked like. He’d worn it once, bone-deep, life-ending, the kind of wound you crawled through alone.
He lifted his head.
Taylor stood in the open doorway, her expression soft, warm, steady. She motioned him inside. She had saved his life. Pulled him through the wreckage. Put him back together.
He thanked God every day for her.
He prayed, quietly, fiercely, that there was a woman out there for Kelly Gatlin…someone with that same kind of light. Someone he would actually let in. Someone who’d see the man beneath the beauty, the discipline, the danger.
God help them all if this deadly boy ever went off the rails again. Boomer would be there, and he’d stop him. Even if it broke him a second time.
Breakneck surfaced to pain. The dull, punishing, nauseous kind that came from whiskey, self-loathing, and decisions he couldn’t justify even to himself. His skull throbbed. His mouth tasted like regret, and something inside his chest felt hollowed out, scraped raw.
He blinked. Where the hell?—
Boomer’s guest room. Sheets rumpled. A bucket beside the bed. He looked at the leather vest thrown over a chair, the tightest jeans he owned, and the boots. He groaned softly.
Christ.
He pushed up on his elbows, stomach rolling hard enough to make the room tilt. A soft creak sounded from the doorway.
“Are you sick?”
Breakneck froze.
Ansel stood there, brown eyes solemn, blond hair a little messy, wearing mismatched socks and holding a glass of water like he’d been stationed there on purpose.
Breakneck scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, buddy. I’m…a dumbass. Shit…sorry. Sorry for the language. Don’t repeat it.”
Ansel shrugged, unconcerned. “I’ve been a dumbass before.”
Breakneck huffed a laugh, then winced when it hurt. “Fair enough.”
The kid stepped inside, glancing behind him like he was checking for Taylor. Then he held out the water. “I’ve seen my dad like this before,” Ansel whispered. “He was always thirsty when he woke up.”
Breakneck took the glass with both hands. Drank until it was empty. Wiped his mouth. “Thanks.” Ansel nodded like he’d done something important. Breakneck set the glass down, exhaled slowly, then blurted before he could stop himself, “You…lost your dad to an overdose, right?”
Ansel’s mouth tightened. “Yeah.”
Breakneck regretted it instantly. “Kid, I?—”
“No, it’s okay,” Ansel said softly. “He was always sad. He needed something to help.”
That was…too close. He cleared his throat. “Do you ever…worry that maybe you’ll be like him?”
Ansel went a little pale. Looked down at his hands. “When I was in Portugal, yeah. I worried a lot. My grandmother wouldn’t let me be…me.” He swallowed. “But here with Boomer and Aunt Taylor, I feel different.”
Breakneck let his eyes close. A breath dragged out of him, heavy and jagged. “That’s good,” he whispered. “Really good.” His chest tightened. “Do you…remember him?”
Ansel scrunched his face, thinking hard. “It’s hard now. But I remember his hands, the way he sculpted, his laugh. Do those count?”
Breakneck reached out, squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Yeah. Those count.”
