Chapter 11
AERYN
For a moment, I think he’ll walk away. He looks down the tunnel toward the locker room. His eyes shine in the dim light, and his face is drawn.
“I can’t,” he finally says.
“Can’t?” I ask, squeezing his hand. “Or won’t?”
He pulls his fingers out of my reach. “What difference does it make?”
I clamber to my feet. “He would have done it for you.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“He loved you.”
“Right up until he landed an uppercut to my gut.”
“That was my fault.”
Gage’s hands curl into knots as he glares at me. I can’t remember ever seeing rage like this on his face. That’s not who he is. But he sounds like a man trying to keep from putting his fist through a wall when he says, “It was never your fault.”
“Our fault, then. Both of us.”
He shakes his head, one tight twist.
I set my palm against his jaw. It feels like it’s about to crumble, like a suspension bridge is collapsing. “Both of us,” I repeat. “That’s why I need you with me, out there on the ice.”
He brushes away my hand with a barely capped energy. I know he could have broken my wrist. He could have shoved me over the boards, onto the rink. Even in his fury, in his misery, he’s doing his best to protect me.
“Gage… Help me say goodbye.”
“It’s been ten fucking years.”
“Then it’s time we’re both set free.”
“Free?” He says the word like he’s never heard it before. “What makes you think I deserve to be free?”
“He wouldn’t want you to—”
“You don’t know that!” Gage’s shout bounces off the rafters.
“He was my brother.” My voice shakes.
“And he was my best friend! He’s dead! I let him die! And if you think strapping on some skates and standing beneath a goddamn teal-and-white banner can change any of that, you’re out of your fucking mind.”
He stomps down the tunnel like he’s just been given a five-minute major for fighting. I take three steps after him before I pull myself up short. He’s bellowing in the locker room, keening, like someone is pulling his heart through his ribcage.
There’s a crash, and I realize he must have thrown one of the benches against a wall of lockers.
There’s a pounding like someone’s trying to open the gates of hell; a fist on metal, over and over again, hard enough to bruise, to break bones.
There’s a clatter I can’t begin to parse and then that bellowing again, half shout, half moan, like a monster is dying.
And then, silence.
My pulse is loud in my ears, and my breath comes in short, sharp gasps. My fingertips tingle, and I realize I’m getting dizzy, so I sink onto the bench.
This is where Logan sat during games. Gage, too. This is where they watched their teammates on the ice, where they taunted their enemies. This is where they joked and spit and swore. Where they became brothers.
And then it ended—just like that.
I close my eyes, and I’m back on Beach Avenue.
Logan left for the rink fifteen minutes ago, giving himself extra time in case the Christmas Eve traffic is bad. Gage is running late because I hid his car keys. I tell him I’ll give them back after he makes me come three times.
He doesn’t throw me over his shoulder and drag me to his room. He doesn’t gag me either. We’re alone in the house. No one can hear.
He just sits on the sagging couch, knees spread wide, and he drags me onto his lap. He flips my skirt over my arse and yanks my knickers down to my knees. His strokes are hard and fast. He promises twenty, but he only gets to twelve before he slips three fingers between my soaked folds.
I scream his name as I come around his hand and he laughs, saying “That’s one.” I’m writhing on his lap, my red arse high in the air as I beg-not-beg him to spare me my last eight strokes, when the front door slams back on its hinges.
Logan’s come back for the phone he forgot on the coffee table.
My brother yanks my arm hard enough to make me yelp, throwing me halfway across the room. Gage is on his feet before I steady myself against the wall. I pull up my knickers and try to straighten my skirt. “Easy, bruh,” Gage says, holding his hands out from his sides.
The room smells like sex.
“What the fuck are you doing to my sister?” Logan hollers.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“Shut up, Aeryn.” Logan circles for an opening, not taking his eyes off Gage.
“Don’t tell her to shut up,” Gage says.
“She’s my sister, gobshite. I can tell her anything I want.”
“Logan,” I say, trying to get the truth out before this gets any worse. “It’s okay. I—”
Logan cuts me off by snarling at Gage. “She’s not one of your whores, shitehawk. She’s a goddamn Reardon.”
My cheeks flush with anger. All my life, my brothers have treated me like I’m their property. Reardon this. Reardon that. But I’m my own feckin’ person.
I grab Logan’s arm to make him pay attention to me. “I consented, arsehole. I wanted him to do it.”
My brother glares at me with disgust. “Yeah, sure. You wanted him to spank you raw.”
I nod. It’s mortifying to admit the truth, but I’ll do it to keep the two of them from fighting. I send a pleading glance to Gage, praying he’ll let me make this right. “I did.”
“Holy Christ…” Logan whirls back to Gage. “How long have you been beating my sister?”
I shout before Gage can answer. “It isn’t beating.”
Logan snorts. “Fine.” His tone twists into something mocking, something that sounds insanely polite. “Let’s start with this, then. Excuse me, Mr. Dry Shite. How long have you been fucking my little sister?”
Gage swings first. I scream as Logan blocks his fist with a forearm.
Before either of them can throw another punch, I shout, “Since Thanksgiving! We’ve been seeing each other since Thanksgiving!
I didn’t want you to find out this way. We were going to tell you before New Year’s, before I head back to school. I promise.”
Logan is staring at me like I just told him we murder babies in the kitchen. “Where the fuck have you been staying?”
I look around wildly. “Here,” I say. Then, like I owe him an explanation: “You were on your road trip for two weeks.”
“And after we got home?”
I shrug helplessly. I don’t want to tell him about all the times I huddled in Gage’s shower, waiting for Logan to head out to practice or a game.
He doesn’t need to know I spent an entire night in Gage’s closet when the rookies were here for pizza, because I was afraid some drunk newbie wouldn’t wait his turn to piss in the jacks down the hall. “Here.”
Logan scowls. “Here? And I didn’t have a clue?”
“We were quiet,” I try to explain.
“What did you do?” Logan snarls at Gage. “Gag her?”
Neither of us answers. Logan’s face flushes crimson. “You gagged my little sister?”
“I—” I try to explain.
“You motherfucking, cocksucking cunt!”
Logan’s knuckles split Gage’s lip. Gage fires back, pummeling my brother’s torso. Logan grabs his hair and kicks at the back of his knee, and they land like elephants in a waterhole.
This isn’t a hockey fight. This isn’t slipping and sliding on the ice, landing a few sharp punches before a ref pulls them apart.
This is two grown men, doing their level best to kill each other.
“Stop it!” I scream. “Logan! Gage! Goddammit, both of you!”
I see a chance and I seize it, diving between the pair of them. I throw myself across Gage’s chest, flinging my arms wide to block Logan’s next blow.
My brother cocks his arm and aims his bloody knuckles. “Get out of the way, Aeryn.”
I’m breathing too hard to choke out a word.
“Get out o’ the fuckin’ way,” Logan growls.
Gage is struggling beneath me. He’s winded. Logan’s done some damage.
“Jesus Christ,” Logan finally swears. “The pair o’ ya deserve each other.”
He turns on his heel, staggering a couple of steps before he regains his balance. Swiping a hand over the coffee table, he comes up with his phone. He sneers at me from the door. “Get your arse out of here by the time I get home tonight, or I’ll tell Da.”
Logan slams the door hard enough to crack the glass in its window. I roll off Gage. He lies there for a minute, breathing like a stallion. He groans when he lurches to his feet.
“I’ll drive you to the train station,” he says.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Just until your brother cools off. We play New York on New Year’s Day. You and I can talk to him after the game.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“He doesn’t make idle threats. When he goes to your father—”
“I’ll tell Da I’m a grown woman. I get to make my own choices. This isn’t South Side business. You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Jesus, babygirl,” Gage sighs. “I’m not afraid. I want to do what’s right for you.”
“Staying is right.”
He shakes his head. But then he looks at his watch. “I have to get to the game. We’ll talk about this when I get home.”
“You can talk. But I’m not leaving.”
“Fine,” he says, but he doesn’t believe me.
“Fine,” I say.
He shuts the door more carefully than Logan.
I straighten the room. I move my toothbrush from its hiding place in the nightstand to the bathroom counter. I shift my box of Barry’s Gold from Gage’s top dresser drawer to the kitchen, right beside the electric kettle.
I’m eating a bowl of corn flakes when the puck drops. Players on both teams are chippy; Boston injured the Aces’ goalie when they played just ten days ago. The Aces’ center goes down in the crease, tripped by a Boston stick between his legs. Logan’s gloves are off before the whistle blows.
For a minute, it’s just a typical hockey fight. The men square up, Boston and Atlantic City. Gage is late getting to the scrum; he’s favoring his right knee. A Boston defenseman sucker-punches him, and Gage’s head lashes back. He crashes to the ice, sliding halfway to the blue line.
No one notices. No one cares.
Because Logan is lying on the bright blue ice in front of the crease. He’s staring up at the rafters like he’s looking on the face of God. His throat is slashed; someone’s skate has carved him an extra smile.
Players on both teams wave for help from the bench. Two Aces skate over to the boards, ferrying a trainer onto the ice. White towels bloom with red, only to be replace by more cloth. More.
Gage struggles to his knees, trailing one hand on the ice to keep his balance. He tries to drag himself to Logan’s side, but his coordination is shot. He sprawls like a kid in a snowsuit.
He’s still trying to reach the goal when Logan dies.