Always Love You More (Baxston Boys #2)

Chapter 1

I’m jolted awake when I feel the cool barrel of a gun pressed against my temple.

I don’t move.

I barely even breathe.

A familiar voice grates against my skin. “Get out of it.”

I know I have to be quick—that’s part of the game—so I take in everything I can from the position I’m in.

He’s crouched over the mattress. Obviously, one of his hands is on the gun, but where’s the other one?

My gaze is fixed on the ceiling. I blink a few times, adjusting to the bright overhead light as I think.

I can’t turn to look at him without pressing the gun further into my head.

I could roll to the left and off the other side of the mattress, but that leaves me exposed, so he could easily get on top of me. And he’ll see that as running away.

His words echo through my mind—If you can’t walk away on top, don’t bother walking away at all.

I feel him shift. He’s running out of patience.

I reach out for his other hand, finding it on the floor, where I hoped it would be. He’s using it to keep himself upright as he leans over me.

He wobbles as I knock him off balance, and the gun lowers for just long enough that I can get up and push him to the floor.

I drop my heel down over his hand, and his fingers loosen around the gun from the force of it.

I grab the gun and, using my legs to pin his arms, I straddle his chest and point it at him.

A smile spreads across his face. “Good.”

Inside, I sag in relief, but I keep my posture rigid, my face unreadable.

He looks at me expectantly. “Get up.”

I stand, allowing him to follow.

“And give me back my gun,” he says, holding out his hand.

I drop it into his open palm, waiting as he tucks it into the back of his jeans.

“Jameson.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, the response immediate.

“What did I tell you about overthinking things?”

“It gets you killed.”

He points to the mattress. “If I wasn’t your old man, you would have been dead before you even made a move.” He pauses. “Trust your gut. I know the first thing you thought about is where my other hand was. Getting me off balance.”

I nod.

He keeps his stare trained on me, and I push down the unease that always comes when he gives me these looks. He’s waiting for me to break, and he can always tell the second I do.

I’ve gotten better at faking it. And now, with years of practice, I can completely lock the fear away.

Finally, he turns to leave. “Don’t hesitate again,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

I wait until I hear his footsteps fade before letting go of the breath I’ve been holding since he woke me up. Pacing in front of my bed, I try to calm down, but I’m too amped up, asking for a fight.

Grabbing my pillow, I press it against my face and scream into it until it feels like I can’t breathe. Then, slamming it against the bed, I drop to my knees and pound my fists against the mattress, swinging until I’m panting.

Slowly, I get up, walk over to the light switch, and turn it off. The glow of my alarm clock burns through the darkness, showing that it’s just past three in the morning.

I hate it when he does this in the middle of the night. It’s always so hard to get back to sleep.

Dropping down onto the mattress, I prop my pillow up and lean back, fighting the urge to remove it and slam my head against the wall. Instead, I grab the DVD player from the floor beside me and pull the attached headphones over my ears.

As I wait for it to power up, I run my hand along the side of the mattress until it catches on my knife, sliding my thumb along the side of it enough times until I believe it’s there. Satisfied, I settle back, pulling the sheet up over my bare chest as the movie starts.

My eyes snap open at the sound of my alarm, surprised I’d fallen asleep.

After untangling the headphones that are wrapped around me, I drag a hand down my face and wish I could be anywhere but inside my own body.

My head is killing me, and my ribs are aching from yesterday, as I stumble to the bathroom.

I’m grateful to find it empty and take a quick shower. It doesn’t do much to wake me up, but I know I don’t have a lot of time, so I move through the motions of getting ready before heading to the kitchen.

As I round the corner, I’m met with the smell of coffee and the sound of oil popping. My mother is bent over the stove, her light pink robe hanging loosely around her. She turns as she hears me walk in. “Mornin’, baby.”

“Mornin’, Ma,” I answer, stepping around her to grab a mug.

“I’m doing eggs,” she says. “You want yours fried?”

I nod, reaching for the pot of coffee and pouring myself a cup.

Leaning against the counter, I look over at the kitchen table and note all the things laid across it. There’s no room for me to sit, but I don’t move anything.

I learned that lesson the hard way.

I’m almost done with my coffee when I hear heavy boots thumping down the hall. I can already tell what mood he’s in by the way he’s dragging his feet.

My father turns the corner, and his eyes go right to the table before he slides them over to me. “There a reason you’re lounging back, looking at this mess, instead of doing something about it?”

“Last time you told me—”

The look on his face shuts me up.

This is what he does. Why I can’t ever win with him.

He makes situations where, either way you’re wrong, ’cause that way he’s always right.

That’s another thing I learned young—he’s always right. If he tells you two plus two is five, you nod your head and accept it as a fact. So, that’s what I do. I move to the table and start to clear it off.

He watches me as I grab the empty beer cans and toss them into the trash. Next, I go for the motor oil, toothbrush, and .45, trying not to think about the one I had pressed against my head last night.

I look up at him, asking where he wants me to put everything.

I know where it goes, but I never assume.

“Garage,” he says.

Nodding, I step around him and yank open the side door. The wooden stairs creak under my boots as I head for the safe.

After punching in the code, I spin the handle and pull the door open. Setting the gun beside the others, my eyes catch on a tray of watches.

Those weren’t here last week.

I want to pull the tray out and look at them, but I don’t. Instead, I lock away my questions, shut the safe, and head back inside.

The second I walk into the kitchen, my father’s eyes meet mine. He’s waiting to see if I’ll ask about them.

I play through all the scenarios, trying to decide if I should.

If he wants me to.

He knew I’d see them when he sent me out there, but I can’t tell if this is a test in keeping quiet or in speaking up.

I take in his posture.

It’s relaxed. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His mouth is set in a thin line, like he’s purposely trying to hide any tell, but he still has one. His right brow is arched, as if he’s daring me to say something.

Quiet then. He wants me to be quiet.

I drop into my seat, and he shifts, bringing his elbows to the table.

“Any trouble?”

“All good,” I answer.

“Good,” he says, and with that word, I know I guessed right.

My mother sets down a mug of coffee in front of him then moves back to the stove, returning a minute later with his plate of food.

She brings mine next before finally sitting down with her cup of coffee. She never eats breakfast. Instead, she lights a cigarette and picks at her long red nails.

My father’s fork scrapes against the plate as he cuts into his eggs, the yolk running into his toast. I wait until he’s taken his first bite before cutting into my own.

He looks up from his food, glancing around the table. “Orange juice?”

My mother follows, looking around like, at any moment, it’ll just appear.

“I’ve got it,” I say, pushing my chair back, but I only get so far before it stops, blocked by my father’s leg.

“I didn’t ask you,” he grits out.

I picture what it would feel like to lean forward and grab him by the collar of his shirt. To slam my fist against his face and see his eyes go wide with shock.

But I keep still, my attention shifting to my mother as she stands and mumbles an apology, coming back a minute later with a glass of orange juice.

I scooch my chair in and start eating again, if only to give my hands something to do.

I’m halfway through my plate when she finishes her cigarette. Stubbing it out, she says, “We need groceries, and I don’t have enough.”

My father cuts his eyes to her. “I just gave you money a few days ago.”

“We needed things for the house. Cleaning stuff,” she rambles on.

“Uh-huh,” he grunts, pulling a clip of money from his back pocket. He sets down three twenties on the table. “I want to see the receipt when you get home.”

She blows out a breath. “Come on, Levi. Seriously?”

He tips his head to the side and slips his voice into that tone you never want to hear. “Yes, seriously.” He leans forward. “Do you really want to have this conversation right now?”

Her eyes drop as she shakes her head. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She snatches the money from the table without meeting his eyes. Then, starting to stand, she murmurs, “I’ve gotta go get dressed.”

He grabs her wrist. “I’m not done eating yet.”

Slowly, she lowers herself back into her seat, while my father picks his fork back up and turns toward me.

“Now, you—”

A loud pounding interrupts him, and if I could, I’d flinch.

He drags his eyes from me to the door and tips his head in its direction. I follow his silent command and go to answer it.

I keep myself hidden and slide back the small curtain that covers the top of the door just enough to see who’s there.

Marcus.

Pulling it open, I squint from the morning sun. Raising a hand to block out the brightness, I find him staring at me with that unhinged smile he always has, making the scar that runs from his eye to the bottom of his lip crinkle.

He pushes past me, always in a rush, and I follow behind him, sliding back into my seat.

He stops in front of the table and gets right to the point, not even bothering with a hello. “Got a new kid I want you to meet.”

Marcus is always trying to do anything he can to impress my father. He’s been around since before I can remember, climbing his way up to be my father’s second years ago.

“We don’t need any more strays,” my father answers.

Marcus shifts with excited energy. “Just wait till you see what this kid can do, though.”

“Who’s his old man?”

“Some deadbeat drunk. He wants to make some quick cash. Seems real motivated.”

My father sets down his coffee cup. “All right, fine. When do you have him coming in?”

“This afternoon,” he answers.

A horn sounds from outside, and I look at the clock.

Right on time.

“I’ve gotta get to school,” I say, waiting to be excused.

My father waves a hand. “Go.”

I stand, starting for the door, when he calls my name and I turn back to look at him.

“Come to the garage right after school. You’ve got errands today.”

Fuck.

“Yes, sir,” I answer.