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He stopped when he saw me, kneeling to gentle touch the raw skin on my knuckles. “What did you do, son?”
My stomach sank at the look on his face. It wasn’t supposed to be a bad thing. I’d protected Charli. Just like him. I’d put myself in danger to save her, and I’d expected him to be proud.
“They hurt Charli.” My voice sounded weak and pathetic.
“So you hurt them?” He cupped my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes.
My dad was a strong man. He had big, powerful arms and a dark beard that dusted his cheeks and chin. He was the kind of man people respected at a glance. “That’s not my son. Do you hear me? My son doesn’t fight people. He doesn’t hurt people.”
I’d never talked back to my dad, but I felt indignation rising up in me. “But they hurt her first. They made her fall off her bike. If I didn’t do something, they might do it again.”
He rocked back to sit on his heels. With his hands planted on his thighs, he sighed. “There’s the wrong thing and the right thing. And then there’s something in between. What you did was something in between, do you understand? But you let yourself float in the middle long enough, and you might not catch yourself before you wind up on the wrong side.”
I nodded my head, even though I didn’t think I understood.
His expression finally softened, and he had me follow him to the kitchen. He pulled out a bag of frozen peas from the fridge and asked me to hold my knuckles against it. “Too much willpower and not enough restraint. That’s your problem, Cassian. But we all have problems. What makes us the people we are is how willing we are to work on them.”
I remembered thinking a long time about that conversation we’d had because it was one of our last. It had only been a few days later when I’d woken up and smelt the faint scent of smoke wafting through my window. When I’d stepped outside and seen the way the sky glowed orange.13CassianI stretched my neck when the police officer came and unlocked my cell. I’d been somewhat surprised that my stay behind bars lasted nearly three days. It was long enough to make me miss the football game and a few days of school. Long enough to have to meet with a lawyer, even. But then word came that Clint’s family wasn’t pressing charges. Then more word came that our sheriff, who was up for reelection and in need of all the campaign funding he could get, had decided there was no reason to ruin a bright young future like mine.
I’d had plenty of time to wonder what I would’ve done if Tristan hadn’t pulled me back, and to tell the truth, I still didn’t know.
I’d only seen red. Like pure rage. As if every fucked up thing in my life could be undone if I just squeezed his neck hard enough.
Walter wore a white button-down shirt with a dark blue trim on his cuffs and collar on the day he came to collect me. I’d always thought it was a douchey look, and the way he had his sleeves sloppily rolled up wasn’t helping. He raked a hand through his gray hair and then slapped my back like we were “in this together,” or some shit.
“What’d that cost you?” I asked.
He made a dismissive gesture. For him, getting me out of trouble was more about proving how connected and powerful he was than helping me. It was a demonstration. That’s all life was when you had enough money. Acts of power and influence. Little fleeting attempts to dig some meaning out of an otherwise pointless existence. It was something to make my mom jump on him tonight and remember how wise she’d been to shack up with a geezer. “Nothing I couldn’t afford.”
I got in his car—a Royce with his personal driver. Walter sat beside me and made a show of sighing and opening himself up for conversation as the car rolled away from the station.
“We lost our tempers a little, huh? Want to talk about it?”
No, Walter. We don’t.
He nodded, as if I’d confided something in him. “You know, sport, there’s no shame in therapy. Hell, when I nearly went under on that Caldwell deal a few years back, I practically lived in my therapist’s office. It helps, and there’s no shame in it.”
I let my forehead thump against the window. I briefly considered reaching to the front seat and steering the car into the nearest tree, just because it’d get me out of this conversation sooner.
“I caught the game on Friday. That Tristan Blackwood is a hell of a QB, huh?”
I blinked. “I’m curious, Walter. When you fought as a kid, was it with fists, or did you just throw stacks of money at each other?”
