“Yes, sir.”
Nodding, I wave him away. He takes one slow step back and then saunters off. A moment later the front door opens and closes with a click. I lumber back to my seat, lowering myself slowly.
“Was it just me, or did he seem really composed?” I ask, lifting the bottle of whiskey.
“Stick-up-his-ass Martin? He’s always really composed,” Rath says. “Why?”
“More composed than usual,” I elaborate.
Tristian looks over at me. “You’re paranoid.”
“Fuck yeah, I’m paranoid.” I tip the bottle to my mouth and take a huge gulp. “Martin has access to the house, the cameras, our computers. Did you ever think about that?”
Rath sighs and stands, grabbing the bottle from my hand. “Paranoia’s going to get you killed. It’ll get Story hurt. We’re Lords. We’re logical. Calculated. Controlled.” He carries the bottle over to the bar, snatches up the cap and puts it away. “We’re going to find the motherfucker that did this and take him down. But until we know, we do this the right way.”
“Is this what sobriety does to you?” Tristian asks. “Because I think I like it more when you’re the house substance dumpster.”
“Fuck you.” Rath heads to the door, giving him the finger. “I’m going to bed.”
“Same.” Tristian follows, stopping to look back at me. “You really need a good night’s sleep, Killer.”
“I know.” We stare at one another for a long moment, before he shakes his head and vanishes down the hall. He’s right. I need to sleep. Even if I’m not playing this weekend, I have to travel with the team, but that doesn’t quell the urge that sends me to the second floor. To test the door. To pace the hall.
I’m not just out here hoping she’ll let me in.
I’m out here making sure no one else gets in.
It’s on my third pass up and down the hall that I glance into my room and see something on the foot of my bed. I leave my post and cross the room, curiosity getting the best of me. It doesn’t take long to recognize the items—or know who put them there. It’s all of my superstitions lined up neat and straight: the socks, the guitar wire, the baseball card and gum.
The ribbon.
I think back to the night she took them from me, my memory still hazy around the edges. Story got me good that night. Fucked me good, too. That’s what I remember the most. She could have done anything to me, and she did. She tied me up, stole my things, and got me to reveal my secrets. But she also climbed on top of me, sheathing her body over my cock and rode me hard. Little sister isn’t just here for the revenge. I know that now. She wants more. She wants us.
I’m here to make sure that no one takes her away from us ever again.
5
Rath
Fucking shoot me.
I take a long, hard look around me, foot crunching on a burger wrapper. It’s the day after Thanksgiving. Killian is gone and I’m still sober, which are the only two reasons I decide to clean up my room. For an anal retentive freak, Killer has this thing where he’s happy to ignore my mess right up to the point that I intend to do something about it, which is when he turns into a drill instructor. He has a harder time watching someone clean a mess than make one and I’m not in the mood for that shit, so I wait until he’s halfway to Houston to pick through the debris on my floor.
I’m a slob, but I admit that it’s particularly bad, even for me. The task is slow going, mostly because I’d rather be taking a swan dive off a cliff than gathering up all my empties, old food, and dirty clothes.
The nausea doesn’t make it any better. I haven’t had a drink in almost two days, and I also haven’t taken any pills or smoked any weed. My stomach has an opinion about cold turkey, and it sounds a lot like me dry heaving over my toilet all day. Our Lady is going to find out real quick that sobriety doesn’t suit me.
I make a pile for trash, and then a pile for shit that needs to be taken downstairs, and then I pause for a cigarette, which I smoke while leaning halfway out my window.
Two hours later, I run into Story on the second floor landing.
I’m cradling three bottles of liquor in my arms. The vodka is half empty, but the whiskey is almost full, and the third is just an embarrassingly almost-empty bottle of cheap malt liquor.
Oh yeah, you can take the boy out of South Side…
She pauses, eyes falling on the bottles, and then does this…thing. It’s a little too annoyed to be called a frown, but it reeks of disapproval and hurt, and it pisses me right the fuck off.