Page 3 of Brick

The frigid wind whips by my face, and I suck in a deep breath. After a deep sigh, I continue down the road with my eyes peeled just in case she's around the corner.

Wendy may be a deviant to the rest of the world, but to me, she's just lost. If only I could find her, maybe she would get better. Maybe she would be the sister that I remember from our childhood.

Two

Brick

The bourbon burnsas it slides down my throat.

It's been a while since I sat at a bar and just drank by myself. Usually, I'm hanging out in the clubhouse with the rest of my brothers, but for the past few days, I just can't fake it anymore. I'm conflicted in ways I never thought I would be. Minding my own fucking business has never been so damn hard.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the over-folded flyer. Wendy Quinlan. She's a nineteen-year-old woman who seems like she has the rest of her life ahead of her. She's the same woman who nearly overdosed in my warehouse a few weeks earlier. That night should've been the last time I ever thought about her, but seeing her on this missing poster has brought me right back into her mess.

"You look like you could use another." A woman walks up to me with a cup of bourbon in her hand. She gives me a sly smile and slides the drink in my direction. It doesn't matter that myoriginal drink is still halfway full; I take the drink from her. I know what she's come over here for. She wants to know if I'm going to be her good time for the night.

"Well, thank you, gorgeous.” I give her a wink, and she blushes hard as she takes the seat next to me. "You from around here?" she asks me. Her words are confident, but I can tell from the way that she's wringing her fingers that she's nervous. I'm not the man for nervous. In fact, I'm not the man for anyone. Hook might have found his person in Bea, but I know there's no one out there like that for me. After all the sins I've committed, I don't deserve to find someone for me.

"Yeah, I'm from around here. I was away for a few years, though." I take a sip of the bourbon she brought over to me. "Oh yeah? You were doing some traveling? Where did you go?" she asks, her voice a shrill, false chipper that I can't stand. It's fake. It's always fake.

"I went to Red Onion," I reply without changing the tone of my voice. I nearly burst out laughing when I watch her face scrunch up in confusion. "What's that?" she finally asks.

"Maximum security prison." I turn my gaze on her and don't let it fall from her face. It shouldn't bother me when people react to me telling them I was a convict. Yet every time this happens, it does. Her face drops, and every ounce of blush that colored her cheeks flushes away.

"Prison? Why were you in prison?"

"Attempted murder, stalking, false imprisonment." I rattle off just a few of the charges I have under my belt. The woman, who I'm sure was building herself up to take me home for the night,slowly slides off the stool in front of me and beelines to the other side of the bar. I could've put money on her having that reaction.

Maybe I should feel bad for scaring her off like that. Then again, maybe not. It's not my fault that she never wanted to know more about my reasonings. No one ever does. They all hear my rap sheet and think they know me. They think because I'm an ex-con, it automatically means that I'm an asshole of a man. I guess I am, but I had good reason.

My victim was none other than Pierson Stirr, my stepfather and a man who never held any love in his heart for me. I had my first run-in with the law because of him and my largest one because of him as well. About ten years ago, my mother was found dead in a shallow grave—naked and beaten to death. It was obvious that Pierce was the only suspect, but due to some asshat cops, the case was thrown out.

I was infuriated, and when I found out that Pierce was going around telling anyone who would ask him about it that he got away with murder, there was no way I could let him get away with it. I wanted him to feel the same pain that I did. I wanted him to know what it was like to be as helpless as my mother was. I terrorized him for weeks. I showed up at his job, at his new girlfriend's house. I took my time with him, and finally, when I was sure he was days from snapping and taking his own life, I kidnapped him from my home and brought him out to an abandoned construction site. I took my time with him.

It seemed to be too long because a lucky patrol officer caught me as I was threading rebar through his kneecaps. Pierce didn't die, but I'd beaten him so badly he became a paraplegic and would forever need someone to wipe his ass and feed him. He would suffer. I wasn't sorry about it in the least. That was why I went to jail. The problem is, no one wanted to hear about why I did whatI did. They only cared about the fact that I was a bad man—less than society. I was treated like absolute dog shit.

Turning back toward the bar, I down one of my drinks and leave the other. The last thing I need right now is to be picked up for drunk driving. I glance down at the missing persons flyer in my hand once again before folding it up and sliding it back into my pocket. I know I should stay away from Wendy and her firecracker of a sister Luna, but I'm having a hard time convincing myself of that. If I stay away, I can go about my life, staying out of trouble and keeping the rest of my brothers out from behind bars as well. But if I decide to help her, there's a good chance that I can end up in handcuffs again.

I've got a stalking and kidnapping charge in my jacket. A missing girl in my circle would paint me as the prime suspect. In fact, the police around here probably wouldn't waste their time looking for someone else. No, I don't need this kind of drama in my life right now. Laying down a few bills to pay for my drinks, I slide off my barstool and make my way to the door. Just for shits and giggles, I turn in the direction of the woman who approached me earlier and give her a playful wave. Her eyes go wide for a second before she abruptly turns and gives me her back. So much for having a little fun tonight.

I guess I can't blame her. I'm not sure I'd want to walk around with a convicted kidnapper either. The darkness seems to wrap around every corner out here. It soothes me. I don't have to see the disdain and disappointment in the eyes of the public. It's almost as if I have "ex-con" tattooed on my forehead. At least at night, no one can see me.

On one corner, I see a few ladies strutting sexily back and forth, and on the other, I see a group of men shooting some dice. It's right in the middle of the street, though, that someone walkingcatches my eye. My gut clenches along with my teeth as I watch the woman walk with her head down and her hands shoved in her pockets. I can't see even a sliver of her features, but there's no doubt in my mind who that is.

Before I can stop myself, my feet are pounding in her direction. I catch up to her, and just as I lift my hand to grab her shoulder, she swings around. Her dainty fist collides with all her force against my cheek, and I see red. It would be so easy for me to strike back, but that's not the type of man I am.

"What the fuck, Luna?" I growl and wipe what tastes like blood from my lip.

"Brick? Jesus Christ," she hisses before she pushes the hood off her head and rubs her hand against the bridge of her nose. "Is that how you react when anyone tries to get your attention? I feel bad for your boyfriend." It's meant to be a joke but sounds more like a complaint.

"No, not everyone—just dumbasses who sneak up behind me in the middle of the night. And I don't have to worry about any boyfriend. I don't have time for your kind." She narrows her eyes at me, and I shoot her the same expression back.

Before I can take up arms for my gender, I spy the blood on her temple. She didn't hit me hard enough for my blood to spray on her, so where the hell is the blood on her coming from?

"What the fuck is that?" I slowly lift my hand, and even though I'm moving as slowly as possible, she still flinches before I can touch her. I drop my eyes, and my gaze quickly scans over her. She's got a series of cuts on her face and hands, not to mention the redness I'm sure is going to turn into a bruise blossoming on her neck.

"I asked you a fucking question, Luna."

"Don't worry about it." She flips her hand in my direction and tries to turn away from me.

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