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But this cuts.
This fucking stings more than his punch.
“Stay the fuck away from me.”
With those heated words, he spins around and leaves, heading for the back yard.
If he thinks I’m going to do as he says, then he hasn’t been paying attention to the last two years, two months and twelve days.
I’m not going anywhere.
In fact, he’s the reason I’m back in this shithole town.
Because I knew coming back to Bardstown would be hard for him.
His father is dying.
While there’s no love lost between them — his father is a fucking abusive monster — it still sucks. That the man who raised you, whose approval you’ve always craved but never gotten, is going to be dead soon. I went through that myself a couple of years ago when my monster father died, so I know.
Plus he hasn’t been back since that night.
The night I ruined everything.
So yes, coming back here I knew he’d be bombarded by memories. I knew he was going to be even more reckless, more of a loose cannon than he’s become in recent years. Which means there was no way I was going to leave him alone at a time like this. Even though I knew he wouldn’t like it.
He hasn’t liked me hanging around him these past couple of years.
But I don’t care.
If he insists on trying to wreck his life every chance he gets, I will insist on playing the babysitter and looking out for him.
Even now, I follow him out to the back yard and find him standing in a dimly lit corner, staring off into the distance. At least he’s not drinking any more. And maybe after taking some of his anger out on me, he’ll be a little more receptive to the idea of leaving. Which is all I wanted to begin with.
He speaks as soon as I reach him. “You remember the first time we met?”
“What?”
He’s staring at the dark and expansive ground in front of us so I can’t get an exact read on him. But he looks as if he’s in a trance. “You saved me from those bullies. On the playground. You beat the shit out of them.”
I did.
Beat the shit out of them and yes, I do remember.
I was eight and even at that age, I was a little shit.
Causing trouble, raising hell, breaking all the rules set forth by my dad or any form of authority. All because my big brother was the epitome of good behavior; the gold standard against which everyone else, especially me — the second son — was measured.
And of course, failed.
So I broke rules. I broke things. I picked fights. I beat up other kids at school.
Just for the record, I never picked on smaller kids. That was againstmy ownrules. I usually went for the bigger ones, the ones who would use their size to terrorize other kids at school. It was fun to put them in their place.
Which is why I saved Lucas.
He was the new kid, a small kid, and a group of guys were messing with him.
“I remember,” I tell him, swallowing thickly.
