Page 11 of Tangled in Red

But where? And who? He had no close friends to crash with, no family besides Frank.

For a moment, Brett just sat in his car, engine off. He touched his lips, trying to preserve the memory before reality crashed in. The glow of multiple lights and shadows moving across the blinds killed Brett’s afterglow in an instant.

His phone buzzed with another text from Diablo.

Make it home safe?

Safe was a matter of perspective. Brett’s fingers hovered over the keys. Yes, he typed, leaving out the part about wishing they were still together. They’d just met, and things were still new between them. Brett didn’t want to dump his issues on Diablo.

With a deep breath, he grabbed his backpack and got out of the car. The summer night air felt heavy with humidity, sticking his shirt to his back. Each step felt like walking toward a cage rather than a home.

The porch light flickered as he approached, casting jittery shadows across peeling paint. What he wouldn’t give to still be sitting across from Diablo, still enjoying his night. Instead, he was about to step into his own personal nightmare.

Resigned, he pushed the door open. The sound hit him like a physical force—some old rock song cranked to eleven, the clatter of poker chips, and his uncle’s distinctive bark of laughter punctuated by the clink of bottles.

Sounds that scraped against his ears after the gentleness of Diablo’s voice.

Frank and three of his buddies were hunched around a rickety table, cards fanned in their hands.

The living room reeked of cigarettes, ashtrays overflowing with butts. A haze of smoke hung heavily in the air like a dirty curtain, irritating Brett’s sinuses.

Brett lowered his head and slipped past, hoping to blend with the shadows, to ghost upstairs without notice.

No such luck.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence.” Frank’s words slurred slightly at the edges. “Have fun with your coworker?”

The way he said “coworker” made Brett’s skin crawl. His uncle knew damn well he hadn’t been with anyone from the hospital, but that gave him a good idea.

“I was working,” he said, not stopping.

“Work, huh?” Frank lurched to his feet, blocking Brett’s path to the hallway. “Work ends at five. It’s after nine.”

Beer breath washed over his face as Frank leaned in, making Brett fight the urge to recoil. A meaty hand gripped his injured shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make him wince.

“I went out with a friend after,” Brett said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Must be nice,” Frank said, fingers digging deeper. “Going out while I’m stuck paying the bills.”

“I pay rent,” he reminded his uncle, immediately regretting it when Frank’s expression darkened.

His grip tightened further. “What’d you say to me, boy?”

“Nothing.” Brett’s shoulder throbbed. “I’m just tired.”

Frank finally released him with a small shove. “Get us some more beers. Make yourself useful for once.”

With a nod, he changed course toward the kitchen. The counters were littered with empty beer bottles and half-eaten pizza, greasy boxes stacked haphazardly beside the sink. Freaking pigs. Of course Frank would expect Brett to clean this up.

Opening the refrigerator, he grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with shaky fingers. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably Diablo since no one else texted him. The thought sent warmth through Brett, a small bubble of happiness amid the misery of his life.

Behind him, footsteps approached. Heavier than Frank’s and slower, almost like they were trying to be as quiet as possible. Brett tensed, refusing to turn around. Maybe if he pretended no one was there, the person would leave.

“Well, well. If it isn’t little red.”

Brett froze, water bottle halfway to his lips. Jack leaned against the doorframe, blocking the exit. Frank’s oldest friend had never bothered to hide his interest, eyes always clocking Brett around rooms like a predator tracking prey.

“Hey, Jack.” He kept his voice neutral, taking a step back until he bumped against the counter.

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