Page 87 of Give Me Love

Abruptly, he stops and pulls his lips away from mine. My eyes open, and I see a firm wrinkle between his brows. He shakes his head, and I grow panicked.

“Bryce,” I say, begging him with just that word not to do this. I go to touch the side of his face, but he moves it.

Cold rejection melts the fire inside before slithering its way into my mind, and my heart does what it does best at times like this. It hardens because I’m used to feeling unwanted, but this is slightly different. This isn’t by my family; this is by a man I thought felt the same way I do.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it’s all I know,” he says it without letting a moment pass, and I tilt my head as he loosens his grip on my legs. I could crumble to the floor and lie there as the sun rises and falls. The pain of him stopping what I thought was a top moment of my life splits my goddamn heart.

He turns away from me, rolling his neck.

“Who hurt you?” I ask bitterly.

He looks back. “No one. Because I don’t do this shit,” he says, pointing between the two of us. He’s mad now? How the hell can he be mad?

“What? Fuck?” I ask, my anger at his rejection seeping through.

My eyes go to his ticking jaw. He steps closer to me. “Is that all this is to you?”

I swallow. “What’s it to you?”

“Not just a fuck,” he spits, grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. My blood boils over, and I shut the door a little too hard, thinking he’s the one who said he didn’t want to be friends.

Chapter Seventeen

Bryce

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to rid myself from thoughts of Kathrine. The girl is in my head. Between her and the sound of Mom yelling upstairs, I’ve probably got a stomach ulcer. I scrub my eyes and rest my head back on the couch. Blinking up at the tall ceiling, I rub the metal handcuffs between my fingers. The front door opens, and I look over seeing Lou.

Her eyes narrow. “Bryson. Who is that?”

I put the glass of whiskey I’m sipping on down and sit up. “That, Lou, is dear old Mom.”

“Mom?” she asks with pursed lips. “You brought your mother here?”

I exhale and scratch the side of my jaw. “Yeah.”

She takes her keys from the door. “Bryson, what are you thinking? You know this isn’t good.”

As the door closes, I stand, sliding the cuffs into my trouser pockets. I drain my glass, sucking my teeth as Mom continues to cry and yell from upstairs. “Yeah, well, she got beat up again. I couldn’t leave her there this time. She’s getting clean, Lou, so don’t open that door for anything.” I point. “She’s going to make you think she’s dying. She’s going to promise everything under the sun. But don’t you open that door.”

Lou places her grocery bags and the bucket I asked for onto the counter. “Your father isn’t going to like this, and she very well could be dying. You know how sick she gets. You need to get a doctor here.”

“I’m a grown man, Lou, and this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve disappointed him.”

“You hush all that now. You know you boys make Lee proud.”

I sigh, thinking back on all the times I’ve done just the opposite. Lee is my Jehudiel,the guardian angel of merciful love. The man I call Pops has shown me how our choices in life can either make us or break us. He’s compassion itself. A resilient man made up of strength and unyielding loyalty. Lee Grant commands the room when he walks in just by simply doing that. Without him, I’d be just who I was before him––a poor boy with broken parents.

I place my glass into the sink. Turning, I grab the bucket. “Don’t worry. Just don’t open the door.” I kiss her on the forehead. She blinks at me, looking with concerning disapproval in her brown oak eyes and a hand on her blue jeaned hip. I head toward the stairs.

Unlocking the bolts I bought and installed yesterday morning, I push the door open and see Mom sitting on the floor. Sweat drips down the side of her face and she looks weak, but the urge to use gives her strength, so when she jumps up and tries to leave, I grab her and quickly slam the door shut behind me.

“Mama, stop.”

“Bryce, no!” she says as I place her onto the bed. She fights, hitting me repeatedly. I hold her down with the weight of my body and grab her hand, sliding the cuffs out of my pocket and attaching them both to the bedpost. “No, no, no,” she cries and jerks her arm, trying to get it free. Tears fall from her face, snot pours from her nose, and her dishwater hair sticks to new and old sweat. I stand and roll my sleeves up. “Why are you doing this to me? I’m dying,” she says, her voice laced with dramatic sorrow. “My insides are on fire. Don’t do this.” She cries and shakes uncontrollably.

My chest caves, but I know this is right. “You’re not dying. You’re dope sick.”

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