“So, I’m guessing you don’t want me riding shotgun?” He scrutinizes the Buick before turning back to me, tilting his head with his question. “What the fuck is this, Dom?”
“What this is, is time sensitive,” I grit out, “in a way you can’t fucking fathom, and I don’t have time to satiate your curiosity or talk feelings.”
“Tell me,” he snaps in demand.
“Tell you what? That I’m just as guilty as you are now, and that he’ll fucking never forgive us both! That’s what you wanted, right? To have someone to share the blame with? You win. I fucked her, have been fucking her.”
“Yeah, well, narcissists blame everyone but themselves,” he drawls out, “but never perceived you as one of those.” He takes another long drag, brows drawn in confusion. “Is this you spinning out?” He asks. “Is this what this is, Dom? I get that what’s going on is heavy—”
“You have no fucking idea what’s going on and haven’t since she got here. That’s on you.” My anxiety ramps as I dart my gaze back to the Buick, shoving him back while using the one piece of mental leverage I’ve got to keep him distracted. “Since day one, you betrayed your ink and brothers and made it look easy—that’s also on you. I’m done. So, stay the hell away from me, and while you’re at it, keep her away from me too.”
Hurt leaks in his voice with his next question. “Do you want me to give up on you?”
“I don’t give a fuck what you do.”
His eyes dim before he flicks his lit cigarette at the Buick and turns to stalk off. I’m back at the driver’s door when I’m turned and pinned, neck snapping to the side after Sean delivers a punishing right hook. “You didn’t mean that. Any of it.”
My jaw thumps as his expression hardens to one of resolution when my mask temporarily slips, and he realizes he’s right. “Stop protecting me and tell me how to fucking help!”
“Get the fuck out of the way!” I roar. “Goddamnit, Sean, let me go!”
“Then tell me you can come back from this,” his eyes desperately search mine, and I give him a slow nod.
“Words, Dom.”
“If this goes wrong because you held me up, I’ll never fucking forgive you!” I already fucked up and narrowly missed this window because I got distracted by Cecelia. A window that’s rapidly closing as Sean steals precious seconds from me. The thought that I might miss it entirely triggers a fear I’ve never felt before. Posturing up, I leer at Sean as I speak. “Please don’t make me hurt you.”
Sean steps back in shock, not bothering to hide the betrayal he feels as he rips himself away. Even as I break a piece of us—a piece of his heart—he pleads with me because I’m his only concern. “Meet me at the goddamn junkyard when you’re done. At least give me that much? Whatever it is, we’ll handle it, finish it—together.”
With a dip of my chin, he turns and stalks off without another word, slamming a bay door closed so I hear it, an unspoken promise he won’t follow or try to stop me as I race through the parking lot.
An agonizing hour and change later, I’m parallel parking the Buick while frantically scanning the street for signs of the fly’s hatchback. Thanks to Sean’s hold up, I managed to beat him here in a matter of seconds, which is confirmed when the hatchback comes into view. I send up another quick thank you to whomever or whatever is watching over me when a car pulls out in front of him on the other side of the barricaded street, and the fly takes the spot adjacent to where I’m parked.
Scanning for pedestrian traffic, I find none as the familiar vibration rattles heavily through me—so much so my hands start to shake as I press the brake and pull down the gear shift just as he starts to exit his hatchback.
Slowly backing away from the curb to buy time, I slam on the gas when he retrieves what’s needed from his back seat and shuts the door. Before he can take a single step toward the auditorium, I pin him between the Buick’s passenger door and his driver’s door. His eyes widen when he sees the silencer attached to the Glock I have trained between his eyes.
“Good morning,” I utter low, tugging my hoodie with my free hand to unveil the offering sitting in my passenger seat. He’s dressed in his uniform, his security lanyard hanging around his neck. Unzipping the duffle with my gloved hand, I open it to reveal my offering.
“Take it in trade,” I order, keeping his gaze and recognizing the void inside it. It’s like staring into a bottomless pit. I commit his expression to memory because I might have lied when I answered Sean. There might not be any coming back from this—in one sense or another.
Time will tell.
“Think of it as a gift with my blessing,” I prompt him.
His eyes dart to the stadium before flitting back to me.
“The trade isn’t optional,” I stretch my gun toward him, my intent clear.
“Who are you?” He asks, his timbre humanizing him. He could be any one of my brothers . . . but he’s not.
I rattle off his handle, and understanding crosses his expression. He thinks I’m the one who’s been with him nightly in the chatroom. A nauseating grin spreads over the fly’s face as he accepts my offering, collecting the duffle bag and leaving his loaded backpack in my passenger seat. Duffle strapped on his shoulder, when he clears the window I fire three times in quick succession and slam on the gas. His lifeless body collapses onto the street in my rearview, confirming that no amount of glue will piece his diseased head back together. Waves of anxiety roll from me as I take all the alleys to get back to the main road, keeping a law-abiding pedestrian’s speed even after I hit the highway.
“Dom,” Sean snaps my name again to jar me into talking as he has since I pulled up. The noise roaring in my head keeps me mute as I watch the fire rage inside the Buick. The plastic steering wheel melts like puddling clay as I toss in the ball cap, fueling the flames while stripping down. Tossing in my T-shirt, Nikes, jeans, and boxers into the mix, I grab the running hose as the morning sun beats down on the two of us.
Mere feet away, Sean chain smokes, his anxiety building as I rinse myself with the bar of soap before using a cuticle brush, scrubbing to ensure there’s no residual spray on me before I towel off. Reaching into my packed duffle, I pull my boxers on as I glance around the junkyard. Denny observes the fire, extinguisher in hand, the only bird here aside from the two of us. He hasn’t so much as looked our way, wordlessly keeping his distance while diligently ensuring the Buick I arrived in never existed. After fastening my jeans, I toss the towel into the mix along with the duffle itself and dip my chin to Denny. A few more silent minutes tick by before Denny fires off the extinguisher, dousing the flames as Sean and I step back.
It’s times like this that I’m thankful I bought the junkyard with my money rather than expensive clothes. An acquisition that, to outsiders, makes perfect sense in conjunction with owning an auto shop. I credit the inkling that I had to move in on this property for needs like this.
Once Sean’s taken the hint that conversation isn’t happening, we both watch on as Denny mounts the forklift and, seconds later, drives twin prongs through the body of the smoking Buick. It’s when Tyler’s engine sounds before his C20 flies into view that I ready myself, the truck skidding to a halt feet away.