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“Fuck off.”
He shoves me again, and that does it. I lunge at him, close my hands around his neck, and in my head, I’m back in a dirty group home with the stench of old sweat and urine. Back in time, where madness was the only sane way to go.
But then something shiny flashes at the edge of my vision, and a cold edge presses into the side of my neck.
A knife.
Whoa. I lift my hands off him. “Okay now. Calm down.” Two knife-fights in the same evening? For chrissakes.
“Now you want me to calm down? Then maybe you should watch your fucking mouth. Your fucking actions.” He presses the blade deeper, and it stings as it parts my skin. “Remember I’m the one in charge, not you, you son of a bitch.”
Warm blood trickles down my neck. My heart is racing. “Seb—”
“I just need some money. Gimme your wallet.”
“You need to lay off the drugs. That’s what you fucking need to do.”
His mouth turns into a flat line. “Your wallet.”
I let out a shaky breath, angry at myself for not seeing this coming. I never do. “It’s in my back pocket.” I hiss when the knife moves. “Jesus.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. He fumbles at my back pocket with his free hand, yanking my wallet out. He opens it one-handed, and grabs the bills, letting my wallet fall to the floor.
Total déjà vu.
“Don’t do this,” I say quietly, not to set him off. After all, the blade is still pressing into my skin, the cut burning like a line of fire. “Don’t.”
“I thought you didn’t care about money,” he mutters, taking his eyes off the cash to shoot me a sly look. “Remember what you told me the other day? ‘You got money, dude!’” he mimics my words, but in a high, girly voice. “‘You get paid well.’”
Fuck him. “Fucking drugs are killing you. Get out of the gang, Seb. Leave that life behind, go visit your mom—”
He kicks at me, and damn if he doesn’t find my bad leg again. Or maybe it’s on purpose, I think, gritting my teeth against the dark tide of pain rolling up my leg, praying it won’t turn again into that red haze.
“I told you not to talk to me about my mom. She’s not your mom, Jarett, no matter what you think.” He leans in, slides the knife down to my throat, and I swallow hard against the blade. “Never was.”
No argument there. I reach up and grab his wrist, even as the knife pushes on my windpipe. “Don’t go, don’t do this. Come on, just—”
He yanks his arm free of my hold and staggers out, pushing the knife back into his belt. By the time I gather my wits and start moving, he’s already inside the elevator, riding down.
I brace my arm on the doorframe, feeling so damn defeated. I press a hand to the cut on my neck. “How the fuck am I supposed to look after you, brother, if you never listen?” I whisper. “How am I supposed to help you? And what will I tell your mom?”
“How is she today?” I ask the receptionist, Macy. She’s taken a liking to me and lets me in at weird times, which works, as I keep weird hours.
“Oh you know, the usual.” She gives me a quick smile. Lately I’ve noticed her cheeks turn pink when she talks to me. “She had a couple of bad days. Seemed more focused today, though.”
“Thanks.” That’s good news, right? “I’ll just pop in and say hi.”
“Go ahead,” she says, smiling. “Just don’t be long. You’re way past visiting hours.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“What happened to your face?” Still giving me looks from under lowered lashes.
I touch my swollen jaw, and grimace. “An accident.”
“Ow.” She grimaces in sympathy.
“I’ll be just a minute.” Shooting her a grin, I hurry down the long corridor with doors on either side and slip into the familiar room. Closing the door behind me, I lean on it, allowing myself a second to gather myself.
