Now, as the gate creaks and clunks, Chase is taking me into a world he had previously protected me from. One he had been steadfast that Jade and I knew nothing about, even though we had heard things in passing—conversations we were not supposed to.
The boys grew up here.
It was where Chase and Harlen went to get away from us.
Rusty, Harlen’s father, is the Vice President. I’d also heard them often talk about a guy called Skinner. I didn’t know what his role was, but if his name was anything to go by, I knew in my gut it couldn’t have been anything good.
At that thought, my stomach flips over itself and I find myself propping my elbow against the window, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.
I force my gaze across the lot. The place is almost empty—except for one bike and Rusty’s truck—and I feel a moment of relief at that.
Chase rolls through, cuts the engine, popping the door at his side. The sound bends the silence a little. Still, I hold my breath.
“Harlen and Rusty are inside; the rest will be back later.”
I don’t reply. I fold myself out of the truck, readjusting my tank top, seeing the flecks of a stranger's blood dried into the magenta fabric; a stain that couldn’t be removed. And I shiver because the memory,my reality, curls low and sick into my gut.
I wrap my arm around it, and cradle my left hip.
I thought I’d be used to death by now. I was only nineteen, but I’d seen struggle. Hell, I’d seen the end more than once. And yet this morning altered another part of me, even though the man who blew his head off meant nothing to me.
At the slam of our doors, the dented steel at the back of the brick building yawns open, and I watch Harlen and an older echo of him emerge.
The Graves’ men move toward us, though Rusty remains a few steps behind his son.
Harlen looks ready to scoop me into his arms, even though the gears of our friendship had shifted slightly. But when he draws near, I press my palm against his chest, stopping him from getting any closer.
I was covered in blood.
I wouldn’t coat him in it too.
“Shit.” The word falls from his mouth, and I know that when the worried blue of his eyes track over me, he’s looking for any new physical wounds, though pausing on the rotting one from three years ago.
Harlen wets his lips. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?” he asks, eyes still on my scar.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
I knew Chase would have already taken the liberty of filling him in. Harlen was nervous, I could tell he didn’t know what else to say.
I wrap my arms around my waist and rest the weight of my shoulders against Chase’s truck. Words feel invaluable, so I choose to settle on shaking my head instead. Jade would have laughed in my face if she’d known I’d grown to realize that sometimes silence spoke louder than words.
“Good, that’s good,” Harlen says with a nod, moving to stand next to me, his arm brushing against mine.
I swallow, hang my head and wriggle my toes.
What I really wanted to say though wasI did, because mental wounds carried the same weight as the physical. They both eroded you equally.
A silence circles us and I can hear the murmur of his unspoken questions drifting on the breeze.
I wish he’d just come out with them.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, and the question felt like another double-edged sword. I didn’t know which tip he wanted me to throw myself against first.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his chin dip, his blue eyes on the side of my face and I don’t turn to meet him there, instead, curling my arms around myself tighter, casting my gaze toward Chase.
He is talking to Rusty. They are sitting on black crates beneath a large and thick oak tree. It weeps over the lot, drooping shadows across the entire space, only leaving small pockets for sunlight to peek through if it so happens to find itself through all the gray.
I suck down a breath, turn to Harlen and let the corner of my mouth tilt upward. It’s a sad, sorry grin and I can tell by the way his jaw ticks that it makes him uncomfortable.
