Page 6 of Double Down
This is no longer just about trust.
It’s about my place with the Titans, and the cruel reminder that nothing has changed… Storm might see me as his, but I’m still just a toy they haven't broken yet.
2
Atticus
We’re goingto have to kill someone, and the only proof I have of that is that Conrad’s pacing.
Nothing good ever happens when Conrad starts pacing. That vein at his temple pulses; his shoulders are rigid, his fists are clenched…every inch of him is coiled tight like he’s moments from kicking a hole through the wall just to feel something break.
I understand the urge, because all I want to do is destroy the world around me. Unable to stop myself, I press two fingers to the inside of my left wrist. The steady pounding of my blood through my veins reminds me that I’m here. That I have a purpose. It’s a constant reminder that I can’t go on a rampage.
Instead, I sit at the dining table, as far away as I can get from the corpse. My glasses lie next to my elbows and forearms on the cool wood while my eyes stay fixed on my phone. I stare at the blank screen like it might give me answers. The screen throws my reflection back at me: my pupils pinpricks, jaw locked.
I look like a mess.
My heart rate is steady. But my mind is more of a crime scene than the room we’re occupying.
Unwanted, an old memory surges up and forces its way into my mind.
I was probably ten years old, and my dad thought it would be a fun exercise to take me to the shooting range.
Rite of passage—all that fun welcome-to-southern-manhood shit. He gave me an airsoft gun, complete with a metal tin of pellets, because he said I was too scrawny to handle a real pistol.
And then there was the fact that he knew I’d probably find a way to kill him. Even at ten, I’d call it an accident. Most children aren’t planning their father’s murder. But I was.
We were shooting paper targets at the far end of a gallery, and I remember how impressed Dad was with one of his buddy’s son’s grouping when the targets came sliding in. Everyoneoohedandaahedover how tight the group was, howpreciseandaccurateit was, while I stood there and rolled my eyes at the display. Seriously—who really cared? It was a piece of paper. Could he shoot something that mattered, when it mattered?
And then it was my turn.
I didn’t want to shoot that stupid gun, but I was already an asshole, so I dropped the tin and pretended to accidentally misfire and shoot the other kid in the foot.
Everyone started yelling.
The pellets scattered all over the polished wood of the shooting gallery, pinging this way and that and causing general chaos.
It was calculated chaos, and it was beyond beautiful.
Dragging myself from the memory, I can’t help but identify the similarities between then and now.
This is the type of scattered chaos that can only ever come from someone calculating every single possible outcome, and doing their damndest to control it.
There is someone behind the curtain, using their power to maneuver us like a chessboard. Someone who just fired a perfectly placed warning shot to watch us scatter and see how we react.
I recognize the move.
They’re using this chaos to compile data. They’re building toward something more. A much bigger plan. I just have to figure it out.
A small part of me respects it, but most of me wants to tear this jackass apart with my bare hands and watch him bleed out at my feet.
The only thing keeping me from snapping at Conrad is the cold detachment I’ve spent years beating into myself.
Exhale four counts. Hold four. Release…until the edge of my panic dulls.
Finally, I feel the familiar numbness take over. It’s comforting in a twisted and fucked up way.
Years of my mother’s emotional manipulation, of guilt, and of hiding my father’s secrets have prepared me for this moment. You learn to shove panic down deep when the panic’s routine.
