Chapter 15 Nothing Left to Hide
FIFTEEN
NOTHING LEFT TO HIDE
DECLAN
The blood on my hands was his.
I gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache, trying to keep my breathing steady while Troy sat in the passenger seat bleeding all over my truck.
His face was a mess. Split lip, bruise blooming across his jaw, cut above his eyebrow that was still dripping red down the side of his face.
His ribs were probably cracked again. Maybe worse this time.
And he'd fought anyway. Had thrown himself at that masked bastard like getting killed was just another Tuesday night activity.
My heart was still hammering against my ribs.
Adrenaline screaming through my system, making my hands shake, making every thought come too fast and too sharp.
I'd left the recovery center hours ago feeling relatively fine.
Now I was covered in someone else's blood, my knuckles were split open again, and the cut on my forearm from that knife was burning like hell.
But Troy was worse. Always fucking worse, always taking more damage than he should, always pushing himself past the point where his body could hold up.
I pulled into the driveway too fast, killed the engine, and turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, breathing shallow like his ribs hurt too much to pull in a full breath.
“Inside,” I said. The word came out rougher than I meant it to. “Now.”
Troy didn't argue. Just climbed out of the truck moving like every muscle hurt, which it probably did. I grabbed the first aid kit from under the seat and followed him up the walkway.
The house felt too quiet when we got inside. Too normal. Like the world shouldn't just keep existing the same way after what had just happened.
I flipped on the kitchen lights. Troy dropped into one of the chairs at the table, grimacing as he moved. Blood was soaking through his shirt on the left side where his ribs were. Either from the old injury reopening or new damage. Probably both.
I set the first aid kit on the table and grabbed a clean towel from the drawer. Ran it under cold water. Wrung it out.
“Take off your shirt,” I said.
Troy pulled it over his head slowly, teeth gritted against the pain. The bruising across his ribs was ugly. Dark purple and mottled, spreading from his kidney up to his sternum. Fresh blood was seeping from a scrape that ran along his side where he must have hit the pavement.
I pressed the towel against the worst of it. He hissed but didn't pull away.
“Who the fuck were those men?” I asked. Kept my voice level and controlled, even though I wanted to shout. “And don't tell me you don't know, because those were the same caliber of fighters who came after me.”
Troy's jaw tightened. “I'm handling it.”
“Handling what?” I pressed the towel harder. He winced. “You're getting jumped in alleys by professionals who know exactly how to hurt people. That's not what you handle alone.”
“I said I'm working on it.”
“Working on what, Troy?” The anger was bleeding through now. I couldn't keep it locked down anymore. “What the fuck is going on? Why are these men after you? Why are they after me?”
“Because someone wants me scared,” he said. Voice flat and emotionless. “Wants me to leave Chicago.”
“Who?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Bullshit.” I threw the towel on the table. “You don't get jumped twice by the same caliber of fighter without knowing who sent them. You're not stupid. So stop acting like I am.”
Troy looked up at me then. Eyes hard and defensive, the walls slamming back into place even though he was sitting there bleeding. “I told you, I'm handling it.”
“By getting your ass kicked? By dragging this shit to my doorstep?” The fear I had been swallowing since the alley was turning into rage, hot and corrosive in my chest. “By almost getting killed in front of me?”
“I didn't ask you to follow me tonight.”
“You're the one who followed me first.” I grabbed the antiseptic from the kit. “And someone had to make sure you didn't get yourself murdered. Now tell me what the fuck is going on before I lose my mind.”
“It's none of your business.”
“Like hell it isn't.” I opened the bottle, poured it on a gauze pad. “You're living in my house. Someone tried to kill you. They went after me to get to you. That makes it my goddamn business.”
Troy's hands were shaking. Just slightly, enough that I could see it. “I'm trying to protect you.”
“By keeping me in the dark? By letting me walk around not knowing someone wants me dead as collateral?” I pressed the antiseptic to the scrape on his ribs. He jerked, swore under his breath. “That's not protection, Troy. That's cowardice.”
His eyes flashed with anger. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You show up here after six years with danger following you like a shadow, and you think hiding it from me is doing me a favor? You think I can't handle the truth?”
“You don't want the truth.”
“Try me.”
Troy stood up too fast. He swayed slightly, caught himself on the table.
“You want the truth? Fine. Someone is trying to kill me.
I don't know who yet. I don't know why. But they're not going to stop with warnings.
They're going to escalate. And anyone close to me becomes a target.” He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “That's the truth. Happy now?”
“No.” I moved closer. “Because that's not the whole truth. That's just the current situation. What I want to know is what your life is that brings men like that to your door.”
“The life that keeps you safe.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's the only one you're getting.”
I grabbed his arm, pulled him around to face me fully. “Don't you dare stand there bleeding in my kitchen and tell me you're keeping me safe while refusing to explain why I need protecting in the first place.”
Troy tried to pull away. I held on. His skin was warm under my palm, slick with sweat and blood.
“Let go of me, Declan.”
“Tell me the truth first.”
“You can't handle the truth.”
“I'm still your stepfather, Troy. That means I don't get to shut you out when your life is falling apart. That means I have a right to know what the hell is going on.”
His face went white. Then red. Then a dangerous expression flickered in his eyes.
“My stepfather?” His voice was low and deadly. “You want to play that card right now? After everything?”
“I'm just saying—”
“No. You don't get to say that.” He ripped his arm out of my grip. “You don't get to stand there and pull the stepfather bullshit when it's convenient for you. When you need a reason to demand answers. When you want to put me back in the box you've been trying to shove me into since I got here.”
“I'm not trying to put you in a box. I'm trying to keep you alive.”
“By treating me like a kid who can't make his own decisions? By acting like I owe you explanations about my life?”
“You do owe me explanations when your life puts mine at risk.” I stepped closer.
“You think I don't have a right to know why someone's coming after me?
Why I got jumped outside my own gym? You think I'm just supposed to sit here and take it while you play secret agent and refuse to tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.”
“I work for people you don't want to know about. I do things you don't want to hear about. And the less you know, the safer you are.”
“That's a cop-out and you know it.”
“It's the truth.”
“It's an excuse.” I grabbed his shirt. Pulled him closer. “You don't get to decide what I can handle. You don't get to make that call for me.”
“I'm making it anyway.”
“Like hell you are.” The anger was burning through me now. “I raised you. I know you better than you think I do. And I know when you're lying to protect yourself instead of me.”
Troy laughed. “You think you know me? You don't know shit about who I am anymore, Declan. You haven't known me in years.”
“Then tell me. Stop hiding behind this protective bullshit and just fucking tell me.”
“Why? So you can what? Fix it? Save me? Play the hero like you always do?” He shoved at my chest with both hands. “I don't need you to save me. I never did.”
“You needed someone when you were fifteen and your mother died. You needed someone when you had nowhere else to go. Don't rewrite history because it's convenient.”
“I'm not rewriting anything. I'm just telling you how it is now. I'm not that kid anymore. I'm not your responsibility. And I'm sure as hell not your son.”
“I never said you were.”
“But that's how you see me, isn't it? That's the role you keep trying to force me into. The kid you have to protect. The burden you have to carry. The responsibility you can't shake.”
“That's not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” He was in my face now.
Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him.
Close enough that I could smell blood and sweat and the anger radiating from both of us.
“Tell me, Declan. What am I to you if I'm not your responsibility?
What am I if I'm not the kid you feel guilty about?”
I couldn't answer.
“That's what I thought.” Troy's voice dropped. Got quieter and more dangerous. “You don't know what I am to you. And that's your problem. Not mine.”
We were too close. Both of us breathing hard, both of us bleeding, both of us wound so tight that the air between us felt combustible.
“Tell me what you do,” I said, my voice rough and desperate to get off this topic, to get away from the question hanging between us. “Tell me what's so terrible that you think I can't handle it. Tell me why people are trying to kill you.”
Troy's jaw tightened. His eyes searched mine for a long moment, and I saw the exact second he realized what I was doing. Saw the flash of hurt before it turned back into anger.
Then the anger won.