Chapter 30
THIRTY
My knuckles throb, swollen from last night’s fight.
I keep flexing them out of habit, but every time I see them red and scabbed, it drags me back to his hands.
The shiner under my left eye aches, too, pulsing with every thud of my headache.
I’m chugging my second energy drink, the sickly sweet liquid doing nothing to chase off the gnawing hangover or the worse-than-usual pit in my chest. It’s not just the hangover, though.
It’s the memory of fists connecting, my pulse pounding in my ears, that dark rush of anger that felt like freedom and poison all at once.
I punch the buttons on my controller harder than I need to, guiding my character through another round of the shooter game.
I tell myself it helps, that the violence on the screen will siphon off the lingering aggression and the numbness that’s weighing me down.
But it’s not working. The game doesn’t scratch the itch or drown out the way my hands won’t stop shaking.
My door opens, followed by footsteps behind me, and I know who it is without looking. My shoulders tense. It’s as if he’s been watching me since I stumbled in last night, drunk, bloody, and looking like a loser.
“You going to tell me what happened?”
“No.” My answer is clipped, muttered around the can pressed to my lips.
Oscar doesn’t press, but he doesn’t leave, either. Instead, I hear the sound of something being set down, the rustle of fabric. “Got a minute?”
“Not really,” I shoot back, still focused on the screen.
“I wasn’t asking, kid.”
Finally, I glance over to see what he’s holding. Wooden hoops. I blink, confused. “What the hell is that?”
“Embroidery,” he casually says as if it’s obvious. “Come here.” He sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him.
I laugh, but it’s bitter. “Yeah, I’m not a grandma, Oscar.”
“Who said anything about being a grandma? Sit down.”
“I’m busy,” I snap, gesturing to the screen.
“No, you’re avoiding,” he counters. “Now, get over here.”
I sigh, throwing the controller down harder than I need to. “Fine.”
Dragging myself off the desk chair, I drop onto the bed beside him, arms crossed, while he explains how to thread the needle like I’d care.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, staring at the needle like it’s a foreign object.
“Yeah?” He grins, reaching for something on the bed. “What about this?” He holds up a half-finished piece with bold, flowery stitching that reads DON’T BE A DICK.
I snort. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Figured you’d appreciate the sentiment.”
I shake my head, the corners of my mouth twitching. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he admits, leaning back. “But this? This helps. Keeps your hands busy. Keeps your head straight.” He threads a needle for me, then holds it out. “Here, try it.”
I take it reluctantly, clumsily stabbing the needle through the fabric. It’s harder than it looks, but Oscar doesn’t make fun of me. He simply watches, occasionally offering pointers.
“So,” he starts after a while. “You want to tell me why your knuckles look like that?”
I don’t answer at first, focusing on the thread, but eventually, the words tumble out. “Got into a fight. With some idiots. We were drunk, they started something, and I…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I don’t even know, man. I… went off.”
Oscar nods, not looking at me. “Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent, Sylus.”
“What?”
“It’s a quote,” he explains. “From someone smarter than me. Point is, there are better ways to handle things. Smarter ways.”
I stare at my knuckles, the split skin, and dried blood, and all I can see is his hands. My dad’s. They were always bruised, always cracked, always ready to deal out another blow. I used to hate those hands. Hate the way they’d curl into fists and leave marks that didn’t fade for days. And now?
Now mine look just like his.
The thought makes me want to puke.
“I screwed up.”
“You did,” Oscar agrees, no sugarcoating. “But screwing up doesn’t make you a screw-up. You get to decide what you do next.”
He is giving me a piece of his mind about how I’m acting, but it’s nothing like the barked lectures I used to get at home. He’s not yelling, not calling me a disappointment. He’s just here, telling me I have a choice like I’m still worth something even after screwing up.
I don’t deserve that. Not after walking into a fight like it was sport. Not after coming home drunk and bloody, making him deal with the mess I made of myself.
“You’re not your old man, Sylus.” He nudges my shoulder. “You don’t have to carry that shit around forever.”
I can’t keep doing this.
I can’t be that guy, the one who ruins everything he touches, who takes and takes until there’s nothing left. And I sure as hell don’t want to be anything like my old man.
My throat tightens, but I nod, focusing on the needle. It’s stupid, really, this whole embroidery thing. But as the thread weaves through the fabric, something shifts.
For the first time in months, I don’t feel like hitting someone.
And as I sit there, next to the man who treats me like I’m worth something, I make a decision.
No more drinking.
No more fighting.
I’m going to be better, not for me, but for the person who believes I can be.
I glance down to see a thin line of blood beading on my knuckles. I must’ve grazed it on one of the exposed edges of the drone’s paneling. It’s barely a scratch, but it was enough to spark the memory.
The van is filled with the whir of the gadgets I’ve been tweaking. Levi leans against the wall, half-distracted, scrolling through his phone.
“Fuck.” I lift my hand to my mouth, licking the blood off without thinking.
“You good?” Levi looks up from his phone. “Should I get a Band-Aid? Or, I don’t know, call an ambulance? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Don’t worry, just a scratch.” I flex my fingers. The cut stings, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest that’ll never quite go away. “I’ll live, Drama Queen.”
Levi clutches his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “I was being thoughtful! But fine, bleed out for all I care. I’ll write a touching eulogy.”
“Oh, please,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I go back to the drone I’m tinkering with. “You’d spend the whole eulogy talking about yourself.”
“Wrong,” he retorts, straightening. “I’d sing the eulogy. Full musical number. Spotlight, backup dancers, everything. The people need a show, Sylus. Even in your death, I’d honor your commitment to the craft.”
I snort, shaking my head as I reattach a panel. “And people call me insane.”
“Because you are insane,” Levi counters, grinning.
“Talking about insane, where’s your poop machine?”
“Excuse you?” Levi gasps. “Pebble is not a poop machine. But thank you for asking.” I snort. “My angel baby is up in our room having her beauty sleep.”
“Why don’t you join her?” I ask in a blasé tone.
“Want to get rid of me?”
Yes. “No.”
Before he can fire back, the sound of a car pulling up outside catches both our attention. The low rumble of the engine dies, and Levi’s entire face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.
“My man is here,” he exclaims, shoving his phone into his pocket and scrambling for the door.
I lean back on the bench, chuckling as I watch him practically leap out of the van. Ezra and Levi being in love is something I never expected, but damn if it doesn’t make me smile.
Levi’s laughter echoes back toward the van, followed by the low murmur of Ezra’s voice, and the ache in my chest eases a little.
This? This is what we’re fighting for.
Our family. A future. Something worth all the blood, sweat, and chaos we’ve poured into it.
And I’ll be damned if we don’t pull this off.
I jump out of the van, too, and the moment I see her, my grin widens. Levi might be excited about his man showing up, but I’ve got my eyes on my wife.
And damn, does she look good. That blonde wig is an interesting choice, but it works. Not that it matters. She could wear a paper bag, and I’d still want to rip it off her just to get to what’s underneath.
Before I can take a step toward her, though, Ezra blocks my path with one arm still slung possessively around Levi’s hip. His other hand presses firmly against my chest.
“Give me my fucking credit card, Sy,” he commands, his tone sharp but laced with that quiet exasperation he always has when dealing with me.
I blink, feigning innocence. “Why?”
“Because it’s mine. You have your own. And really? Fifty thousand in the last two weeks? What the actual fuck?”
“Preparations are expensive, okay?” I reply, shrugging. “It would’ve been sixty-six K, but I made sure Harrington paid for the van.”
Ezra narrows his eyes as Levi bursts out laughing. Sparkle raises a brow, glancing between us. “What?” she asks, clearly intrigued.
I flash her a grin. “Hey, he can pull his weight. The guy’s doing nothing except sulking around looking pretty, so he can pay for shit.”
Ezra scoffs. “He’s getting evidence, which is objectively a very important part of this.”
“Tomato, tomahto,” I shrug, pulling my wallet from my pocket with an exaggerated sigh. I flip it open, pluck out Ezra’s credit card, and hold it up. “Fine. Here’s your precious card, Captain Buzzkill.”
Ezra snatches it, muttering under his breath about irresponsibility, while I take my chance to step around him. Sparkle is standing there next to Alaric, watching the scene unfold with barely contained amusement, and I waste no time grabbing her throat and pulling her to me.
“Hi, Sparkle baby.” I grin, crashing my lips against hers. She melts into me instantly, her hands clutching at my shoulders as I deepen the kiss, savoring the way she tastes sweet, warm, and like everything I’ve ever wanted.