Clipping wings isn’t something I threaten often, especially when they’ve earned their ink, but this is a major fuckup, and one inked men should never make.
They nod, offering zero excuse, no doubt due to the murderous threat in my eyes. Once they’re back in the sedan, I search for anyone who might’ve seen the spectacle before taking off back toward the Camaro. Behind the wheel, I feel the needles start in my chest and run my hand over my jaw.
The sun beams through a raincloud as a new arrival grabs a cart at the entrance of the store. He’s probably here to pick up a power tool, nothing more, and carry on with the rest of the day—an average Joe.
Envy shoots through me as he strolls in with weightless shoulders.
For the first time in my life, I had a sense of normalcy, and I wasted it feeling sorry for myself. I had the freedom to live as an everyday man, no matter how temporary, and I didn’t realize how precious it was to me until it was taken from me only minutes ago. It would be so easy to ignore the distraction, the impending threat, to ignore the danger a little longer, in an effort to win her back fully. But as of this moment, I’m running out of time.
Doing my best to slow my racing thoughts, I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Date night.
She deserves the effort, it’s what I promised her, and more than that, it’s what I need in order to proceed with her. We have to get back to some semblance of us before we can take on any more. I won’t let anything get in the way of more progress. One last secret, and for no other reason than to buy me time to win her over before we weather another storm. Between fury and worry, I lift my phone when it rattles with an incoming message.
Russell: I know I’m sorry isn’t enough, man. I’m sending two straight from Tyler.
I don’t respond because sorry isn’t enough. These are mistakes we can’t afford to make anymore. Not this late in the game.
Once again, a decision has been made for me due to uncontrollable circumstances. Turning the ignition, I press my head to the steering wheel and take deep inhales.
I’ll sort through the threats as they come. I have a day or two at most to come clean, and I’m going to use every second to make it right.
“Putain de fils de pute!” Motherfucking son of a bitch!
I slam my fist on the dash and immediately regret it, smoothing my hand over where I struck, thankful there is no evidence.
Chest tightening, I exhale slowly.
I’ve got a book to read, and a dinner to cook. I can do this, for her. The seize in my chest threatens to take over as I put the car in gear and gun the gas, peeling out of the parking lot.
I just need a little gin first.
Adding up the day’s receipts at my desk, I pull my phone from my discarded apron and see several missed messages from Tobias.
Tobias: I hate this fucking book, and my calf is pregnant. Beau needs to be neutered.
Tobias: There’s no God in my life to choose over you, don’t you get that?
He’s never been so openly emotional in a text, and this is definitely not the way he’s revealed any of his feelings in the past. Something is wrong, and it’s been apparent in the last week with his excessive runs and increased drinking that the isolation is starting to get to him. Armed, he’s been walking the perimeter of the house at night before he locks up, often peeking out the windows when he thinks I’m not looking, his face visibly relaxing only when he receives texts from the ravens at our post. There’s clear fear instilled in him at this point. I don’t know if it’s protection or paranoia that has him acting like a caged lion, but I can only assume it’s a mixture of both. It’s evident he worries more than he sleeps. Two nights ago, he gathered me in his arms and whispered, “come back to me,” on gin-infused breath. I didn’t acknowledge I heard him, and I’m still feeling remorseful about it. And right now, he’s alone at home reading a story I once considered a prophecy that slams a character I identify him with, no doubt hurt and insulted. Guilt gnaws at my conscience as I read more of his texts.