Page 2 of Deceit

I stayed in theirs because even though it badgered me with memories, they used to be there. We used to watch TV and read stories. It's where we used to do homework and talk about school, projects, and events.

It was our sanctuary.

Then it became just me, fending for myself against the muck of ass clowns that visited the double-wide shithole I called home.

The door to the dreaded room 223 suddenly swings open, causing me to step back. A young woman in her twenties comes out. Her chin tucked into her chest as she softly closes it behind her before it jerks up.

As if she can sense me.

Wavy brown hair touches her shoulders as light blue eyes pierce right into mine. The faint scattering of freckles still lines the bridge of her nose and cheekbones as her brows slightly furrow, flicking her gaze up all six foot two of me covered in facial hair and, more than likely, the broody-ass expression I always carry.

She's at least five-six in height, wearing faded blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt, looking hella grown up and not so nine-years-old anymore.

That was the last time I saw her.

I sent her to school with a pink Power Ranger shirt on and her hair in a ponytail. It was the last time we were ever in the same room together.

Scarlett.

My baby sister.

When our eyes connect again, it's awkward. I don't know if it's because she feels the same invisible tether that I do or if she's ready to get the elephant out of the way with the conversation ofhow are you, andit's been a long timeover with too.

I have nothing to say.

Shit, I never have anything to say.

Words are a waste of time when I'd rather act than ask questions. It allows distractions and miscommunication, two topics that I don't deal well with.

I obviously didn't do a fantastic job with keeping in touch either, to which there isn't an excuse. We're all grown, and there are these little things called cell phones that we could get better at using.

I've spoken to my brother and sister briefly through text messages, but seeing them, as adults with lives of their own, is a harsh reality check of how much time has actually gone by.

Scarlett moves forward, but it's not to clear the way for me to go inside the room but to abruptly wrap her arms around my waist.

She squeezes, digging her fingers into my back, and—fuck, she's a strong little thing. Her face buries into my chest as I feel her frame begin to tremble while mine begins to tense.

I am the worst person to comfort someone.

I don't handle emotions—another remarkable trait of mine. They're worthless to ponder on, so I obliterate and ignore them, shove them away in a dark pit that never sees the light of day.

It's why I'm deemed the biggest asshole on B723, just short of being called a cuddly teddy bear except—call it a sibling bond—I don't stay tense for long, and I don't feel the violent urge to shove Scarlett away from me.

"You're here." She mutters the words, almost too inaudible and softly to hear with her face smashed into my chest.

"Yeah." I slowly enveloping my arms around her and tighten my hold because I don't know what else to do. "How is he doing?"

She shakes her head but says nothing more. I'm betting that she hasn't left this hospital or eaten since everything happened yesterday.

"Did you eat?" She shakes her head again. "I'm assuming Hardy hasn't either."

"No…he won't leave the room." I nod, even though she can't see it. His daughter has to be about five or six now. I send her birthday gifts every year and throw money into a bank account that I have set up for her. Hardy sends me pictures now and again but never presses the issue for me to come and meet her. We're all still teeter-tottering on this awkward line where they don't know where they fit in my life and vice versa.

It needs to change.

I want it to.

"How bad?"

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