Chapter 30
I wake up New Year’s Day with an ice pick splitting my skull. I swear I'm never drinking again. I know damn well I use alcohol as a crutch—it’s the only way I can stop all the feelings. God, I fucking hate feelings.
Yesterday hit harder than I anticipated.
Instead of celebrating my baby brother’s life, I spent it reliving the pain of losing him.
The keening wails reverberating off the emergency room walls still ring in my ears.
I’ll never know if the guttural cries came from Quincy, my mom, or a symphony of our entire family’s hearts shattering on the linoleum floors.
Funny how so many lives were destroyed under those fluorescent lights, next to some guy kicking the vending machine.
I’ll never forget how it felt when the ER doctor stood before our family and said Sam had died from an aortic aneurysm.
At the time, those words meant nothing to me because all that mattered was that Sam was dead.
I was catatonic as the doctor walked away from our broken family, and with each retreating step went the last iota of a fuck I gave—about anything.
He'd been running on the treadmill at home when Quincy heard a loud crash. Sam’s unconscious body had slammed into the wall behind the still running treadmill.
Within two hours, two fucking hours, my golden retriever, eternally optimistic little brother was gone. He was twenty-nine fucking years old.
We’d been planning a trip for his upcoming thirtieth birthday.
Sam was obsessed with armadillos. A fourth-grade school project turned into a lifelong mission to see one in person.
We found a yurt rental in butt fuck nowhere Texas.
He was convinced that if we waited up long enough each night, he'd see an armadillo.
As if the stupid things would materialize like he was the armadillo whisperer.
I pre-purchased zoo passes for the end of the trip with an armadillo wildlife experience just in case.
Instead, we gathered on Sam’s favorite bank of Whitetail River to spread his ashes.
Many of my core memories were made right there on that riverbank.
My dad teaching all us boys how to fish.
My older brother, James, teaching me and Sam how to skip stones.
The first time I ran away from home and camped there beneath the stars.
Sam flipping our canoe, resulting in eight stitches to my forehead. The first time I touched a girl’s tit.
Despite the morose memory of the last bits of my baby brother fluttering in the crisp spring wind, floating away downstream or blowing into the snowy abyss, the happy memories always bring a smile to my ruined face.
But now my memories of the riverbank are clouded by the haze of Sam’s ashes as they were unceremoniously emptied from the urn.
All that’s left of my little brother are memories and our family’s broken hearts.
I knew spreading Sam’s ashes would be hard on me, on all of us.
But I didn’t anticipate the gaping maw of emptiness that permanently consumed my chest. Each day I wake up, I’m bitch-slapped by the cruel reminder that despite my world ending, time doesn’t stop.
Endless days will continue to pass. Seasons will continue to change.
I'll continue to get older while my baby brother will be forever frozen in my memory.
I’ve spent the last few months filling the void the only way I know how—with booze. I do stupid shit when I'm drunk, that ain’t nothing new. Drunk Reid has hurt Isabelle three times. Three?
Fuck me.
It’s decided. I’m never drinking again.
I peel myself off whatever surface I’ve melted into and sit up. My bleary eyes take inventory of my surroundings. I’m at Greyson’s. I look around and yep, James is asleep, half hanging off the other end of the sectional.
I drag my sorry ass to Grey’s kitchen and down a glass of water, and then another. I start his coffee pot and lean against the counter, rubbing my hands up and down my face.
What was I doing? Oh, right. Counting all the times I’ve been a complete douchebag and hurt the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.
First, at the banquet. Knocked her over. Insulted her. Then mortified her in front of everyone at her new job. Awesome.
Second, at the football game. Now knowing the truth about the rumors about her, I can’t believe I said what I did.
I disgustingly implied she was a slut. The look on her face.
I think I’m going to be sick. I stumble to the kitchen sink and dry retch into the basin.
I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, so only bile comes up.
I was too depressed yesterday on what would have been Sam’s thirtieth birthday to think about eating.
Third, last night. It couldn’t have been easy for her to come out last night. I have a million questions. Why did she come out? Who did she come with? Was she there with a guy? Molten jealousy lances through me.
Who got her home safely? Just the thought of her on her own out after midnight makes my stomach heave again. Was she nervous to come up to me at the bar? What did she say to me? And what did I say to her?
Whatever it was broke her fucking heart because in my sober state, I remember her angelic face crumpling before she ran away from me.
Fuck!
What's the saying? Hurt me once, shame on you, hurt me twice, shame on me, hurt me three times, shame on us both. Three strikes and you’re out, right? Not to mention ambushing her in the lodge library and shutting her out before Thanksgiving.
Christ. She has no reason to trust me or give me another chance.
I can’t lose her before I even have her. I can’t accept that. I’m so gone for Isabelle it’s laughable. I’m obsessed with this girl, but she has no idea because all I manage to do is push her away and hurt her.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t exactly want to open that particular box, but I’m going to have to if I have any shot at fixing this.
The coffee pot finishes, and I pour myself a cup and two more for the guys. I shake James awake. “Coffee.” He groans and pushes up to sit on the sectional.
Next, I knock on Greyson’s bedroom door. “Coffee,” I holler through the slab of wood. I wait until I hear him start to move around in his room.
Begrudgingly, and not looking much better than me, they join me at the kitchen table.
Greyson starts in, “What's this? A fucking intervention?” James huffs a laugh.
“Yes,” I deadpan.
Scanning my face for bullshit, James realizes, “Oh shit. You’re serious.”
“I’m going to need y’all to fill in the gaps about what the hell happened last night. I already know I fucked up, but I don’t know how bad.”
“Not sure ‘fucked up’ is strong enough for what you did, man,” Grey adds.
“Very helpful, thank you Greyson.” I crack my neck in frustration.
Sensing my growing agitation, James relents. “Alright, alright. I’ll put you out of your misery.”
I spin my mug in my hands to give me something to do while my brother rips me apart.
“We all decided to go out for a drink to celebrate Sam’s birthday.
I picked you up and we met Grey at The Flying Pig.
It started off ok, we raised a glass to Sam, but none of us could find the words to say.
At some point, Greyson wandered off to take a call.
I couldn’t stand sitting with you in silence anymore, so I went looking for a distraction.
Ended up bumping into Olivia. Damn that girl has grown up, if you know what I mean. ” His smarmy eyebrows waggle.
Greyson kicks James under the table, hard. Laughing, James innocently asks, “What? It’s a compliment!”
“It’s my little sister, is what it is. And she’s almost thirteen years younger than you,” Greyson bites out.
“Whatever, let me tell my story,” James protests. “I ended up dancing with Olivia, Delilah, and Connor. I assumed Isabelle was around somewhere.”
“And you didn’t think to come tell me?” I ask.
“Nope. Not your handler,” James retorts. Dick. “Anywayyyyy, we all ended up coming back to hover around your drunk ass at the bar. You were already three deep when I left you, and you were finishing another, so I have no clue how many drinks you had.”
“Five.”
“Ouch,” Grey says and sucks air in through his teeth.
“Get to the point,” I snap.
“My story, my rules. Shut the fuck up or I’ll leave you wondering forever,” James threatens.
I make a show of holding my lips shut.
“Thank you.” Cocky prick. “We were standing around the bar when Isabelle showed up. Olivia was fondling her and asked you how hot she looked. And she did dude. She looked fucking hot.” Daggers shoot from my eyes. “What? Grey, tell him!”
“Sorry, but she looked fucking hot,” Grey offers.
“You didn’t even look at her. So, I asked again if you thought she looked good. You didn’t answer so she squeezed past us to stand next to you at the bar. She tried to get your attention, and you snapped at her to go away.”
Fuck.
“What did she want?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“It was pretty fucking obvious she wanted you to kiss her at midnight.”
My head spins at the revelation. I’d have given anything to have her lips on mine.
“But instead, you lost it and told her to fuck off.”
Goddamn it.
“Do I even want to know what happened next?” I groan.
“Not exactly sure. She started crying and disappeared into the crowd before Olivia could stop her. Next thing I knew, the ball dropped and everyone shouted and cheered. And I pointedly did not kiss your sister, Greyson,” James jabs.
“Be glad I let you live to see a new year,” Grey retorts.
“That’s when I went and found you trying to slip out the back door,” he finishes. I don’t need to know what happened after that. I don’t want to relive my grief over Sam’s death right now.
We sit for a while, all lost in thought. That’s when I remember I have a vendetta.
“I need your help with something else.” I speak into the silence.
“What now? You’re a needy little bitch today,” James says.
“Fuck off. I’m not going to go into detail, because it’s not my story to share. But back in high school, Isabelle was sexually assaulted, and the fucker needs to pay,” I seethe.
Storms cloud Greyson’s eyes. “He’s a dead man.” Greyson is the most protective guy I know—and he has a daughter. He won’t let this slide.
“Who was it?” James asks.
“Brett Stevens.” His name tastes like acid on my tongue.
“The fucking Deputy Sheriff?” James shouts, incredulous. “Piece of shit’s a predator and got himself a position of power to protect himself and take advantage of others. I’ve never had a good feeling about that guy. Now I know why. Because he’s a sick fuck.”
“Him being law enforcement, with his daddy still at the helm, makes it a bit more difficult to go untraced, but we’ll get it done,” Grey assures me. “I’ll be in touch.” That’s ominous as shit but I trust he'll help me get revenge for my girl.
With that, Greyson gets up to get ready for his day down at the hardware store. James motions to me that it’s time to head out.
We’re driving back to the ranch, classic country music playing in the cab.
I don’t ask for help. I don’t ask for advice. But I'm in over my head. And I’ve got to fix this.
“What do I do?”
“You grovel like your life depends on it. Kissing her feet on a throne made of diamonds won’t be enough.
But you’ve got to try. I’ve never seen you hung up on a girl.
But I think she's good for you. You’ve been coming out more and spending more time with the family since she started at work.
You don’t scare as many old ladies and children on the street.
She’s done something to you,” my brother jokes.
“How do I grovel?” I plead. I’ve never been in anything resembling a relationship and my ignorance is biting me in the ass.
“I don’t fucking know,” James scoffs. “Watch some sappy chick flicks or pick up one of those books with the cartoon characters making out on the cover. Think of that 80s movie where the dude shows up at her window with the boombox. Or the guy building her dream house even though she might never come back—The Notebook or some shit. A grand gesture.”
He pauses, deep in thought. “I mean, killing the guy who assaulted her is a good start.” He shrugs.
He’s right. But she deserves freedom from that pain regardless of if she ever forgives me.
James drops me off at my cabin with a pitying look and a pat on the back. I head straight for the liquor cabinet to numb the torrent of emotions wreaking havoc on my entire system. But as my fist closes around Jack’s neck, Isabelle’s devastated face floods my vision.
I try to wash the image away as the amber liquid swirls down the drain.