Chapter One
WiFi Strong, Life Weak
Fuck is that?
An incessant buzzing noise tries to pull me from my dreamless sleep. I ignore it, willing it to shut the fuck up. Hold my breath, head pounding as the seconds tick by.
When it finally stops, I exhale roughly, shoving my face deeper into my pillow, and pray for darkness to find me again.
Half a minute later, it starts up again.
“Goddammit!” I snap, shoving upright in my bed.
My world spins, blurry vision straining against the burning light spilling in from my window. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing deeply. My head pounds, and my right eye twitches so rapidly, I seriously consider taking a knife to it.
The laminate floor is cold under my feet. I really need a rug. But getting a rug means going out, means shopping and buying things for this shithole of an apartment, and if I do that…
Shaking my head, I spear my fingers through my hair, getting caught up in the tangles halfway through.
My phone buzzes, and I yank the fuckin’ thing from my nightstand. The charger releases with a jerk, and the rickety, hand-me-down end table wobbles precariously. My brow arches as I eye the ancient wood for a moment, wondering if this will be the day it finally gives out.
It sways once, twice, before settling with a creak. Could just fix it, but again, fixing reeks of permanence, and the only thing I want permanently in this life is a good buzz and some fucking silence.
The vibrating device in my palm assures me that the latter is nothing more than a pipe dream, but the bottle of Jack on my floor murmurs that not all dreams are lost.
I snatch it up and flick the partially screwed-on cap off before tipping it back for a deep swallow. The lukewarm liquid burns its way down my throat, through my veins, my lungs, before settling heavily in my empty gut.
It’s enough to wake me up, but I take another drink for good measure before dropping it onto the nightstand. The thing groans from the weight—the sound mimicking exactly how I feel.
My eyes slide across the outdated studio apartment I live in.
Walls that were once covered in white floral wallpaper are now tinged a questionable yellow, telling a long tale of smoke- filled nights and sweaty days.
The floors are those wooden tiles from the seventies that remind you of exactly two things: your grandma and Dahmer.
And they are, in fact, from the seventies.
Originally built for my landlord's son after college, the above-garage apartment is small, simple, and barely functional. The furniture is an eclectic mash-up of things she no longer wanted, crap he left behind, and stuff my family forced me to take.
Basically, it’s a shithole.
Agnes Whittaker, the property owner, is the oldest person in town, and like Agnes, this place is on its last leg. But it’s got four walls, a roof, and a stellar internet signal that I’d never be able to get back in Heart Springs, so it’s home.
I roll my neck, relishing the way the tight muscles stretch and tug. Lift my right arm, feeling every bone and joint pop with the movement. Jaw ticking, teeth grinding, I slowly repeat the process on my left side. My peck burns worse than the liquor, screaming at me to stop.
I don’t.
Can’t.
I have to feel it—it reminds me why I’m here. And like it always does, the thought clouds my vision like some sort of fucked-up rose-colored glasses, making me see my home with fresh eyes.
Accepting eyes.
With a grunt, I wrap my fingers tightly around my vibrating phone and stomp toward my desk, dodging heaps of laundry left over from my recent work trip.
My bare foot catches on the jerry-rigged internet cable that leads from the only window to my computer setup.
Stumbling, I catch myself on my desk seconds before my already pounding skull collides with it.
My eyes slice over the notifications rapidly pinging across my wall of monitors, and my stomach sinks. I missed a meeting with my team, and my boss is pissed.
Like to say it’s unlike me to sleep in late, but that’d make me a liar. I may be many things these days—a shitty son, bad friend, messy son-of-bitch, grumpy fucker who drinks too much to combat the demons in his soul, but a liar is something I’m not.
Despite the slight buzz burning through me, it takes me no time at all to get the most important issues handled before I switch over to emails that have accumulated over the last week I spent on a protection detail out of state.
102 Unread Messages
“Hell with this,” I mutter. I’ll hear shit for it later, but that’s future me’s problem.
Sober me.
Leaning over my keyboard, I type out an away notice in the chat and set my computer to sleep. I can’t stand to be inside this place for one more minute. I feel like the walls are closing in on me.
Foregoing a shirt, I snatch my phone and head for the door. My eyes slide across the bottle of Jack.
I pause for less than a second before muttering, “Fuck it.”
Best way to spend the anniversary of the worst day of my life? Drunk.
Sweat beads down the center of my chest as I push myself harder than I have in weeks. Harder than I should. My back arches as I press the weights high above me, feeding off the ache burning through my muscles.
I lower the barbell with control, ignoring the sharp pull in my shoulder. The pain’s buried beneath layers of damage, scar tissue, and memories I don’t want to touch. It begs me to stop.
But I don’t.
Even if I wish I could.
I’m somewhere around my twelfth set when a god-awful noise cuts through Metallica’s “ Enter Sandman.” The sudden blare of a different song jars me mid-rep, and my arms give out, turning to limp pasta before I can catch myself.
The bar drops toward my chest, and I twist hard to the right, barely dodging it.
Plates crash to the concrete on either side, loud as hell.
Grunting, I sit up and shoot a glare at the speaker hanging in the corner. It’s old, crackles when the volume’s too high, and likes to switch over to Agnes’s talk radio at random. But it’s loyal.
Until now.
“What the fuck is that?” I bark, blinking at my phone as some pop-girl bullshit blares through the speaker like a traitor.
My brows crash together when I try to place the song but come up blank.
The chick is repeatedly singing the words “ shake it off ” at an octave that makes my teeth ache.
After she circles through the same set of lyrics for the third time, the room falls silent for a split second before my playlist kicks back on.
As soon as Metallica fills my ears, my shoulders drop in relief.
I move to reset the barbell, but the moment I touch it, the same song blasts again. With a snarl, my head snaps toward the old stereo across the room, only to notice my phone lighting up and rattling with vibrations across the workbench.
I gape at the device, slowly realizing the random song isn’t just a song—it’s a ringtone.
And it’s coming from my phone.
“Fucking kill me,” I mutter, shaking my head as I yank the aux cord from the boombox.
The screen lights up with a horribly filtered photo of my younger sister, Hazel, except someone’s edited it to make her look like a man.
“Colby.” I sigh with a small, reluctant chuckle, instantly knowing which one of my twin sisters is behind the prank.
But the laugh doesn’t stick.
The weight of the inevitable conversation presses in, thick and unwanted, wrapping around my chest like a vice.
Blowing out a slow breath, I drop onto the bench, and swipe to answer, bracing for impact. “What?”
“Where have you been?” she shouts, her pitch oddly reminiscent of the song still echoing around in my brain. “I’ve been calling you for days. I could have been dying, Kade! You do realize that, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Clearly, you’re alive. More than that, you’re well enough to scream at me, so things can’t be that bad.” Waving a dismissive hand through the air, I add, “Silver linings, and all that shit. What do you need, Hazy?”
“You need to come home, Kade,” she demands. “You didn’t even call—today of all days.”
Today of all days.
Like it’s just any other date. A casual reminder that this is the day our dad died.
The day everything cracked wide open.
When I don’t immediately respond, she tacks on, “Mom really misses you.”
Guilt washes over me, fast and hard. The words I know she does , almost fall from my lips right alongside, I miss her, too . But I choke them down like I always do.
I wish I had the strength to show up for the people who need me, but I don’t. I can’t.
“I just saw her a few weeks ago.”
“You popped into town for an hour before rushing off, claiming you had to work.”
“I did have to work.” Annoyed as hell, I stomp to the nearest wall and promptly bang my head against the dilapidated wood. “Besides, if mom misses me so much, she can call me.”
Hazel scoffs. “Or you can pick your big, man-child of an ass up off your dirty leather throne, and leave that dumpster fire you call a house. You can take a shower, because we all know you smell like actual shit right now. Then you can put on some real clothes, touch some fucking grass, and come home , Kade. It’s not that hard.
Just get in your truck and drive the thirty miles it takes to do the right thing. It’s time.”
“Who the hell was that and where is my baby sister?” I ask, my stomach twisting at the accuracy of her words. “And I don’t smell.”
I lift my arm, smelling my bare pit and cringe.
I might smell a little bit.
“One, I’m hardly your baby sister. I’m only eleven months younger than you.”
“Semantics.” My lip tips up in a smirk. “You’ll always be my baby sister.”
“And two,” she continues, ignoring me. “Stop trying to change the subject. You forget how well I know you, Kade William Archer. You forget that you were once my best friend.”