Chapter 9
RUSH
I'm in the garage working on Wrath's bike when the smell hits me.
Oil and metal and something sharp underneath. It shouldn't mean anything, but my hands go still on the wrench.
The smell takes me back before I can stop it.
Concrete and sweat and the metallic tang of blood.
Juvie.
I set down the wrench and close my eyes, but that makes it worse because now I can see it.
I'm thirteen years old and the intake officer is processing me like I'm cargo.
"Strip, hands on the wall."
I do what he says because I don't have a choice. The cavity search is humiliating but I don't cry.
Crying is weakness. I learned that on day one.
They give me an orange jumpsuit and rubber shoes that don't fit right, then they walk me through a series of locked doors.
Each one clangs shut behind me and the sound echoes.
The smell hits me first—sweat and bleach and something else I can't name yet.
Fear, I'll learn later. It's fear.
They put me in a cell with another kid. He's maybe fifteen and doesn't look at me when I walk in.
"Top bunk's yours," he says.
I climb up and lie down. The mattress is thin and it smells like piss.
Welcome to juvie.
The first week I keep my head down and my mouth shut. I watch and I learn.
The kid in my cell is named Marcus and he runs things on our block. Everyone defers to him.
He's built like he's been lifting since he was ten, and he's got dead eyes that don't blink enough.
"You stay out of my way and we're good," he tells me on day three.
"Okay."
"You got commissary money?"
"No."
"Then you're gonna have a problem."
He's right. Within a week, everyone knows I don't have money for commissary.
Marcus decides I owe him anyway.
I'm in the showers when he corners me, two other guys with him for backup.
"You owe me," he says.
"I don't have anything."
"Then you're gonna work it off."
I know what that means. I've seen it happen to other kids.
"No," I say.
Wrong answer.
He swings and I duck. The punch glances off my shoulder instead of my face.
I don't think; I just react.
My fist connects with his nose and I feel it break. Blood sprays across the white tile.
The sound is wet and sharp, and it makes my stomach turn.
But I don't stop.
I can't stop.
Because if I stop, they'll know I'm weak and weak doesn't survive in here.
I keep hitting him. His friends try to pull me off but I'm fighting all three of them now.
Someone's screaming—might be me, might be Marcus.
Then the guards are there and they're pulling me off. My hands are bloody and Marcus is on the floor, not moving.
They put me in solitary for three days.
The cell is six by eight feet, concrete walls, metal door, no windows.
Just me and the darkness and what I've done.
I sit with my back against the wall and I shake. The adrenaline is wearing off and my hands hurt.
Marcus' blood is still under my fingernails.
I killed him. I must have killed him. That's the only thought in my head.
On day two, a guard tells me Marcus is alive—broken nose, fractured orbital bone, but alive.
I should feel relieved but I don't. I just feel empty.
On day three, I make a promise to myself.
Never again.
Never lose control like that again.
If I get out of here, I'll be better, I'll contain it, I'll never let the violence win.
I repeat it like a prayer, like if I say it enough times it'll be true.
I come back to myself in the garage. My hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the workbench.
The memory is so vivid I can still smell the bleach, can still feel the wet crunch of Marcus' nose breaking.
I force myself to breathe, to ground myself in the present.
But the flashback isn't done with me yet.
Two months into my sentence, I learn that control is survival.
The kid who cries gets targeted, the kid who fights back too hard gets solitary, the kid who finds the middle ground survives.
I learn to lock down my reactions, to keep my face blank, to never show fear or anger or anything that can be used against me.
I learn to fight when I have to but stop before it goes too far.
I learn to be invisible when possible and terrifying when necessary.
I learn to survive.
But surviving means doing things I swore I'd never do.
There's a kid named Danny. He's fourteen and small, and everyone can smell the fear on him.
I'm in the cafeteria when I see Marcus corner him. Danny says he doesn't have commissary money.
Marcus hits him anyway, right there where everyone can see.
Danny goes down and Marcus keeps hitting him. His fist makes a wet sound against Danny's face.
I'm ten feet away and I have a choice.
Step in or let it happen.
If I step in I make an enemy, if I let it happen I'm no better than Marcus.
I stand up.
The guard's already moving but I get there first. I grab Marcus by the back of his shirt and pull him off.
"That's enough," I say.
Marcus spins and swings at me. I block it and hit him back.
His nose breaks again. I broke it the first time and now I'm breaking it again.
There's something satisfying about the sound and that satisfaction makes me sick.
I should stop but I don't. I keep hitting him because the violence feels good.
Someone pulls me off and I'm in solitary again—another three days alone with what I've done.
This time, I don't make promises. This time, I just sit with the truth.
I like the violence.
Not all of it, not the fear or the guilt, but the moment of impact, the way it makes everything simple.
Hit or get hit, hurt or be hurt.
It's clean in a way nothing else in here is.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
The garage door opens and Tank walks in. He sees me gripping the workbench and he stops.
"You good?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You're lying."
"Yeah."
He walks over and leans against my bike. "What's going on?"
"Just thinking about shit I shouldn't be thinking about."
"Juvie?"
I nod.
Tank's quiet for a second, then he says, "That was a long time ago."
"Doesn't feel like it."
"You're not that kid anymore."
"Aren't I? Because it feels the same, the violence feels the same, the fear of losing control feels the same."
"What triggered it?"
"The smell, oil and metal, it reminded me of the showers."
Tank doesn't ask for details and I'm grateful. Some things don't need to be said out loud.
"You talk to Everly yet?" he asks.
"No."
"You planning to?"
"I don't know. Pyro told me to back off."
"Pyro tells everyone to back off. Doesn't mean you have to listen."
"This is different. Diesel's involved."
"So? You think Diesel's never dealt with someone interested in his daughter before?"
"I think Diesel's going to lose his mind when he finds out it's me."
Tank grins. "Probably, but that's half the fun."
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to get you to stop spiraling.
" He crosses his arms. "Look, you've been carrying this shit around for years.
The guilt, the fear, the certainty that you're one bad day away from becoming that kid again.
But you're not that kid, Rush. You've proven that over and over. "
"Have I? Because I almost put that guy in the hospital for grabbing Everly's arm."
"Almost isn't the same as did. You stopped yourself."
"Barely."
"Barely still counts."
I want to believe him but the doubt is always there, sitting heavy in my chest.
"What if I can't control it with her?" I ask.
"What if you can?"
"That's not good enough. The stakes are too high."
"The stakes are always high when you care about someone. That's how it works."
He walks away and I go back to work, but my mind is still in juvie.
Still seeing the blood on the tile, still hearing the wet sound of fists on flesh.
Still feeling the satisfaction that made me hate myself.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Everly.
Everly: You're avoiding me.
I frown at the screen. I’m not. I’ve been counting the hours since last night.
Me: I'm not avoiding you.
Everly: Then why are you being weird today?
Because last night I said something I can’t take back. I don’t type that part.
Me: I'm not being weird.
Everly: You promised.
The word lands heavier than it should.
Me: I did promise.
Everly: So?
Me: So, I’m still meeting you.
Everly: When?
Me: Now.
There’s a pause, then:
Everly: At your place?
Me: Yeah.
The idea of her in my flat hits me square in the chest. The place where I don’t pretend to be anything but what I am.
Fuck.
I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Wait.
Everly: What?
Me: Change of plans.
Everly: You just said your place.
Me: I know.
Everly: Then what’s happening?
Me: I’m not running.
Everly: Then what is this?
Me: This is me not wanting the first time we do this to be in four walls that make me feel like I’m cornered.
There’s another pause.
Everly: You’re complicated.
Me: Yeah. Meet me at the coast instead. I’ll text you the location.
Everly: Why?
Me: Because I need air if I’m going to keep my word.
The dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
Everly: You’d better not be backing out.
Me: I’m not.
Everly: Then fine. Send me the location.
Me: Okay. I’m leaving now.
I get on my bike and ride. The wind is cold but I barely feel it.
My mind is still half in juvie, still seeing the blood and concrete.
Still feeling the promise I made to never lose control again.
And Everly makes that promise harder to keep every time I'm near her.
The last fight I had in juvie was a week before I got out.
I was seventeen, almost done with my sentence, almost free.
A new kid arrived, cocky and stupid. He decided to test me.
I was in the yard when he came at me, threw a punch that I saw coming from a mile away.
I could have walked away, should have walked away.
But I didn't.
I blocked the punch and hit him back, once, hard enough to drop him.
He went down and I walked away before anyone could stop me.
That night in my cell, I made the promise again. Never again, never lose control, never let the violence win.