Page 2 of The Rowdy Ones
I lean my head against the cool window and rub my fuzzy blanket between my thumb and fingers on my uninjured side. Without Rowdy’s wolf, Spirit, I don’t have the usual comfort she brings. The blanket soothes me, though, and takes my mind off the painful stuff brewing inside me.
Another pang of guilt ripples through me. Rowdy is here, away from his beloved pet, to look after me. In a way, I’m grateful to have my brother’s shadow looming over me. I’m also unsure if I even want that. What’s a prison escape if the warden comes with you?
Ugh.
He’s not your warden, Dez. You’re being dramatic.
In my family, the drama belongs mainly to Raegan and Kota. They are loud, mean, and constantly picking at everyone, but mostly each other. I’ve learned to keep my drama to internal ramblings. No need to burden my parents with more chaos.
And yet you went beyond self-harm. You tried to end it all.
Hot tears sting my eyes and I quickly blink them away. In the back seat, neither Wild or Rowdy can see me if I cry, but I know my brother will sense it. He worries to the point of smothering me with it. I’d rather sit quietly—aside from Wild’s off-key singing—and not be grilled about how I’m feeling.
“Just stick with me,” Wild says over the music to Rowdy. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.”
He.
A sudden pang of sickness curdles my gut. Rowdy, because of me, will be forced to face his demon, Evan. Wild’s cousin isn’t an actual demon, but he’s not a good person either. He was responsible for leading Rowdy down an awfully dark path. It nearly killed my brother.
And he’ll be around him again soon.
What if Evan gets inside Rowdy’s head? Will my brother get hooked on drugs again? This time, will it actually take his life?
“I don’t feel so well,” I blurt out, clutching my stomach.
Wild grunts from up front. “Car sickness. Get her a Dramamine pill from the glovebox. There’s a barf bag in there too.”
My mouth waters in that uncomfortable way like when you’re about to be sick. Rowdy thrusts something plastic and crinkly at me. I grab it from his calloused hand and feel around it. It’s indeed a bag hooked on a plastic ring. I lean my forehead against the back of Rowdy’s seat and bring the bag to my lips.
I gag a few times but luckily don’t throw up. The window slides down a bit and icy cold air swirls inside the truck. Not only does it chase away Wild’s godawful cologne, it also cools off my overheating body. It does wonders for the nausea. When it finally passes, I shakily reach a hand toward the front seat. Rowdy places a pill in my palm and curls my fingers to close my fist so I don’t lose it. I choke it down. Then he hands me a water bottle to wash away the acrid taste.
“Try to sleep,” Rowdy instructs. “It’ll be hours before we get there.”
Easier said than done.
My mind continually obsesses over everything. Mostly, I’m overwhelmed by stealing my family’s joy, by the chaotic pain that weighs me down. Sleeping isn’t something I do easily. And when I finally do, it’s rigged with explosive nightmares that threaten to end me.
When I dream, it’s the only time I see.
I find it strangely fascinating that when I’m dreaming, I see my mom and dad clearly, from a young child’s point of view. Though not in color, I see details like the defined curves of each blackberry in a bowl or the wiry hairs of my dad’s beard. My memories of a time before my vision deteriorated so badly are crisp and wonderful.
It’s my imagination that’s cruel.
Somehow, instead of giving me wonderful dreams of good times, it takes the clear details but fills them in with the monsters. Even though I couldn’t see the details of those people who took and hurt us, they become sharp and terrifying in my nightmares.
Who would willingly want to walk into such a traumatic dreamland?
The bumping of the truck is no longer making me sick to my stomach. Surprisingly, it’s relaxing me. My eyelids droop and I slouch in my seat.
“Does that pill make you sleepy?” I murmur, interrupting Wild’s animated story.
Wild snorts with laughter. “Hell yeah. The twins get carsick, and Mom gives them that shit. Knocks them out every time. Peace and fucking quiet for a few hours.”
I bristle at the thought of being given a pill to make me sleep as though I’m an unruly child. But I’m too tired to argue with him. For once, I give in to the exhaustion, hoping and praying I don’t slip into a nightmare.
I’m not sure how long I sleep, but I wake with a jolt. My cheeks are streaked with tears. Did I cry out in my sleep? With how fast my heart is racing and how quiet the guys are, something tells me I did.
That’s not humiliating or anything.
