Page 46

He sighs and nods. “Shit.”

“My thoughts exactly. Where’s your lady?”

“She wanted to come but said she couldn’t do another funeral.” Kodiak met Tate six months ago when her mom passed away and I don’t blame her for skipping this one. I nod.

“Y’all headed back to the clubhouse for the wake?” Moose asks and I shake my head.

“I gotta go try and find my brother.”

Kodiak sighs and I shake my head.

“Don’t fucking start with me.”

“You’re killing yourself with this and he doesn’t even care, Smith.”

“I said “don’t”,” I grumble even though he’s right. Clay doesn’t care that his addiction is eating away at me just as much as it is him but what else can I do? Abandon him?

“Just give it a break. At least for today,” he reasons and I shake my head.

“Can’t. Tell Rodriguez I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” I say as I back away from them. No one tries to stop me as I walk to my truck and once I’m inside, I lay my head against the headrest and take a deep breath.

My phone buzzes with a text and I dig it out of my pocket.

Quinn:

Thank you for last night.

I smile, my stress melting away for a second as I type out my reply.

Me:

Pretty sure that’s my line.

When can I see you again?

Instead of waiting for her reply, I decide to get my search over with so I can hopefully stop by and see Quinn and Brooklyn tonight. On my list of to-dos, that is the only thing I really want to do.

I pull away from the cemetery as the rest of the guys climb on their bikes and I turn toward Clay’s favorite place to get high, hoping I don’t have to search too hard tonight. Kodiak’s statement keeps repeating in my head and the more I think about it, the angrier I get. I know that he’s absolutely right. Clay doesn't care about anything but the drugs. It is his sole focus and nothing else matters, not even me and each night I go out searching for him, I want to throw in the towel. Why am I killing myself when he doesn’t give a shit? But I know if I gave up and he died from an overdose, I would never forgive myself. Sometimes, though, that just makes me hate him more.

Pulling into the parking lot of a dingy old bar on the outskirts of town, one of Clay’s favorite hang-outs, I park my truck in the back of the lot and smash my fists against the steering wheel again and again until my hands drop weakly into my lap. As I look up at the door to the bar, I consider leaving and never looking back but something, maybe my guilt or the fear of being completely alone, keeps me moving forward. With a heavy sigh, I turn off the truck and climb out. There are a few people hanging out around the entrance but other than that, the lot is quiet. No one would come to a place like this unless they were looking for trouble. Which is exactly why Clay likes it.

As soon as I walk in, I want to turn right around and leave but I press on, working my way into the smoke-filled room as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. A painfully thin woman glances up at me from behind the bar and I nod.

“Clay here?”

She points to the back room and I mutter a “thank you” as I pass her. As I step into the back room, I stop and take in the scene, my stomach turning at the bodies draped over every available surface - their eyes glassy and vacant.

Jesus Christ.

My gaze drifts to the corner of the room and I release a breath at the sight of Clay curled up in a chair. His hair is greasy and it looks like he hasn’t eaten anything since he walked away from me four days ago. Sighing, I run my hand through my hair before making my way across the room and crouching down in front of him.

“Clay?” I whisper, shaking him a little and his head slowly turns to look at me but his eyes are empty. There’s a pipe in his lap and I shake my head as I grab it and set it on the coffee table behind me as a deep, aching sadness takes hold of me. How did everything go so wrong? How did we end up here? Pushing down my pain, I put my hands around my brother and pull him out of the chair. I try to encourage him to support his own weight but it becomes clear fairly quickly that he can’t and tears burn my eyes as I lift him into my arms and turn toward the door.

“Luke,” he whispers, his eyes drifting closed and I jostle him to keep him conscious as I carry him back into the bar.

“Yeah, I’m here, bud. Stay with me.”

He opens his eyes and licks his dry, cracked lips. “I’m sorry.”