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I fire upAngry Birdsand play until my battery dies. Sometime before the sun comes up, I climb into the filthy bed, having remembered to turn off the lights and close the door, and fall again into sweet oblivion.
My last thought before I fall asleep is that Mom would’ve kicked my ass to Timbuktu for not returning her calls. I wish she were here to do it.
* * *
The incessant banging is annoying. It would piss me off if I could care enough. It’s ruining my sleep, so that’s close. But you have to give a fuck to get angry, and I’m unable to feel…anythingthat deeply.
I justam. Floating and hopeless, but not pissed. But it won’t stop.
What the hell?
I drag myself out of bed and grab my walker. I hit the head first, mostly out of spite. There’s nothing aside from a fire in the building that warrants this. And if that is the case, I’d be okay to be a casualty. It would be a fitting end to my life.
Bon Jovi’s ‘Blaze of Glory’ pops into my head, and I chuckle at my morbid sense of humor. Either I’m not entirely dead, or my despair is so bleak that I don’t care if I am.
The pounding turns out to be multiple fists.
Thank goodness my give a damn is busted, because I’d be pissed at the noise and the lack of courtesy if I still had my manners. Part of me considers walking away. I have noise-canceling headphones and want to go back to sleep. But instead, I pull open the door, preparing my face to display that I don’t care if the annoyance stays all day.
Seriously, no one is worth this much effort.
Imagine my surprise to see Pop and Exton standing there, fists raised in joint battle, both red in the face.
Imagine my shock to see the pain on my brother’s face as he stares at me, no doubt reading me, anger and revelation morphing across his features.
Imagine my horror to hear Pop’s words as he blows past me into my place. “I’ll get his bags; you get him to the car. I’m done with this.”
TWENTY-THREE
SATAN’S ROAD TRIP
LAYTON
“What do you need, Lay? I’ll get Willa on it so that you’re set up when we get home.”
We must be an hour into Satan’s road trip. That’s how I’m referring to it in my head. Only that devious fucker could create something so disgusting and brutal.
“Son,” Pop barks. “You can keep this up, but I’m still your father. I have no problem pulling this truck over and laying your ass out.”
I smirk at that and mumble under my breath, “I’d like to see you try.” It’s the first thing I’ve said since they forcibly took me from my home like a kidnapping victim in a poorly choreographed movie.
I’m five inches taller and have twenty-five pounds of muscle on him.
Pop pulls the car over onto the shoulder of the interstate as the cars whiz by and turns his full body to me. I’d be lying to say I don’t feel like a sitting duck right here, just waiting for someone to clip us. Or worse.
As discreetly as I can, I rub my hands over my pants pockets feeling for my pills. I have no idea what Pop packed, but the chances of him going into my makeshift nightstand and grabbing the bottle was slim, so I emptied it into my pocket as I grabbed my phone just in case.
“Layton Alonzo Ranger—”
“Move along.” I’m agitated and shaking. The sunlight glinting off the cars blinds me and the whirring sound as they fly by is more than I can handle. “Move. The. Fuck. On.”
“Pop.” Exton’s voice cuts through my panic and Pop’s lecture. “Pull back out onto the road.”
“Exton, don’t you start with me too.”
“PTSD, Pop. He’s trembling and pale. A road trip probably wasn’t well thought out, but something more is going on, and it’s too much. I’m watching his pulse grow more rapid and erratic as we sit here.”
Pop turns back and begins inching the car forward. I’ve never been more thankful for Exton’s training. A body language expert is annoying to play cards with. I never could pull a fast one on him in any kind of prank. But right now, he saved me from shitting myself, and I’m grateful.
