Page 85 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

The gas station comes into view, its flickering neon sign barely holding on, the single pump out front looking like it hasn’t worked in years. I pull into the lot, killing the engine. The sudden silence rings in my ears.

“We’re in and out,” I say, pushing open the door. “No bullshit.”

Cast scoffs. “Come on, hermano. Since when do we ever bullshit?”

Vincent doesn’t respond. He just gets out, slamming the door behind him. I swipe the bag of clothes Cast slid into my trunk and follow them inside.

The gas station clerk doesn’t even look up as we walk past, too focused on whatever shitty reality show is playing on the tiny TV behind the counter. That’s good. He won’t remember us.

The bathroom is at the back, the door hanging slightly off its hinge, aDo Not Entersign half-ripped off. I shove it open with my shoulder, stepping into the dim, flickering light.

The stench of old piss and cheap bleach hits me first. The walls are cracked, covered in graffiti, the mirror above the sink warped with years of grime. It’s disgusting, but it’ll do.

Vincent moves to the sink immediately, gripping the edges like he’s trying to hold himself together. Cast leans against the stall door, lazy and unbothered, watching Vincent like he’s waiting for something to snap.

I grab a handful of paper towels, wet them under the faucet, and start scrubbing at the blood staining my hands. The water runs red, swirling down the drain.

Vincent exhales sharply, lifting his gaze to the mirror. “No more secrets, right?”

I strip off my jacket, my ruined shirt following, the fabric stiff with dried blood. Cast pulls his own bloodied dress shirt off, tossing it in the overflowing trash can like it’s just another Tuesday. “If you don’t want to be in prison, we better keep a few,” he mutters, grabbing a damp paper towel and wiping it half-assedly over his chest.

Vincent is silent as he rolls up his sleeves, rubbing at the blood staining his skin. His movements are stiff, deliberate, but there’s something off about the way he’s holding himself. Like there’s something else boiling under his skin, barely kept in check.

Then he speaks.

“My mother is alive.”

I freeze.

Cast, who had been lazily wiping down his arms, jerks his head up, eyes narrowing. “What?” His voice is sharp, like he can’t quite believe what he just heard. He blinks, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That’s insane, man. I thought she died.”

Vincent doesn’t look at him. “My father lied.” He says it like it’s just a fact, like it doesn’t shake the foundation of everything he’s believed his whole life. Like it doesn’t make him question who the hell he even is anymore.

“Your Dad’s a dick,” I bark.

Cast whistles low, shaking his head. “Jesus. ” He watches Vincent for a second longer, then grins. “You get to solve your mommy issues now.”

Vincent rolls his eyes, “Fuck off.”

I tug a clean shirt from the bag, yanking it over my head, my hands moving on autopilot.My mother is alive.The words press against the grief already sitting heavy in my chest, squeezing something raw and ugly inside me.

Because it doesn’t matter how much I want it—mymother isn’t coming back, and I hate that. I would do anything to bring her back, anything to tell her I love her one more time and Vincent just got that for free. I envy him, and I hate myself for it.

After everyone is dressed and the clothes are stuffed in a black garbage bag from the bin, we walk out of the gas station, throw the bag of bloodied clothes in the trunk, and I slide behind the wheel. I race to the hospital so fast I'm surprised there isn't a highway chase. My foot is lead on the accelerator, knuckles white against the steering wheel. The rear-view mirror shows Cast in the back seat, one hand onthe cooler containing our salvation, our girlfriend's second chance.

"Faster," Cast growls, but I'm already pushing ninety.

When we finally screech into the hospital parking lot, I slam the brakes and we're out before the engine stops ticking. Vincent clutches the cooler like it's made of glass while Cast leads our charge through the emergency doors. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everyone in a sickly pale glow as we march toward the nurses' station where Dr. Patel is reviewing charts.

Dr. Patel looks up from her clipboard, her dark eyes narrowing slightly behind her glasses. “Mr. Sterling,” she says, her voice calm but wary. “I was just about to check on Miss Carter?—”

I slide my arm across the counter in front of her, caging her in just enough to make it clear this isn’t a request. “Dr. Patel, can I borrow you for a moment?” My voice is low, steady.

She exhales, clearly debating whether to push back, but then nods once. “Fine. But make it quick.”

Vincent and Cast flank her the moment she steps out from behind the counter, guiding her down the hall without a word. She straightens her spine as she walks between us, her professionalism keeping her from showing any unease, but I can see the way her fingers tighten around her clipboard.

The second we step into an empty consultation room, Vincent shuts the door behind us. The lock clicks into place, and Cast moves in front of it, his arms crossed over his chest.

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