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I cling on to that. That’s good, that should be everything. She gave me her forgiveness and her body. Nobody said she has to give me her heart. She should keep it for someone deserving, not a nutcase like me.
The scar tissue on my chest and shoulder itches and aches and I rub at it absently. Feels like rain and storm, and I don’t know the hell why for the first time in my life I feel like the resulting flood could wash me away.
Shaking my head at myself, I go back to work. Useless thoughts. Nothing can wash me away. I got my old man’s height, his big shoulders, big hands, and he made me strong. Had me chopping wood since I was a kid, carrying the logs, cutting down trees, buckets with water. He made me tough, belting me and hitting me at any hint of weakness. I’m unbreakable, unkillable even, it seems. Rooted to this fucking place like a reed, bending but never fucking dying.
I remember falling.
And I shiver.
What he’d make of me now, dear ol’ Dad, seeing me all twisted up about a girl? I wonder sometimes, when I forget for a sec that he’s a cold-blooded murderer with his ass in the slammer and innocent lives on his goddamn hands and his opinion shouldn’t matter. Until it all comes back to me and I realize I shouldn’t care, shouldn’t give a flying fuck about what he thinks. If he thinks I’m a fucking pussy, a damn coward, pussy-whipped and gone soft. Not around to beat me bloody anymore, is he?
No, he’s not. Nobody is around, nobody left, except—
My phone chimes and I fish it out of my back pocket a little too quickly, my heart jumping—only to find a text from Merc. I frown at the strange sting of disappointment.
Fuck, Ross. Stop this shit, this... daydreaming, this damn longing, hoping every time your phone rings that it’s her. Moonstruck idiot.
‘Paging Ross Jones,’ the damn message says, and I can almost hear Merc’s teasing voice delivering it. ‘When will you stop ignoring us, big brother? Tay has been asking me about you again. She has those weird-ass dreams. You know. She’s worried. Drop us a line from time to time to let us know you’re still breathing, okay?’
Snortin
g, I put the phone away and turn back the way I came to grab more heavy bags to haul across the construction site.
Fuck, the man can ramble. As for Octavia’s weird dreams about me... I shake my head and stifle a goddamn sigh. I bet they can’t be worse than my childhood, and yet I keep wondering what she’s seeing that’s worrying her so much.
I have been thinking lately that I should call Octavia, apologize. Apologize to her, to all my siblings: Gigi, Merc... apologize to the kids at school, to the whole town.
Ah, fuck this.
But at least to Octavia I should. She tried to understand me. She was the one girl I hated. My half-sister. The same age as me, I watched her grow in the same town, my reverse mirror, growing up with a loving mother and siblings, poor but happy. Unaware. She didn’t find out we shared the same father until much later. By then her now husband had accused me of kidnapping his kids, landing me in jail and putting me on the police radar, meaning that they watched me like hawks.
And truth be told, I gave them good reason. Drunk and disorderly, all the goddamn time.
It wasn’t Octavia’s fault, none of it.
Or Luna’s.
Yeah. All my rage at the world, all the pain I inflicted was... misdirected. Should’ve punched Dad in the face, had I been able to think straight. Finding out he murdered Mom cinched it—but he got to me first, trying to slice me open.
Should’ve been Dad I was mad at and... myself, but...
The ground goes out from under me, and it takes me a split second to realize I’ve stepped in a puddle of machine oil, slipped...and I’m falling, arms windmilling, thoughts frozen.
I crash on my back, my skull bouncing off the hard-packed earth. A miracle there wasn’t a brick or rock there to bash my head on, I realize a bunch of dazed moments later, blinking furiously to clear my blurry eyes.
“Should look where the hell you’re going,” someone says and I think the voice sounds like Alan. The guy who organized the ambush they laid for me last.
Rolling my head to the side, I watch him go, and why is he holding what looks like an oil can in his hand?
“Motherfucker,” I hiss.
“Whassamater, boy?” Old Ben asks me, laughter in his voice. “Gonna cry? Call for your mommy?”
“Fuck you, you ancient wreck,” I mutter, assessing the damage to my body. I seem to be in one piece. I carefully sit up and groan, putting a hand to the back of my head and staring at the few drops of blood speckling my fingers. “Didn’t think you so stupid to fall in with the likes of Alan James.”
“Oh, because you’re so much better, Ross Jones?” he cackles and turns away, heading toward the construction area.
“Like the pot calling the kettle black,” I hear Luna’s voice saying in my head.
