Page 69 of Hooked on Trouble

“Don’t wanna destroy you, kid. I gotta answer to your mom.”

“Big guys are always cowards.”

“Big guys like me eat little guys like you for breakfast.”

“Bring it, Makai.”

So I do. Sort of. I play the feisty kid, never dominating. But man, do I love his spirit.

Twenty minutes and a shit-ton of sweat later, my phone rings. The vibration in my pocket rocks me like a five-alarm fire bell. I toss Tim the ball and wipe my forehead with the edge of my shirt, gritting my teeth for the news, reminding myself to expect the worst, repeating it over and over. One hand on the door, I say my good-byes and welcome the blast of cool October air. My suctioned shirt sticks like frost on my skin, and I inhale until my lungs hurt, then I pick up my phone.

Josh is in the clear.

My eyes sting; unshed tears clog my throat. I crouch, forearms on my knees, head in my hands, as the largest weight in the history of the world lifts from my shoulders. My breaths come fast and shallow. Eighteen months. It’s been eighteen months since Josh got arrested. Eighteen months of frustration and angst and long nights. Of fear and helplessness. Just like that, it goes away—legally.

I push to my feet and dial Alessi. “Give me the details.”

“It took a bit, but once he realized his kid brother could face juvie, he started cracking. There might have been a false threat or two, but he came clean.”

“Will the confession stick?”

“Like glue. He told Crenshaw about an extra kilo sewn into the backseat. The charges against Josh are history.”

“Jesus fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly. Now get off the phone and go tell your brother. I need to bounce. Scott Baker got brought in on drug charges earlier.”

Scott fucking Baker: informant by day, worthless piece of crap by night. I’d bet my Jacuzzi tub he sold the meth to Jericho. “You know how I feel about him. Let the asshole rot in jail.”

“Whatever, bro. He gives us good eyes on the street.”

“Alessi,” I say before he hangs up, “I owe you one.”

“I’ll take payment in hair gel.”

I chuckle and disconnect. It’s almost dark, a few clouds on the horizon, but the evening sky has never looked so clear. I should call Raven, but Josh needs to hear this first, face to face. As I slam my door and turn the ignition, I falter. There’s a chance Josh isn’t home. Last night’s acceptance of his fate could have been temporary. He could have snapped. He could have snuck out, given up, gone back to the crew, hopelessness trumping resignation. He could be screwing up his life just as he gets his free pass.

My truck’s engine roars, my panic screaming louder. The ten-minute drive to my mom’s feels like fifty. I fly out of the car and through the door, letting it slam behind me. Colin is on the couch, his face stuffed in the pages of a comic book. Jack is coloring some sort of penis-shaped cloud as he kneels over the coffee table.

“Hi, Uncle Nico.” Jack scratches his forehead, leaving behind a smear of orange crayon.

Colin waves unenthusiastic fingers.

“Uncle Josh around?”

Both kids point at the ceiling, and I exhale for an eternity. Clinging to hope is scary business. But Josh hasn’t given up. Even facing jail, he plans to stand tall with dignity. Maybe I didn’t do such a bad job raising him.

“Nico, that you?” Mom pokes her head through the kitchen doorway, Nikki behind her, the two of them knitting. It was Mom’s idea, hoping the hypnotic rhythm of the clicking needles would be therapeutic for my sister, keep her mind and hands busy. I think she likes it just fine.

I point upstairs. “Need to speak with Josh. I’ll be down in a sec.”

A sad smile quivers over her lips, the same one she wore after I broke the news yesterday. When I broke her heart. I doubt there’s a pattern she could have stitched to fix the hole Josh’s sentencing would have left behind. Now she won’t have to.

I take the stairs two at a time and barge into his room. He’s hunched over his desk, earphones on, his pencil flying over paper. Creating creatures. Worlds. His checkered comforter is half off the bed, shoes and a backpack thrown about, socks crumpled beside his laundry basket, but it’s the sketches taped to the blue walls that floor me. So much talent. Anything I draw looks like Jack’s penis-cloud, and here’s my brother, breathing life into lizards and the undead, the creepy images practically jumping off the wall. I cover my mouth, overwhelmed. He gets to do this. Be this. Find out how far he can push himself. Whatever it costs, I’ll help pay his tuition. He will make something of himself.

Sensing me, he looks over his shoulder and knocks his headphones off. My hand is still over my mouth, my eyes probably glassy as hell. He pushes to his feet and approaches, worry slanting his brows. “What is it? What happened?”

Blowing out a breath, I clap my hands on either side of his head and pull his face close. I swallow to steady my voice. “Jericho confessed. You’re cleared. There won’t be a trial.”