Chapter 5
Chapter five
Trey
Mind Of Mine – L? Spirit
The smell of bacon drags me out of sleep before I’m even ready to open my eyes.
It’s thick and greasy, curling through the apartment like smoke, wrapping itself around my brain and dragging me upright.
My skull feels like it’s been split in two by last night’s bass, and my mouth tastes like an ashtray washed down with whiskey.
I shuffle into the kitchen barefoot, hair doing whatever the fuck it wants—flattened on one side from sleep, sticking up in all the wrong directions on the other. My tattoos peek out from under the creased t-shirt I never bothered peeling off before I face-planted into bed.
Light punches through the floor-to-ceiling windows, blinding and merciless. That’s the thing about being high enough with money—curtains are optional, privacy’s irrelevant, and sunlight becomes your alarm clock whether you want it or not.
Mac’s already there, moving between the stove and the counter. Her blonde hair catches the sunlight, messy but still unfairly perfect. She looks over her shoulder as I drag myself to the table, a smile tugging at her lips.
Without a word, she slides a mug across the counter. Black coffee. Steam curls up, bitter and biting, making me gag and crave it all at once.
Morning, Cupid’s Angel,” she says softly. The nickname makes my chest tighten—it’s hers, and hers alone. She started calling me that because of my birthday—Valentine’s Day—and I hated it at first. Too cheesy. Too…everything. But over time, it stuck. Now, I don’t let anyone else use it. Only Mac.
I take the mug and flick her nose with my finger—because it’s easier than words this early.
She scrunches her face, swats my hand, but the smile doesn’t slip.
“You’re way too perky. I don’t like it,” I grumble. I cradle the mug with both hands and mutter, “Morning people are the worst, especially when I am still half drunk.”
Behind me, the apartment hums with background noise—Logan’s low voice drifting from the sofa as he talks to Dean on the phone, the scrape of a fork as Sam demolishes a plate of eggs with stuff on it.
Like seeds, nuts, snot… oh, no, that’s probably avocado.
It’s like he’s in training for the goddamn Olympics, or something.
Chace clicks his lighter like it’s a nervous tick.
If he doesn’t stop, I’m fifty percent tempted to snatch it and lob it into the harbor just to watch him flinch.
Move the fuck on, Baker.
It’s loud, but it’s our loud.
Mac sets down plates, calling out plans like a commander dividing up the day. “Logan and I are heading over to the house. I want to see how far they’ve gotten on the repairs.” She glances at him, and he nods, still cradling his phone against his shoulder.
Why does she have to shout?
“Gym for me,” Sam mumbles around a mouthful of his healthy snot-looking breakfast, flexing his arm like he’s already imagining it bigger. “Need to sweat this shit out.”
Gonna sweat you out…
Chace tips his chair back, balancing dangerously on two legs, smirk lazy. “Lunch with my uncle. He says it’s business, but I’m betting it’s just him wanting to get me into a suit for once.”
Cool, go play dress up and let me sleep.
They all look at me then, like I’m supposed to have something on the calendar. I scratch the back of my neck, staring into the black swirl of my coffee.
Bed. I’m going back to bed… oh, shit.
The memory hits—my actual plan for the day. I take a long, drawn-out sip, the coffee burning all the way down to my stomach. “I’m gonna go see my mom,” I say finally, voice low.
The words settle heavy over the table. Even Sam pauses mid-bite.
“It’s been a few months. Too long.” I clear my throat, pushing the mug away so I don’t have to stare at my reflection in it.
Hopefully, she’s lucid enough to know who I am this time.
Silence hangs for a beat before the noise picks up again—Sam crunching on some sourdough toast, Mac clinking plates, Logan’s voice drifting through another call—but it’s different now. Softer around the edges.
I lean back in the chair, stretching my legs out, staring past the glass wall at the city sparkling in the daylight. My chest tightens.
My moms in a private place—safe, well cared for—so why the fuck do I still drown in guilt every time I think of her there, so frail…
so lost. I’ve done more for her than I can remember her ever doing for me.
But that’s not why she’s getting round-the-clock specialist care.
I have the money, and it’s not like I can take her on tour with me, with us.
She’s safe there. Looked after. Better off than if she were with me, that’s for sure.
But every time I walk through those doors, the smell of disinfectant and stale air smothering me, it breaks me a little more. Seeing her small. Seeing her lost.
Some days she looks right at me and it’s like the old her is there—sharp, quick, laughing at something only we’d get. But most days… she just stares. Past me. Through me. Like I’m no one.
It guts me. Every time.
“Are you looking for any company, bro?”
“Not today…” I mumble, shaking my head.
I’ve let too many weeks slip by, burying myself in music and chaos and pretending that distance doesn’t make me a coward.
I can make a million excuses not to see her, depending on the day…
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots until my scalp aches.
The sound of bacon sizzling, Sam’s chewing, Chace’s lighter clicking—it all blurs in the background.
For a second, I let myself sink into the dread coiled in my gut.
Today, I’ll face it. Today, I’ll go.
The coffee doesn’t fix my head, but it gives me enough grit to push through.
By the time I’ve showered, brushed my teeth and pulled on some clean clothes; boots, jeans, and a dark hoodie, the others are already scattering to their plans.
Sam’s rattling protein powder into a shaker, Chace’s texting with that smirk that says he’s being a smartass to somebody, and Mac’s fussing with Logan like he’s not still recovering from a bullet wound.
Stoneface gives me a nod from the doorway, keys in hand. He doesn’t ask where I’m going—just gestures toward the car.
The ride is quiet. Vancouver stretches past in smears of glass and rain-slicked concrete. The city hums, alive, but all I can hear is my pulse, steady and heavy. My fingers drum against my thigh, restless.
When we pull up outside the facility, the nerves I’ve been keeping at bay crash down.
It looks the same as always—modern brick, wide glass doors, hedges trimmed to perfection.
Cheerful, in that way expensive places are.
A lie painted in sunlight. It’s all a facade, but if it helps ease our conscious, then it’s worth every penny.
I mutter a thanks to Stoneface and shove my hands in my pockets, hood pulled low as I step out. The doors slide open with a hiss, letting out the sterile bite of disinfectant. Underneath it, faint traces of fresh linen, air freshener and just a faint whiff of food trolleys being wheeled around.
The receptionist looks up, recognizes me, smiles like she knows not to make a scene. I sign the book with a scrawl and take the visitor pass, my hand tight around the stupid plastic clip.
The hallway is quiet. I can make lines in the carpets, its heavy-duty carpet tiles, reinforced and rubber footed, swallowing sounds and offering a barrier of water resistance.
My boots don’t even echo. I pass open doors—rooms with pastel walls, TVs murmuring game shows, old men staring out at nothing, women humming to themselves like they’re still young, lost somewhere in the past. Some comb their hair, or at least go through the motions, and it hits me like a gut punch.
This place is a waiting room. Lives already slowing down come here to grind to a halt altogether.
Mom’s door is near the end. My chest seizes when I see the brass number plate. I stand there for a beat too long, forehead pressed to the wood, trying to swallow the dread rising in my throat.
I push it open.
The room is dim, curtains drawn against the gray daylight.
A TV mutters softly in the corner, reruns of some soap she used to follow religiously.
The same one I grew up mocking with her when I was a kid.
The voices are sharp, ridiculous, but the laugh track is gone now. Just static drama in the background.
Finally, my eyes flick to my mom.
She’s small. Smaller than I remember. Curled into the recliner, sweater swallowing her frame, a blanket pulled over her legs. Her hair—what’s left of it—is wispy, silver, nothing like the thick curls I used to braid around my fingers when I was little. Her hands tremble where they rest on her lap.
“Mom?” My voice cracks, breaks in half.
Her head tilts slowly, eyes searching, unfocused. For a heartbeat, I think she doesn’t know me. I brace for it. That hollow stab in the chest that never gets easier.
Faint recognition flickers. Her lips twitch. “Trey?”
Relief nearly knocks me flat. I drag a chair closer and drop into it, leaning forward so she doesn’t have to strain her neck.
“Yeah, it’s me. Your favorite son,” I say, hamming it up a little—half a performance, half just pure relief that today’s one of the better days, the kind where she isn’t lost in some memory that has nothing to do with me.
Her smile ghosts across her face, brief but real.
“My only son,” she whispers, voice thin but teasing.
I laugh, but it comes out ragged. I fumble with the tin I brought, pulling it from my hoodie pocket. “Got you something.” I hold it up. “Chamomile. Your favorite. Thought you might be running low.”
Her fingers brush the tin, tentative, shaking. She clutches it to her chest like it’s worth more than gold. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.” My throat burns. “You used to ration it out like it was contraband. One packet a week, or else.”