Page 80 of Breaking the Sinner

“Was about to rent out your room.” Klay’s voice came out flat as a board.

Cobra scoffed. “Why would you do that? I pay my fucking rent.” He didn’t break his stride to his bedroom. The door hung open in a way that suggested either Klay or Tyler had been inside there. He stood in the center of his dingy room, looking around. And that’s when he noticed it—the money bag stuffed under his mattress. Peeking out, like it had been taken out and then stuffed back.

He dove for it. He’d been accumulating these savings like the drip of a cavern stalactite, painfully slow but with promise. And Cobra had worked hard to make sure these assfucks didn’t know about it. He tore it open. Bills still lined the inside. He thumbed through the rumpled twenties. Counted it once. Then again. Then a third time.

His hands shook as he shoved the bag under his bed again. He’d been able to stash almost five hundred dollars. Free and clear money. The most he’d ever been able to set aside since…forever.

And now, he counted only one hundred. Rage trickled through him, hot and restless.

“Did you fuckwads steal my money?” He filled his doorframe, not wanting to take even a step farther. If he did, he’d pummel Klay’s face in.

Confusion made slow, stupid steps across Klay’s face. “I’m sorry?”

“You or Tyler were in my room. Did you take my money?”

Klay’s gaze hardened to obsidian. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Condescension dripped from his words. “Sorry, buddy.”

Cobra stalked across the living room and tore the PlayStation controller out of Klay’s hands. He threw it across the room so hard it shattered into pieces.

“I said—” Cobra grabbed him by the collar of his Lakers T-shirt. “Did you take my fucking money?”

“Get the fuck off me, asshole,” Klay snarled and shoved Cobra. Hard. But he couldn’t make Cobra budge. Not with all the training he had under his belt now.

“Give me back my money.”

“I don’t fucking have it! And nowyouoweme,you fucking idiot,” Klay said, fear ringing in his voice. “Tyler! Come tell him we don’t have his fucking money!”

Tyler’s bedroom door swung open a moment later, and he came out. “Come on. Break it up. What the fuck is this?”

“You both fucking robbed me,” Cobra said. Tyler pulled at his shoulder, and something inside him snapped. Cobra swung, his fist connecting with Tyler’s jaw. His roommate wailed, stumbling backward.

“Fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?” Klay shoved at Cobra, capitalizing on the sting of regret as Cobra’s attention shifted to Tyler, nursing his hurt jaw. Klay got a punch into Cobra’s gut, and then again on his ribs. By the time Cobra reacted, Klay had him pinned to the ground.

“You’ve been acting like a fucking nut job ever since you started at that gym.” Something crazed shone in his eyes. Cobra saw all of the twisted years of their past reflecting back on him. Tyler stumbled forward, pinning Cobra’s wrists to the ground. Cobra struggled, but Klay sat firmly on top of him. “We need to knock some sense back into you. Where’s our brother?”

Cobra knew what came next. He struggled against Klay, but as much as he fought the weight on top of him, Tyler kept him pinned by the hands. On either side of him, the couch and coffee table kept him closed in at the sides. His stomach knotted.

“This is us helping you,” Klay said, his voice strained. “We miss the Coby who used to do shit with us. Who fucking ran our pickups for us. Now, you’re never here. And what the fuck good is a roommate who’s never here?”

“You’re both fucked up,” Cobra spat.

“No. We just miss you! We miss the old you.” Klay laughed strangely, and then his face darkened. He looked at Tyler then nodded. “And you deserve this. After the way you’ve been treating us. It’s like you don’t even appreciate what we’ve done for you all these years. You’re an ungrateful fuck. Like your mom.”

“Klay,” Cobra said, tugging at his wrists while Klay reached around for something. Panic cinched his chest. Their friendship had always been toxic—but what would brewing resentment breed? “Stop it. Whatever the fuck this is, you need to stop.”

“Don’t worry,” Klay insisted. “We’ll make sure to balance things out.” He pulled out a baseball bat, the metallicshwicklike a knife blade as it slid against the coffee table. “Hold him, Ty.”

Tyler’s grip tightened, and Cobra pinched his eyes shut as Klay raised the bat. It connected with his shoulder first, a wrenching blow that sent hot pain screaming through his arms. Cobra couldn’t even cry out before the next blow fell. His side. Another one; his chest. The air emptied out of him, and he threw his head back, unable to scream, unable to even fight back.

This motherfucker might kill me.The thought ran like a marquee as the blows continued. And then Klay pulled back, bat poised to strike again.

“This is what brothers do,” he said, something sardonic on his face. “You deserved it. And now things will be better.”

Klay brought the bat down hard on his head, the sickeningcrackthe last thing Cobra heard before his world went black and fuzzy.

Cobra didn’t have to be to work until Monday, which meant the next two days were spent convalescing on the couch. Klay and Tyler brought him bags of ice and smoked him up like the creepiest type of nurses. Every word they spoke sounded lighter, somehow gleeful.

Maybe Klay had been right.

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