Page 8 of Sorrow

“Stop trying to make me feel stupid. You didn’t say you fought him, you said you saw him. Though I can’t say I’m terribly upset someone finally punched you in the face.”

He tosses me a ridiculously fake smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. If you go to the grocery store, they might have video surveillance for you to jack off to. It happened near their dumpsters.”

And now we’re adding video surveillance. None of this makes any sense at all. “Okay,” I say flatly. “You should ice your eye.”

“You should ice yours. More nightmares?” He tilts his head at me inquisitively, and then smirks at the fact that I have bags under my eyes. “Was I in them?”

Maybe one day it’ll be his body that ends up in the river. Maybe I’ll be the one who puts it there. “Not even my subconscious wastes time thinking about you, Sarro.”

He snorts like he can read my mind. “Yeah, whatever. Boo’s gonna be okay and I’m not going anywhere tonight, so you can call your boyfriend if you want to go out.”

I’d fake it if it wasn’t so fucking cold out there. “I’m not leaving my brother. Sleep wherever you want as long as it’s not in my bed.”

“Aw, so we’re pretending you didn’t play DJ Samara while you inhaled your pillow the second I left? Alright.”

“There’s no pretending involved. If I wanted to make myself throw up, there are easier ways.” Waving with a smile almost as sarcastic as his was, I spin fast enough that my long hair flies over my shoulder and flip him off on my way back to my room.

Shutting the door, I lock it for good measure and roll my eyes when I see the pillow in question. I’ll die before I ever tell him thateverythingsmelled like him after he left, or that I had a dream he was actuallynice to me for once. It wasn’t even a sex dream. He was just not an asshole.

I’ll also never tell him that knowing he’s in the house helps me actually get some sleep for once. If he’s willing to start shit with The Sons to protect my brother, he’ll protect him if they show up here.

And by proxy whether he wants to or not... he’ll protect me too.

5

“Boo, please don’t,” I beg, reaching out to grip the back of his jacket as he turns toward the door. “It’s only been three days, you’re not ready to go back.”

His right eye is nearly swollen shut as he peers down at me. “Stop it. If I miss one more day, they’ll fire me. I have to go.”

“No, you don’t,” I insist. “You should’ve told them what happened. Medical leave is a thing, right? They would’ve given you time to heal.”

“God damnit, I can’t keep having this conversation with you,” Boo snaps. “I can’t tell them what happened and I can’t tell you why, either. Just fucking trust me, okay?”

He wrenches out of my grip with a grunt. There’s no denying how much pain he’s in, and with injuries like this, his reflexes are nowhere near up to par. If The Sons come after him again, they’ll kill him.

I’m so, so fucking tired of being afraid. The fear coiling in my chest is as familiar to me as our peeling yellow wallpaper, and just as unwelcome as I watch him walk out the door.

The gust of frigid air chills me to the bone as he slams it behind him.

Fine.

I’m not sitting at home waiting for him to get killed.

Sliding my boots on and grabbing my jacket, I pause only long enough for his cruiser to disappear out of the driveway and around the corner. If he doesn’t want to tell me what he’s up to, he doesn’t need to know what I’m doing, either.

The engine of my grey 1992 Ford Ranger reluctantly roars to life. As the defrosters work overtime to clear the windshield, I double back to the garage to grab my ice skates and the thickest pair of gloves I own. I notice — not for the first time — that little tufts of down are falling out of my coat sleeve, and do my best to shove them back inside as I make my way back to the truck. Giving the chains on the tires a once over, I climb back in and flip the wipers on until the ice on the windshield is almost completely gone.

I really shouldn’t be doing this.

I know what Boo and Hayes would say:“Don’t be stupid.” “What exactly is a tiny little girl going to do about it that grown men can’t?” “Are youtryingto make this harder on us?” “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Maybe. But I’m not stupid enough to confront any of The Sons directly. Carter Jennings has a sister my age who I was friendly with in high school, and if the rumors I’ve heard are true, Holt Turner’s little brother Tristan just started hitting the party scene.

On a night like this with no blizzards, a nearly full moon, and violence in the air... they’ll all be at the quarry.

––––––––

I flip my high beams off as I descend down the hill to the quarry entrance and park my truck. There are dozens of vehicles here, and I’m pleased to see Carly Jenning’s glitter-wrapped 4Runner is one of them. I spot her wildly curly red hair zipping past a group of drunk guys as she skates along the frozen pond, but decide not to confront her right away.

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