Chapter 11
Colsen
“What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously. And I mean that in a non-rhetorical way, so feel free to answer me at any time.” I lay into Briggs the second I walk through the door.
He’s sprawled across the couch, unmoved by my anger, as per usual.
“I get that you don’t give a shit about your own well-being; you’ve proved that plenty of times over the past year and a half.
But are you so disconnected that you can’t be bothered to let the people who do give a fuck about you know that you’re still breathing?
” I might as well be talking to a brick wall for all the reaction I get.
“Did you phone Dr. Bossy Pants about my absence?” Briggs questions, his prone body in the perfect position for me to suffocate him. At least then we’d all be freed from the misery of wondering if he’s alive or not.
“Wow. That’s peak asshole behavior right there.
Truly. I mean, you never fail to amaze me, because every time I think you’ve reached the pinnacle of your threshold for bullshit, you set a new record.
Nothing matters to you–not the wasted hours we spend combing every alley in Chaplain for any sign of you, and certainly not the worry we feel every time your demons get the best of you,” I snarl, venting a year’s worth of frustration in a single breath.
“And no, I didn’t rat you out, but you will be paying her a visit. Today.”
“What the fuck for?” Briggs demands.
“That right there.” I jab my finger in his direction, insinuating the piss-poor job he’s doing of getting himself upright.
“You look like a fish flopping around on dry land, and don’t get me started on how disgusting you smell.
Did you cuddle roadkill? I doubt you even know the answer to that because you likely have no memory of your week-long binge sesh. ”
“Geez. You’re spicy today,” Briggs grunts.
“I’ll text you the appointment time, so charge your fucking phone. And stay the hell away from Andi,” I tack on, heading towards my bedroom so I can get changed for work.
As if this morning hasn’t been shitty enough, I’m dangerously close to being late.
Royce wouldn’t mind, knowing it’s a rarity for me, but I pride myself on being someone he can rely on.
He gave me a chance when every door I’d knocked on before his had no qualms about turning me away.
So if being a decent employee is the only way I know how to convey my gratitude, then I’ll be the best he’s ever had.
If it wasn’t for him and Dayton’s grandad, I wouldn’t be half the man I am.
Boys like us don’t amount to much, but we beat the odds somehow.
We escaped the trailer park we were destined to call home and even graduated high school, a feat that seemed impossible given our circumstances.
We’ve broken societal barriers, proving our start in life didn’t have to correlate with where we ended up.
And for every hardship I’ve faced, there’s been good and honest men in my corner steering me in the right direction.
It was a hard road traveled to reach this point, but the effort we’ve put into bettering ourselves is beginning to pay off.
The shower’s running when I leave, so I take that as a good sign.
On the drive into work, I call Briggs’ therapist, then forward him the appointment information.
An hour later, I’m knee-deep in crises at our current construction site.
We broke ground weeks ago, yet our progress is nonexistent.
We’ve been slapped with red tape at every turn by the city, but as persistent as they may be, Royce won’t be cowed by white-collar thugs.
He’d rather spend every cent to his name fighting their bogus claims than cave to the whims of elitist assholes.
Our homeless population has significantly increased over the past decade.
The cost of living is at an all-time high, and families that used to make a comfortable wage are being forced to rely on government assistance.
The poverty line keeps shifting, and the upper echelon doesn’t appreciate the increase in destitute residents.
They’re smearing the shiny facade of our city, and the scarce one percent that hasn’t been affected by the economic downfall prefers they stay out of sight.
It wasn’t until tent encampments began popping up near more affluent neighborhoods that their blinders were ripped away and they actually took notice of how dire the situation is.
But instead of coming up with a productive, long-term solution, they did what rich people do best–shunned the poor and passed the problem off to someone else.
So Royce, being the waymaker he is, took matters into his own hands.
Every year, he takes half of the company’s earnings and builds a new tiny home community.
They vary in size, depending on the amount of cash we’re working with, but as long as there’s a need for them, he’s vowed to continue.
You would think they’d be appreciative of the work we’re doing, and at first they were.
But over time, their opinions have changed.
They’ve twisted the purpose of these communities, accusing us of enabling the homeless epidemic.
In their minds, why would the downtrodden have any motivation to work if we’re happily providing them with homes for free?
It’s an obtuse way of thinking, and their assumption is wrong.
We offer them resources and connect them with job placement agencies, but these homes are meant to serve a transitional purpose, and we’ve yet to have anyone abuse that.
Once they’re on their feet and capable of securing a place of their own, we fill the vacancy with someone else who’s living on the streets.
And the cycle repeats. Fortunately, it’s only a select few who feel this way, but they hold esteemed positions in Chaplain, and their sway is substantial.
Most applaud Royce for giving back to his community.
Sadly, all the good he’s doing tends to get overshadowed by the negative stigma they’re intent on perpetuating.
When I accepted the offer to work for him, I had no idea I’d still be here seven years later.
I wasn’t thinking past the immediate future.
At the time, my only concern was making ends meet.
I spent the first twelve months of my employment working directly under Royce, learning the ins and outs of the trade.
I made a fraction of what I do now, and every day was a struggle, but I can confidently say that Royce has never shown me any favoritism.
I’ve earned every promotion he’s given me.
Maybe it’s because of the way I grew up and the firsthand knowledge I have of how easy it would be to continue the pattern, but I truly believe in the work he’s doing and the difference it can make in someone’s life.
Over lunch, I hear a few of the guys talking about the news that broke yesterday.
My thoughts drift to Andi and this morning, to the shitshow Briggs caused.
The information pushed out to the public during the press conference was intentionally vague, but the gist of the crimes is mind-boggling.
I can’t stop thinking about that little boy and how his abduction was the catalyst that finally got Andi out of there.
I know the day would’ve come eventually, but how much longer would the FBI have used her as an information mule, dragging it out until they felt she’d gleaned all she could?
And then I feel guilty for thinking that way, for being the tiniest bit grateful that Andi is finally free, because it came at the cost of someone’s life.
I know if it were up to Andi, she would’ve chosen to rot inside those walls before ever allowing a family to be torn apart.
It’s hard to stand by the idea that everything happens for a reason when a woman was murdered and her child stripped of his innocence.
Surely those things didn’t need to happen for justice to be served.
“Col!” Royce shouts, his deep baritone barely audible over the cacophony of power tools being put to use.
He motions me over, pointing at the office trailer so we can speak without any background noise.
It’s frigid inside, but the icy air feels glorious against my sweat-drenched skin. “Have a seat.”
“Is something wrong?” I question, happy to put the empty chair to use.
“No, not wrong per se.” He leans back, crossing his arms as he stares off in contemplation.
“Rita called just a bit ago. She was out making her rounds this morning when she saw someone she recognized, but couldn’t place where she knew him from.
It didn’t register for a few hours, but she finally realized it was Briggs.
He was leaving one of the newer sites near the border of Atley.
I know you’ve been searching for him, so if you want to head out early, you’re more than welcome to. ”
“Atley?” I question, my brows knitting together in confusion, then quickly add, “No need. He wandered home this morning.”
“On foot?” Royce asks, his incredulity making itself known by the pitch of his voice.
“Judging by the shape he was in? Yeah, I’d say he walked it.”
“Damn,” he whistles, just as flummoxed as I am.
Atley borders Chaplain, but it’s a good six miles from the closest point to the firehouse, so it’s no wonder he looked like shit.
I can’t say I’m not surprised to learn that he’s been crashing at a homeless encampment, but I trust Rita’s word.
She’s Royce’s favorite success story, and one of the first people he was able to help off the streets.
She works a nine-to-five now at the nonprofit they formed together, but still makes time to visit the bigger settlements, passing out supplies and food vouchers.
As much as I’d love to understand Briggs’ thought process, I’m convinced it’s a mystery to him as well.
There’s no telling what led him there, but I’m sick to death of his reckless attitude.
“Give Rita my thanks,” I state, climbing to my feet so I can head back out. “And don’t forget about our dinner plans on Friday.”
“We’ve been doing this every other week since I met you. Why the hell would I suddenly forget?” Royce scoffs.
“You’re getting old. Forgetfulness comes with the territory,” I jest, barely making it through the door before he launches a stapler at my head.
Laughing, I think back to the time when he was a bit more spry and threw a hammer at me because I fucked up some measurements.
Thankfully, my ability to dodge and weave is one of my finer attributes.
As usual, I’m the last one to leave at the end of the day.
I’m exhausted, covered in dirt and sweat, so naturally, there’s a voicemail waiting for me from Briggs’ therapist. He never showed for his appointment, and even though I should be used to his shit by now, I’m still disappointed.
Sometimes, I think the morals Dayton’s grandad, William, instilled in us as kids took a little too well for me.
It’s easier for Dayton to let things go, but I fixate.
I care too much and obsess over problems that aren’t mine.
On more than one occasion, I’ve been dumped for being too emotionally available.
I didn’t think that was a thing, but turns out it is.
I wish I could wash my hands of Briggs, but I don’t have it in me to be that callous.
This sense of responsibility I feel might be something I’ve chosen to saddle myself with, but if he doesn’t have me in his corner, then who?
Someone has to keep him in check, or these disappearing acts will become a permanent issue.
Dayton was helpful at the start, but he’s gotten so fed up that he refuses to waste his time trying to help someone that doesn’t want to be helped.
I’m fuming when I make it home, determined to say my piece and let the cards fall where they may.
I hate the idea of giving Briggs an ultimatum, but I’ve tried everything else, and nothing seems to work.
It’s fucked that he continues to put me in this position, sending us on wild goose chases and taking time from my already hectic workdays.
Meanwhile, he’s too high to function. It must be nice to care so little about what your actions are doing to the people around you.
His door smacks the wall from the force of me throwing it open, but just as my mouth opens to cuss his ass out, my brain registers what my eyes are seeing.
Briggs is passed out, the noise from my entrance not stirring him in the slightest. I gaze at the nightstand, noting his phone is plugged into the charging cable.
A quick tap of the screen reveals several missed calls and texts.
There’s a good chance he didn’t skip his therapy session on purpose.
After knowing how far he walked this morning while battling one hell of a hangover, it’s no wonder he’s sleeping like the dead.
I drop my head, closing my eyes as I weigh the options he’s left me with.
I can close the door, excusing myself from being his self-appointed keeper, and take a page out of Dayton’s book.
No one can say I haven’t tried. I’ve given it my fucking all, and the only person who continues to be left with the shit end of the stick is me.
Or I could force his hand, take the option of no out of the equation entirely.
He’ll hate me, but I’m not convinced he doesn’t already.
At the very least, he loathes the constant reminder my presence brings, but no one forced him to come here, much less stay.
Squaring my shoulders, I head to the kitchen and grab a trash bag.
I rummage through his drawers, tossing anything he might try to harm himself with.
Next, I pocket the meds he’s prescribed.
I leave a single dose on his nightstand, along with a fresh bottle of water, but from this point forward, I’m the fucking pharmacy.
Thankfully, his phone doesn’t have a passcode.
Likely because he’d forget it the second he self-medicates with half his monthly prescription.
I download the tracking app Dayton and I use so we always have each other’s locations, then stash it in a random folder he won’t think to open.
A smug grin stretches across my face as I sync it with mine and Dayton’s, ensuring I turn the notifications off on his end.
It won’t do me any good if he lets his phone die, but I’ll have his last known location, and that’s a starting point.
Briggs has endured shit I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, but if something doesn’t change, those weeks he spent as the cartel’s prisoner are going to claim his life years after the fact.
It’d be a travesty for the world to lose such a brilliant person, but at the end of the day, he has to want it. I can’t force him to live.