And maybe that’s the point. Maybe I was never meant to hold on to anything.
Eventually, my legs start to shake, my lungs wheeze, and my vision turns blotchy. I stumble to a stop, bent over with my hands on my knees, gasping for breath as I try to claw for air from the inside out.
And still… nothing.
With a choked breath, I drop to my knees. The pavement scrapes my skin, but I stay down, letting it bite into me. It hurts, but only on the surface… just enough to remind me there’s still a body holding all this emptiness.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the dark.
I close my eyes and try to listen to the hum in my head. To the part of me that’s always whispering something just out of reach, holding all the secrets and hiding the truth from me. But all I hear is that same low, persistent static.
My legs shake as I push to my feet and start the slow walk home.
And this time, when I pass under the streetlights, I don’t try to hide. I let it show what I couldn’t outrun.
Once I’m back in my house, I grab the bottle of rum from the coffee table and carry it upstairs. Then I sit on the edge of my bed, unscrew the cap, and take a long drink.
The fire burns down my throat and into my chest, and for a brief moment… there’s something to hold on to.
Then I lie back, bring my gaze to the ceiling fan again, and wait for morning.
SEVENTEEN
Smoke driftsfrom Dom’s lips in slow, lazy spirals, and my eyes automatically follow it, as if it can take the edge off the itch in my chest. He lifts his cigarette again, and as the ember flares, I can almost feel the burn sliding down my throat, searing my lungs in that familiar, punishing way.
His brow creases when he catches me watching him, and I nod towards the cigarette.
“Again,” I say.
“Fuck off,” he mutters.
But he inhales anyway.
Fuck yeah… I could almost groan from the sight alone. Seven hours without a cigarette, and my skin is fuckingbuzzing.
“Can we get back to business, please?” Kurt snaps from my left.
I cut my eyes to him as he scrubs a hand down his face, leaning forward like he’s already had enough of this meeting.
We’ve been at this table for over an hour, working through the post-auction checklist as we tally the profit, pay into wash businesses and offshore accounts, flag buyers who have become problematic, and checking the heat from the RCMP. But there’s one thing left to discuss.
“We need to find out why the Dominion Sons are poking around our auctions,” Kurt says, looking around the table at everyone.
“We already know what they’re doing here,” Rex says with a sigh. “They want to expand across Canada. The Atlantic provinces are their next move, and we’re the gateway.”
“They’ve been forcefully absorbing small clubs all over the country,” Cory adds, flipping his knife in his hand absentmindedly. “Then they have no other choice but to run their product, and the Dominion Sons’ drug pipeline grows. It was only a matter of time before they came sniffing around here.”
“Well, we’re not fucking doing it,” I say, leaning back with a shrug.
“No, we’re not,” Kurt agrees, and the table murmurs with the same answer. “But…” he leans back in his chair and scans the table, “we’re sitting ducks. The auctions are already hurting, with a declining economy and RCMP breathing down our necks. Donnie says they’re planning another raid tomorrow, because his asshole of a sergeant is convinced they’ll catch us with a car that’s still hot, or a paper trail on the money.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Dom mutters, stubbing out his cigarette.
I watch the ember die as smoke twists and disappears into the air, and I can almost taste it on my tongue.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, my eyes still fixed on the ashtray. “Let them come make asshats of themselves. Everything’s hidden.”
“Yeah,” Kurt answers, but I hear the exhaustion in his voice.
