Page 39 of The Wrong Drive

Chapter 17

Turner

She meant it.

In all the toxic shit that’s happened between us, Iknowshe meant those words. Maybe she had ulterior motive at the beginning. Maybe when she fucked me, she did, too. But that? That was real…

And now she deserves the truth.

Maybe I can find a way to save her.I bite down on my lip as I start pulling on my snow pants and parka, Gunner bouncing around me. I don’t want to kill her. That’s been clear since day one. She mightactuallybe capable of being here with me—maybe even loving me. Maybe we could have some sort of fucked up happy ending…

If I can just control myself.

And that’s what I think about as I head out to my shop, thinking about Christmas. Could I win her over entirely? I eye the blocks of cedar in the corner when I enter, and my set of whittling knives. I used to make shit to pass the time. I head for it and take a seat at the bench, grabbing a small piece of wood and letting my hands begin to move. My mind empties of thoughts, and I lose myself for a while.

Hours later, I stare down at the wooden heart shaped pendent I’ve finished. It’s not much, but really, I don’t have much to give her anyway. I have plenty of money from inheritance, but I don’t buy shit. It’s nothing like what I’m sure her fancy ex-boyfriend would’ve gotten her.

I set it down on the workbench, and as I do, I hear the sound of metal on wood, the echo clapping into the midday. I jump out of my seat, shoving the heart in my inner jacket pocket and rush out of the barn.

Squinting into the clearing behind the house, I spot Gunner, his tail wagging as he watches Em, swinging an axe at a small tree.What the hell is she doing? That’s horrible firewood material, and I already cut enough for a few months.

Shaking my head, I start toward her, thankful that I used the tractor to clear a lot of the snow away—minus digging out her truck. It’s still partially covered, and I probably should uncover it, but it’s the last thing on my list. She hasn’t asked and I can’t let her leave, either.

I don’t know if I’ll ever let her leave.

Em’s shoulder drops with defeat as she stares at the maybe six-foot pine tree. She eyes me wearily as I approach. “I don’t want your help.”

“Don’t waste this thing on firewood,” I tell her, chuckling. “Let it grow.”

She furrows her brow. “It’s not for firewood. It’s a Christmas tree. I just thought… I don’t know.” Em drops the axe in the snow as her cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red. “I don’t even know how to do a real Christmas tree anyway.”

“Here,” I pick up the axe. If she wants a stupid fire hazard in the cabin, I’ll give it to her. I swing the axe, and in two blows, have the little flimsy thing down. She watches me with wide eyes as I hold the axe back out to her. “Don’t take any swings at me, and I’ll dig out the shit to set this up inside.”

Sheactuallysmiles, her black gloves wrapping around the wooden handle. “Deal.”

I push away the memories that begin to creep in, as I drag the tree behind me to ready it. It’s been fifteen years since I’ve had a Christmas tree, and with it comes the memories, back when I was fucking normal. When, if I got the chance to be home, I was surrounded by my mom’s Christmas cooking, and my pop’s laughter.

And Tommy.

And Taylor.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I shove the barn door open, shaking my head as my hands tremble. This is why I avoid the holidays. It’s a reminder of all the ways I fucked up. I drop the tree at the door, and head to the storage loft at the back, climbing the old wooden ladder. It creaks under my weight, and part of me wishes it would just fucking collapse.

But no, I make it up to the top, and take in all the painful shit—the family keepsake boxes, my father’s hunting gear, my brother’s military uniform, and the list could go on. I deserve to have to see the reminders of the mess I made. I take a deep breath, my head uneven and light as I slip past to the old Christmas tree stand of Tommy’s when he lived here. I don’t know who he put a Christmas tree up for.

But whatever.

I grab it, knowing that the last person to touch the metal was my dead brother. My stomach churns with remorse, flashbacks threatening. “Gunner,” I call for my dog, clambering down the ladder. My head starts to pound at the speed of helicopter blades. “Gunner,” I shout, the sounds of war fading in over the ringing in my ears.

Gunner’s clumsy steps turn frantic as he rushes me, just in time for me to drop the stupid tree stand and latch onto him. I squeeze my eyes shut as the chaos of war erupts in my mind.Dread hangs heavy on my shoulders, and I breathe in evenly, counting to seven with every inhale and exhale. Fear penetrates my entire body, rolling over me and tempting a burst of adrenaline—the same adrenaline that awakens the war-chasing, murder hungry monster in me.

‘You gotta go,’ Taylor screams in my ear, as his heavy hand lands on the back of my neck. ‘Get ‘em out of here.’

“I’m not leaving you,” I shout at him. “I’m not leaving you.”

But Taylor doesn’t say anything back. Warm, sticky liquid splatters across my neck as he spews blood in the last few seconds of life. I hang onto him, even as it slips beneath my collar, soaking my uniform.

‘Let’s get him out of here,’ Bradford comes out of nowhere, reaching down in the dark, hot building. My mouth tastes like sand, but I nod, feeling the life drain from my little brother. He’s gone, but I’m not leaving him behind.

---