Page 66 of Make Me Yours

Maybe you can see how this makes sense? If so, I would be so grateful. And if not, I understand. It would hurt, but…I would.

Hurt.

She said the magic word.

I can’t hurt her. That’s why I stood there, doing my best to deflect Leon’s beating without fighting back. If you’d asked me ahead of time, I would have sworn I’d never do such a thing.

But in the moment, with Sully on the floor watching it all go down…

I couldn’t hurt her father, even though he absolutely deserved it, because I couldn’t risk hurting her.

And I won’t risk hurting her now. She’s been through enough. If I can spare her even a little bit of pain, I’ll do it, even though I don’t think Leon’s going to change. He’s too far gone, too set in his ways. It takes one hell of a person to turn their life around in their fifties, and Leon isn’t one hell of anything.

Except for one hell of a violent pain in my ass…

Turning onto Main Street, I intend to text Sully back as soon as I swing into my parking spot at the edge of the marina’s lot.

But there’s someone in my reserved spot—a familiar red Jeep that signals the presence of the last person I want to deal with after the day I’ve had.

It’s Mark, probably here to whine about how unfair his life is, yet again.

But as I park in a free community space a few spots down and slam out of the car, I realize that it’s still Saturday, not Sunday. Mark knows I planned on being out of town until Sunday afternoon.

Or, he should. I told Laura, in case she needed me for some reason, and Mark and Laura have always been close. He wants to be like his father, but he depends on his mother to keep his life running smoothly.

But maybe Laura neglected to tell him that I wouldn’t be here today. She is genuinely grieving, maybe the only person truly sad my brother is no longer above ground.

I brace for another uncomfortable conversation, promising myself I’ll get rid of Mark as quickly as possible so I can turn my attention to the things that really matter—namely, Sully. I need to text her back about her father, contact the police station to withdraw the charges against Leon, and set a few other things in motion that will hopefully make her life easier. Her shoulder is going to take time to heal. Neither she nor her grandfather—even if he makes it through surgery—are going to be up to lobstering for a while.

I’m thinking of people I know in town who might have extra hands to spare on their boat when I pass the ice cream shack and stop dead.

Mark isn’t waiting for me on the dock. No, the gangplank I know I stowed before I left town is down and the yacht is filledwith twenty-something kids drinking beer and…pouring it all over the deck.

There are four of them that I can see—two boys and two girls. Mark isn’t topside, but I’m sure he’s around somewhere. I recognize at least one member of his lobstering crew, and I’m pretty sure he used to date the skinny blond humming to herself as she pulls stuffing from the ripped cushions of the deck furniture. Meanwhile, the large boy with the buzz cut, who works with Mark, has his pocketknife out, carving something in the deck railing.

I watch, my blood simmering toward a boil, as a guy with bright red hair and a sunburned nose take a final swig of his beer before hurling the bottle against the already cracked window of the cockpit.

He snorts with laughter before shouting, “We’re going to need more beer, Mark.”

The girl next to him, a pale thing in a yellow sweatshirt with greasy brown pigtails emerging from her orange sock hat giggles and hugs him around the waist. “And music. Something fun. It’s too quiet out here.”

“That’s because I told you we have to be quiet,” Mark says, emerging from below deck with another member of his lobstering team, our cousin, Barry, behind him. “So, keep it down, will you? We don’t want anyone to hear us and come over to see what’s up.”

“That won’t matter,” I say flatly, causing all their heads to swivel my way. Most of them have the sense to look shocked and guilty, but the red-haired kid only smirks and opens another beer.

I smile, imagining how much I’m going to enjoy calling the authorities on him, in particular.

Looks like I’ll get to press charges today, after all.

I point to the telephone pole near the edge of the water, still smiling as I say, “I had cameras installed. Everything you’ve done has been recorded. All I have to do is contact the sheriff’s department with the footage.”

Greasy Pigtails curses, her already pale face now marble white as she lifts her hands in the air. “I didn’t do nothing, sir. I promise. I’m just here with my boyfriend.”

“Then maybe you’ll only be charged as an accessory to aggravated criminal mischief,” I say, ambling closer to the boat, my hands sliding into my pockets. “That’s the charge for damages over two thousand dollars. You’ve easily racked up that much from what I can see aboveboard. And who knows what you’ve done down below.” Mark’s face blanches, confirming my suspicion that he didn’t confine his petty destruction to the deck.

“I looked it up after someone vandalized my car not once, but twice in the past week,” I continue, cocking my head. “Are any of you familiar with the penalty for aggravated criminal mischief?”

“Uncle Weaver, please, I?—”

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