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“I’m not who you think I am.” He slides a hand back through his hair.
“Tell me, right now.” I refuse to give up. If Screwy’s taught me anything, it’s to be strong, and if this man is going to turn my whole life around, I deserve answers.
“Stop, Lydia,” he warns sternly.
My fingers fumble to loosen the buckle that pins me to the seat, and when it clicks loose, I climb over the seat separating us and squeeze myself into the space between him and the steering wheel.
“Tell me,” I sob, slamming my palm deep into his chest, over and over again. It makes a hollow sound like distant drumming, but I know there’s a heart inside him. I’ve felt it beat with mine. I’ve seen it in the way he looks at me.
Screwy doesn’t react, just keeps the same tortured look on his face.
“Stop it,” he eventually speaks, grabbing both my wrists and holding me still. “Just fucking stop.”
“Tell me,” I whisper with every last scrap of energy I have left, and when Screwy’s eyes close, a tiny tear spills from the corner that disappears into his beard. He doesn’t let go of my wrists. In fact, he holds them tighter, bruising the surface and making my pulse throb painfully against his thumbs.
“I killed my sister.” His tense whisper cuts through the silence.
I open my eyes and search her face for a reaction, but she says nothing, just stares at me like I’ve punched her in the gut and stolen all her air.
I wish it hadn’t come to this. She should have listened to me when I told her that she wouldn't want to know. And now she’s gonna ask more questions. Questions that I’ll refuse to answer because they’re going to hell with me.
“No,” she shakes her head like she doesn't believe what I’m saying.
“It may not have been these hands that did it, but it was my fault. And it’s what I do… I make people hurt, and I kill people.”
“I know you kill, Screwy. I’ve seen you do it, but you did that to save me. You kill people for your club. Alex explained to me how things work, and I understand all that.”
“I don't kill for the club, Lydia,” I shake my head and laugh bitterly. “I kill for me. I kill because I like the way it feels.” Her eyes blink nervously at my confession.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because it takes all the pain inside me away for a while and stops me from feeling weak.” What I don’t tell her is that she takes the pain away, too.
Lydia tilts her head as she tries to understand, and the pitiful look she stares back at me with scrapes at my insides.
“Yesterday I killed a fucking kid,” I add, hoping she’ll stop feeling sorry for me. It seems to work.
Her breath catches in her throat, and she finally looks back at me the way she always should have. I hate it.
Turning my head, I look out the window to avoid having to see it.
“He was gonna kill Squeal, had a gun to his head, so I ended him.”
“You saved Squealer.” Even through her shock, she tries to defend my actions, just like everyone else has been trying to do since.
“He was a kid. He had his whole life ahead of him. The boy was inexperienced and had five men surrounding him. What was he supposed to do?”
“He shouldn’t have had a gun, Screwy, kids shouldn't carry weapons. You did what you had to do. Anyone else would have one the same.”
“Everyone else dropped their weapons as soon as they saw how young he was. We may all be brutal, but we don’t hurt kids.”
“Let's just go home and talk about this.” She tries turning my face to look at her, but I fight against her hand.
“I’m begging you, Screwy, don’t end us.” She sounds like she’s being strangled.
“And I’m begging you to stop. I’m doing the right thing by you. You may not believe it right now, but you will see. Don’t make me tie you up and put you in the back for the rest of this journey.”
“You wouldn’t do that to me,” she sounds so confident.
