Page 20 of Save Me

I collapse on top of him, pressing my lips to his chest with a soft moan. I feel his heart thundering against them, pounding like a war drum.

"Never moving again," he whispers, wrapping his arms around me with a sigh. "Gonna stay right here with you."

My heart turns over in my chest, entire sections of it lighting up with his name. God, it's way too soon to be falling for this man. And yet...that's precisely what's happening here. I'm falling for him—every single broken piece of him—hard.

Chapter Five

Brantley

"Hey, Ma." I stoop, quickly kissing my mother on the cheek early the next morning. She's curled up in her favorite chair, her gray hair up in a bun, her feet up on a footstool, staring out at the garden with a cup of coffee in her hands.

"Brant! You're here!" She beams up at me, her eyes bright with relief. She doesn't try to kiss me back though. Even my ownmother can't fucking touch me without panic gripping me by the throat. I know it breaks her heart, but she's never once let it show. She's never once blamed me.

"Told you I'd be here, didn't I?" I shake my head at her. Sometimes, I think she's convinced I'm no more trustworthy than the bastard she married. But unlike him, I've never lied to her. Even when I probably should have hidden the truth, I was honest. I caused her more grief than she ever deserved. I regret the hell out of it.

I can't change it now. Christ knows, I wish I could. If I could go back and undo everything I did, I would. I'd find a healthier way to deal with my shit. One that didn't break her fucking heart for years. But I can't do that. All I can do is the same shit I do every day—wake up and face the mess I helped create.

I didn't tell Isla everything last night. Some shame runs too fucking deep to voice. God knows, mine does. While I was out trying to drink myself numb, my mother's heart was failing. She hid it because she knew exactly what I'd do if I knew. And my fucking father hid it too, just waiting for the right time to use it like a goddamn trump card.

They were both right. The day I found out, I offered myself up like a sacrificial lamb, exactly like she worried I would. Exactly like he wanted. My freedom for her safety.

It was worth the price, but I hate the bastard for exacting it.

He claimed he'd changed. That he wanted to make amends. That we were family, and we needed to hash out our differences. As if our differences were some goddamn disagreements that could be smoothed over. It was such bullshit.

He poured every dime she had into his addiction, leaving her completely dependent on him. Forcing her to rely on him for the medication she needed to keep her alive. And when her money was gone, he started stealing from the company.

I've spent most of the last four years cleaning up his messes, trying to undo the damage he did. Trying to ensure his shit never touched my mother. Sometime in the next few years, she'll need a transplant. Until then, she takes a goddamn pharmacy of medication every day to keep it beating. She's suffered enough at his hands.

Christ, she's suffered more than enough.

I hope the prick is rotting in hell, burning every fucking day. It's what he deserves. If praying for his suffering makes me a shit human, well, there are worse things you can be.

I don't want to be one of them. For a long fucking time, I worried that I'd end up just like him. Does anyone with a parent like him not face that same fear?

My mother isn't the reason I stopped drinking. He is. I sat across from him four years ago, saw his bloodshot eyes, and it felt like looking in the mirror. I walked out of that meeting and checked myself into rehab because I wasn't willing to risk becoming what he was. I refused to allow that to happen, and the path I was on? It was only a wrong turn or two away from ending up just like him.

"I know, I know," she says. "I just worry. The papers…"

"You shouldn't be reading that shit, Ma." I sigh. "They never know what they're talking about."

Her hands flutter uselessly in her lap. "Maybe you should set the record straight, Brant," she suggests—not for the first time. "Clear your name."

"You know I'm not going to do that, Ma," I say quietly. We've had this discussion more than once since he died. She feels guilty over what they're writing about me, but it's not her guilt to carry.

If we set the record straight about the fact that they were his dealers, it opens up the potential for additional questions, for more prying. And that's a risk I won't take. The last thing she needs is the goddamn press at the door again, hounding her.

"Where are these bills that came in?"

She sighs, her nose wrinkling as she stares up at me. "You've always been a stubborn boy, Brantley Hill."

"I haven't been a boy in years, Ma."

She snorts at me, waving her hand. "You're still stubborn."

"Guess I get it from you, huh?"

A tiny smile cracks her lips. "You certainly didn't get it from him."

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