Page 2 of Wild Card
The more reasonable part of me understood that he’d been pressured to leave, that he had apologized sincerely for hurting me, and that Emory was a good anchor for him.
I wasn’t very reasonable, though.
Gray wrapped an arm around Emory’s shoulders. “Come on, golden boy.”
I caught sight of the tattoo on the underside of my brother’s wrist as they passed me. The Bro Code tattoo. It soothed some of my ragged edges. Gray had renewed his commitment to the family, and I was doing my best to trust he wouldn’t leave us again.
Emory was a good insurance policy, though. Gray would never leave him.
Banshee trotted over to Bailey, sitting nearest the doorway, and then Holden, sniffing and licking hands. She’d been around them a couple of times, and she was friendly by nature, so this was my best bet if I wanted to get over to the warehouse district with enough time to set up for the poker game tonight.
“Holden, can you keep Banshee with you? She’s still a little antsy, and I have to go out.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I want to know where you’re going?”
“Nope.”
“Do I need to worry?”
I grinned. “About me? Please. I’m an angel.” At his skeptical look, I added, “I just need to get laid, man.”
It wasn’t a total lie. I was looking to blow off some steam.
I’d been keeping a low profile since Gray, Bailey, and I got tossed in jail for fighting two months ago, but I might do something even more reckless if I didn’t let loose soon.
“Banshee can stay with me,” Bailey offered.
“Nah, I need Holden to do it. Banshee will need lots of attention.” I met his eyes. “Might do you both some good.”
Holden’s hand stilled on Banshee’s furry head. “Okay.”
My oldest brother struggled with haphephobia, which was an aversion to touch. It caused him a shit ton of anxiety, and he’d done years of therapy to get past the point where it sent him into full-blown panic attacks. But it didn’t come easily. The flip side of that, of course, was that he got touch-starved.
His therapist had encouraged him to resume the exposure therapy he did as a kid—basically allowing touch more often, on his own terms, to grow his tolerance—but it was a difficult, slow process.
One way I could help Holden was with pet therapy. That was my term, not his doctor’s. Cuddling with a dog would do him good. Or, at the very least, it couldn’t hurt.
“Let’s go to your room, and I’ll give you a few tips.”
He nodded. Bailey knew better than to ask why that was necessary. Whenever Holden and I did this, we kept it between us. Holden didn’t like showing Bailey his vulnerability, though our kid brother was fully aware of it.
Banshee and I followed Holden down the hall to his bedroom. When we got there, Holden dropped onto the end of his king-size bed. He patted the mattress beside him, and Banshee hopped up.
He put an arm around her, sinking his fingers into her silky fur. His body relaxed a fraction.
I’d suggested he get a dog of his own. Hell, I’d let him adopt one of mine if he wanted. But Holden always said he had too many other things to worry about. He never did put himself first like he should.
“When’s the last time you were touched?” I asked.
He glared up at me. “I’m fine.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago, I guess?”
“Accidental?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced. “Emory bumped into me in the hall, and it was early, so he wasn’t thinking. He grabbed my arm as he steadied himself, and, uh…” Holden bit his bottom lip and shook his head.
