Page 48 of Last Boy

Yes. That must be it.

There’s no way that there’s a reality where someone could lose their brother and get attacked by his dealers in the same week. No. I mean, life sucks. But it’s not this tragic.

Any hope I had that this wasn’t real is taken away when I’m pulled to my feet, and the guy releases my hair, only to land a blow in the face—first in the nose. Next the lip. The cheek. The stomach again.

I lose track. I let my mind go to a place far, far away. A place where things like this don’t happen. Somewhere there are more good times than bad.

A mouth hovering right by my ear pulls me back to my shitty reality as a hand grips my cheeks, sending pain over my entire face as I feel wetness that I know isn’t tears on my flesh. It’s blood.

“Six fucking grand, bitch. That’s how much your useless brother owes us.” Squeezing my face harder, he shoves me backward, knocking me onto the ground yet again. “If you don’t have our money the next time we come back, you’ll be in a grave right next to him. Oh, and if you even think about going to the cops, we’ll kill every bitch in that house you live in.”

I don’t bother to tell them that my brother isn’t in a grave. Or that he’s free now. Not confined. Or in pain. Instead, I silently wince as his boot kicks my stomach once, then twice. And then, through blurry, tear-soaked eyes, I watch them get farther and farther away from me before they get in their car and squeal away.

Through the pain, I force myself to stand. Each step I take feels like a thousand knives are stabbing my body. But finally, I walk…and then run toward my house. Knowing I don’t want anyone to see me this way and that I’ll have to spend the next few days hiding from the entire world.

Until I can come up with their money.

Walker

I let the music play, resting my hand on the wheel as I head away from the arena and toward Poppy’s place. I know I can’t go in. It’s late, and I can’t just show up whenever I want to.

But, fuck, I wish she had been at my game tonight. I hated that she wasn’t.

I had her. Three years ago, I fucking had her. She looked at me like I’d hung the moon and all the stars. Now, she’ll never see me that way. Even if we have moments, they always end.

You can’t change the past. That’s for damn sure.

Heading past the library, I drive down the hill and past the coffee shop. But when I turn the corner, I see a figure walking and limping. As soon as my headlights cast over them, they disappear between a few buildings.

Driving to where I saw them last, I peer into the shadows.

I should just go home.

Whoever I saw clearly doesn’t want to be seen. But I keep thinking about the fact that it looked like a woman.

What if she needs help?

“Fuck it,” I huff out before throwing my truck into park and climbing out. “Let’s hope this isn’t a serial killer,” I mutter, heading between the two buildings.

At first, I see nothing. But then the light of a phone catches my eye, and I squint.

“Hey, uh, are you all right?”

For a second, it’s silent before I see movement.

“Walker?” Poppy’s voice sobs so quietly that I almost don’t hear her. “Walker, is that you?”

On instinct, I run toward her, reaching her within seconds.

“Poppy, what the f—”

The moon peeks out from behind the cloudy night sky, illuminating her face. My heart drops, and I feel fucking sick as my eyes take in the bruises, cuts, and scrapes all over her beautiful face. Droplets of blood drip from the cut and down her chin.

“Who—” I stop, sucking in a breath. “Who fucking did this, Poppy? Who did this to you?! I will fucking kill someone right now.”

When I reach for her, she stumbles backward. “Please—” She puts her hands in front of her abdomen like a shield. “Please don’t touch me,” she cries. “It hurts.”

Dipping my face closer to hers, I cup a spot on her face with no marks. “What hurts, baby? Tell me what hurts.”

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