Page 27 of Don't Look Away

Lux looks a little concerned, but she nods without asking any more questions, which is a small miracle because she’s usually nosey as fuck. “Okay.”

As I turn and head back up to the house, I can’t help but think about that moment before Nathan popped up. That flicker of pure bliss with Lux. I try to hold onto it because I know soon, I’ll have to watch that love in her eyes bleed into anger and hate…

CHAPTERTEN

Roman

As I trudgeup the sandy path back up to the house, I listen to the message the jail left on my voicemail. It’s your standard message, “This message is regarding James Chandler. Please call us back at…”

So I call them back, and I’m immediately dumped into the automated menu from hell. Press one. Press three. Type in the inmate’s number, which I do. I memorized it months ago. By the time I’m placed on hold, I’m walking through the back door of Rush House, calling Lucas’ name.

“Lucas, where the fuck are you?”

He could be upstairs in his room, but I head to the living room. A bunch of people are there, all looking at me with alarm and curiosity.

“Where is Lucas?” I bark.

Someone points to the study, and I head in that direction, storming down the hall. Inside the study, Jackson and Lucas are sitting at the card table, talking intently. They both look at me when I walk in, and Lucas stands up.

I pull the phone away from my ear. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Have you talked to the jail? They said they left you a message,” Lucas says.

I hold my phone up, which is blaring horrendous hold music at ten times the acceptable volume. “They didn’t say anything in the message, just that I needed to call them. What’d they say to you?”

Lucas glances at Jackson, then shrugs. “They couldn’t really tell me much, due to privacy or some shit, but I got the vibe something has happened with James. The lady on the phone mentioned him being sent to medical.”

Shit.

I tilt my head back and pinch the bridge of my nose. This has always been my fear—something happening to James in jail. There are any number of violent guys in the same pod as James, and there’s just no telling what will set someone off. Just stepping inside someone else’s cell without explicit permission can earn you a severe beating. So there’s no telling what could have happened to land James in medical.

“What are you going to do?” Jackson asks.

I drop my head and glance down at my phone. I’m still on hold. “Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice. I’m driving up there.”

Jackson stands up and pulls his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll drive.”

“I’m going, too,” Lucas says.

It’s nice to know my brothers are behind me. That I’m not in this shit alone. “You’re names aren’t on the visitor list,” I point out.

After James got arrested, he was adamant that I be his only visitor. He wouldn’t even let our mom see him. He never said why, but I always got the vibe that he just didn’t want people seeing him in a place like that.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jackson says, already heading toward the door. “We’ll wait outside. Let’s go.”

“Where’s Christian?” I ask as we wend our way through the house to the back, where Jackson’s car is parked.

“Probably up some chick’s skirt somewhere,” Lucas says, looking down at his phone as he walks. That’s some serious skill. “I’m texting him to tell him what’s going on. His dumb ass can hold down the fort.”

We drive the four hours to Northern California in near silence. I did finally talk to someone at the jail, but they were less than helpful, telling me to callyet anothernumber, where again, I was put on hold. After about an hour, I just gave up, figuring I’d be there in person soon anyway.

When we pull up to the jail, Lucas slaps me on the shoulder from the back seat. “We’ll be here, man.”

“Let us know what’s going on,” Jackson says, worry in his eyes. Jackson is usually so stoic, that seeing any emotion in him is rare. And frightening. It means shit must havereallygone sideways.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping out. My stomach is in knots as I approach the building, then head inside and walk up to the reception desk. “I’m Roman Rush,” I say. “Next of kin for James Chandler. The jail called and said something about him being transferred to medical.”

After taking all of my information, and verifying it, I’m searched and then led down a long, dingy hallway. The walls were probably white once upon a time, decades ago. Now, they’re scuffed and dirty.

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