The sky started to darken behind the rooflines. The shadows grew longer, swallowing most of the porch in the dusk. Every sound from the street felt amplified. Somewhere a car passed, blaring bass. None of it drowned out the mess Zack was trying hard to navigate.
“I barely made rent this month, Craig. I’m not sitting on a pile of cash.” Zack wished. It seemed like everything was getting more expensive, forcing him to stretch his already thin budget even further. A few times he’d had to choose between paying his utilities and eating. His bills always won out.
“You want me to believe you got nothing, you greedy little prick?” Craig’s features changed, mask completely gone, and for a second Zack thought a punch was coming. The memory of last time surfaced, making a cold ache settle in his gut. Craig had shoved him into a wall, left him with a bruise on his arm that had taken days to fade.
Zack gasped when Craig’s fingers closed around his wrist, hard enough to dig right through skin. “Stop lying to me.”
The world shrank to the heat and pressure of that hold, all the stupid words in his head replaced by raw panic. Sweat started to gather under his arms, and he couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough.
“Let me go.” Zack tried to twist his wrist free, but Craig held tight, thumb grinding against bone. “You’re hurting me.”
The bruising grip only tightened. “I want the money. All I’m asking for is a little loan. Don’t act like I’m shaking you down. We’re family.”
There was nothing kind about the way he’d said family. No warmth. Just a threat, and Zack was suddenly six years old again, braced for another shove that would send him falling to the carpet.
“I don’t have it,” Zack said. The words came out wobbly, barely above a whimper.
Craig’s eyes narrowed. For a long moment, the two of them stood in silence, air buzzing with the sound of cicadas and the angry, panting rush of Zack’s own breath. Then, all at once, Craig let go.
Pain dashed up Zack’s arm as circulation rushed back in. He clutched his wrist, fingers shaky, doing everything he could not to rub the bruise Craig had left.
Suddenly, Craig returned to his usual laid-back self, slapping Zack’s shoulder. Hard. It sent him stumbling back, the shock of the blow ringing in his bones.
“Drama queen.” Craig grinned wide, as if nothing had happened. “You’re lucky I didn’t break your arm for lying to me. No hard feelings though, right? You’ll have the money next week. I know you will.”
He stepped off the porch, pausing at the bottom steps to pull out a cigarette. With a last look over his shoulder, his brother winked. “Try not to mope too hard, Zack. You always were a soft touch.”
Cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, Craig strolled away. After a few steps, he spat into the grass, slung a quick glance over his shoulder, then kept going.
Zack didn’t move. He just stood there, heart banging so fast he thought he might pass out. Sweat prickled his back and palms. The battered wood under his feet seemed unsteady, and for a second he was terrified Craig would double back, catch him off-guard. That was his favorite trick.
When his brother’s car finally roared to life and peeled away from the curb, Zack sagged against the doorframe and rubbed the tender skin of his wrist.
It already throbbed, a reminder Craig never left without taking something—even if it was just Zack’s sense of safety.
He wondered how different things would have been if Colton had been there, massive and quiet and steadying in a way that might’ve caused Craig to hesitate. Zack’s face burned, imagining Colton defending him. A ridiculous thought since they’d just met. Zack was alone with the heat, the pain, and that creeping certainty his brother was only waiting for the right moment to try again.
Dang it. Was it too much to ask for a relaxing evening?
The apartment was warm, empty, and silent as Zack let himself in. For a heartbeat he stood inside the door, listening for footsteps that weren’t there. He double-checked the lock, then leaned his back to the door and slid down until he was sitting on the worn welcome mat, knees tucked tight to his chest, palm cupped over his bruised wrist.
First he breathed through the dizzying adrenaline, counting the seconds until his pulse steadied. Then he let himself look, actually look, at where Craig’s grip had left faint red marks already blooming into something darker.
Freaking perfect.
For months Craig had been asking for favors when he was desperate or out of easier options. Used to be, he’d just blow up Zack’s phone with half-assed guilt trips. Now he didn’t even pretend to be nice.
Zack curled tighter, stung by how fast he’d folded. He should’ve stood his ground, told Craig to kick rocks and never come back. Instead, he’d just whimpered and let his brother manhandle him. Every time he promised himself it wouldn’t happen again, Craig found new ways to worm through his defenses.
The apartment around him felt shabbier than usual. Cheap blinds, cracked tile in the entry, a patch of peeling paint where the wall made a weird angle. Laundry detergent and dryer sheets from the laundromat below clung to the air, mixing with odd smells in his apartment.
Nothing about it felt safe or homey.
Colton would’ve changed the equation—or at least made Zack feel less like a useless idiot frozen on his own doormat. Did Colton ever get nervous? Did anyone ever look at him and see an easy target? Zack seriously doubted it.
He lost track of time, just rocking gently, waiting for the ache in his wrist to ease. After a while, he made himself get up and check all the windows, then paced from kitchen to bedroom and back again, not really seeing any of it.
Craig was going to come back, no question. Eight hundred bucks. It might as well have been eight million. There was no way to raise that kind of money fast, not unless Zack robbed a bank. And yet, his brother would expect it. Try the same tricks or maybe escalate.
