Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
DRAVEN
M om passed two days ago, and I’ve been going through the motions. But to be honest, I’m not sure I know which way is up.
Her idea of a final send-off couldn’t have been more different than mine.
The church was absolutely packed. Every pew from one end to the other was filled with members of her congregation, her friends, and others in the community. She deserved every honor bestowed upon her as those who loved her most gave their final goodbyes. She was the epitome of a saint, and she deserved a better son than I’d been.
Being back there was hard. I hadn’t stepped foot inside that church—or any church—since Dad passed away, despite my mother’s pleas to join her. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was bad enough that the vision of him in his coffin on the altar haunted me day and night. I didn’t need another weekly reminder of it in person, too. It was the only wish of hers I refused to grant after he died.
The Bastards surrounded her lengthy funeral procession, safely leading everyone to the cemetery before carrying her to her final resting place. It’s what we do for each other. For family. As much as Mom disagreed with my lifestyle, she welcomed my second family into her life as her own.
I fought tirelessly to hold myself together through every second that slowly ticked by today. To nod my head and give a thin smile to those who approached me, offering their condolences. There were many who barely looked at me, afraid or ashamed of what I’ve become over the years but who nodded their respects from across the room.
With the burial over, only a couple more hours stand between me and silence. Solitude. But for now, here I sit, on the back patio of the lodge we rented for Mom’s luncheon, chain smoking and pounding beers. Trying to come off as unapproachable as possible so people will leave me alone, finish their conversations, then get the hell out of here.
As I take another drag of my cigarette, my ears tune in to a familiar voice in the crowd. His tone sounds slightly different than it does over the phone, but the pathetic arrogance in it is exactly the same as it always is.
“Thank you so much for coming. I know it would have meant a lot to Mom.”
My head snaps to the left, and I catch him in my sights for the first time in over five years.
Mitchell.
I haven’t heard one word from him since I told him I had to sell the farm. I’ve left countless messages, every one of which went unanswered. Now here he is, waltzing through the door at the end of the day like the golden child he’s pretended to be for years. Accepting condolences for the death of a mother he walked out on the moment he got the chance.
My fist tightens around the beer in my hand, crushing the aluminum and causing the cold, amber liquid to overflow from the mouth of the can.
He wasn’t there for her.
He wasn’t by her side every day.
Reading to her.
Making sure she was eating.
Wetting her lips and tongue with a sponge when she got past the point of being able to drink on her own.
Putting Chapstick on her cracked lips.
Tucking her blankets tightly around her because her hands and feet felt ice cold to the touch.
He wasn’t the one sitting there in agony, every minute for the past week, witnessing her hallucinate and carry on conversations with our dead father.
Watching as her skin turned blotchy then pale then gray.
Learning what a death rattle is and being forced to listen to her as it sounded like she was drowning in her own mucus.
That alone is something I could have happily died without ever having knowledge of.
No.
Fuck this.
And fuck him for thinking he can leave the brunt of the pain to me and come only for the sympathy before disappearing all over again.
Standing, I drop my half-smoked cigarette onto the concrete and propel my feet toward my brother at a rapid pace. I don’t care about anyone in my way. If they can’t move quickly enough, they’ll become collateral damage.
Mitchell turns at the sound of a nearby gasp resulting from, I can only assume, the accelerated way I barreled into the room. The second his eyes find mine they widen in horror, just before I land a right hook to the side of his face. The action twirls his body around 180 degrees before he stumbles, ultimately landing on the floor.
With practically everyone frozen in shock, I seize the opportunity to roll him over and jump on top of him. I get two more punches in before I feel arms slide beneath mine and rip me off of my brother.
“Enough, Draven. That’s a fucking order.” Royce’s voice is loud in my ear. No doubt he’s fighting to make sure I hear him over the sound of the fury raging through me like an unforgiving river.
The entire bar is bathed in shades of red as I vaguely watch Atticus help Mitchell up off the floor while some of my other brothers let everyone else know the party's over. They all scurry out the front door, happy to put distance between themselves and Nancy Hoffman’s delinquent son, I’m sure.
“What the fuck, Mac?” Mitchell bellows from across the bar where Atticus led him.
“Don’t fucking talk to me.” My eyes narrow as I point my finger at him as though it’s the barrel of a gun, and I’m aiming to kill. “How dare you come here? Now. After all the hard work has been done.”
“She’s my fucking mother, too, asshole.” The audacity he must possess to dare try to rationalize his presence now .
“Since when? Where the fuck have you been these past three years? You barely called her. You never came to see her!” My shouts mix with a pained roar that I’ve never heard come out of my body before. “You’re a sorry, fucking pathetic excuse for a son. For a brother.”
Royce’s grip doesn’t loosen one bit. He’s smart. He knows me, sometimes better than I know myself. If I would have had an ounce of room to move, I would have taken off after Mitchell all over again.
“Get him the fuck out of here, Atty. Before I kill him.” Breathing rapidly, Mitchell and I stare one another down. His lip is curled in disgust, like he thinks he’s better than me. Like he can’t believe I would behave this way as though he doesn’t know what I’m made of. “You think I’m joking, Mitchell? You’re not my brother. Not anymore. Fucking try me. If I ever see your face in my town again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
* * *
“Hoffman,” an officer calls from around the corner before coming into view. “You made bail.”
As if coming to blows with my brother at our mother’s funeral wasn’t rock bottom enough, the bender I’ve been on the past two weeks—ending with the brief, drunken, high-speed chase I led Gettysburg’s finest on last night before losing control of my bike—solidified it.
I don’t move. I knew I would make bail, just like I know what’s in store for me the moment I step foot out of this building.
Nothing fucking good.
I’ll be lucky if Royce doesn’t string me up in the cannery and beat me to death.
Or sic Stella on me.
She’s one of our Harlots. We can be a torturous and sadistic bunch when we need to be, but she’ll give us a run for our money any day of the week.
I shudder at the thought and grimace in pain.
“This isn’t a hotel. Get moving, sunshine.” Still partially drunk, I look up into the officer’s gaunt face. He flashes me a shit-eating grin, knowing I’m still too fucked-up to beat his ass. Even if I took a swing, I’d probably miss, letting whatever strength I could muster pull me down onto the floor in a heap.
Grunting, I grip the bars of the cell I spent the night in to help lift myself off the padded slab of concrete they dare call a bed. Everything hurts. I feel like every muscle in my body has been pushed to its limit. The burn from my cuts scream from my elbows and knees as I bend my body, forcing it to follow the officer down the hall. Luckily, I was almost out of road before my bike dropped and I landed in the grass. Otherwise, I would have been sobering up in the hospital.
Everything I’ve done to lessen the pain in my chest over the last two weeks has been for nothing. It lingers, stronger than ever, pulling me down as though my heart has been filled and coated with steel.
Once we’re around the corner, I’m immediately hit with the most unwelcome beam of sunlight imaginable. I shield my eyes from it, the movement throwing me slightly off-balance. Purposely keeping my gaze away from the entrance to the police station, I focus my attention on the older woman at the front desk. Stopping before her, I’m handed a large plastic bag containing my personal effects.
“Sign here, please.” Taking the pen she offers, I scribble a line across the paper before reaching inside the bag and locating my sunglasses. “Thank you. You’re free to go.”
I turn, but before I move my feet, I reach back into the bag and dig out my cigarettes and lighter. The moment I pull them free, I light up and take a drag, not bothering to wait until I’m outside.
“All right, on your way, Hoffman.” The officer grabs me by my tattered shirt sleeve and practically hurls me through the doors.
I stumble but manage to catch myself before falling on my face.
Okay, let’s get this over with…
Raising my eyes, I look for Royce, but it’s not him I find staring back at me.
Oh god.
I lift my sunglasses onto my head as though they’re preventing me from clearly seeing who’s here. Standing before me, looking as judgy as ever with her puckered lips and cocked eyebrow … and her dumb necklaces…
And… And her stupid, gorgeous brown hair that I dream of raking my fingers through.
She’s the one person I won’t be able to hide from.
The last person I want to see me like this.