Page 89 of Ace of Spades
Nate picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “You ever wonder if you could turn out like the old man?”
“Why would we wonder that?” Court said.
“Twenty-five to thirty-five percent of abused children grow up to be abusers.”
“Truthfully, I’m surprised it isn’t a higher percentage.” Alex frowned. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”
“You’ve never worried that you could lose your temper and seriously hurt someone?”
Court’s eyes lit with understanding. “You’re afraid of becoming like him.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” Alex said. “You could never be like that man.”
“You don’t know that. I don’t know that.” None of them ever referred to their sire as their father. That would give him respect he’d never earned.
“You remember when I”—Court made air quotes—“‘borrowed’ your favorite shirt?”
“Yeah, you tore it.”
“You were pissed, but you didn’t put a hand on me.”
No, he’d gone for a long walk in the woods behind their property, something he’d done back then whenever he was angry.
“Remember when I shaved off your eyebrows the first time you got drunk? All you did was yell at me.”
Nate glared at Alex. “I might still beat you up for that one. And it was the only time I’ve ever been drunk.”
“And why is that?” Court dropped his feet to the floor. “Because the old man got drunk every day, and you didn’t want to be like him. And another thing. You don’t do relationships because you’ve always been afraid you’d lose it at some point and hurt a woman. Am I wrong?”
Nate shook his head.
“Well, consider this. If it’s Taylor you want, go for it. If you ever did try to hurt her, she’d give as good as she got. She can fight with the best of us.”
“And if you ever did hurt her, we’d help her bury you in the backyard,” Alex said.
Court nodded in agreement. “Truth.”
“What about her girls? They sure as hell can’t fight back against someone like me.”
“Christ, man.” Alex stood. “If Court and I couldn’t get you to beat on us, brats that we were, you think you’d really lose it with them so badly you’d want to hurt them?” He walked to the door, then paused. “If you don’t see that you’re a good man, then you are really stupid.” He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Nate frowned. “What’s his problem?”
“You’ve always been his hero, and he wants to see you happy. It frustrates him that you think you could be anything like the old man. You don’t have it in you to be like that,” Court said.
“I almost killed that man once, would have if you hadn’t pulled me off him. I’d say that’s proof that I do have it in me.” That day and the rage burning inside him was marked on his brain like a giantX, a warning of what he could turn into.
“He deserved to die for shredding Alex’s back like that and for an endless list of other reasons. If I’d been a few years older and stronger, I’d have killed him myself. That one act doesn’t define you, Nate, so don’t let it stop you from going after what you want.” Court pushed up. “Let yourself be happy, brother. Get out of here and go talk to Taylor. If you haven’t admitted it to yourself, you’re in love with her. Alex and I’ll close up tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder as he walked out. “And for what it’s worth, you’re my hero, too.”
Alone, Nate tried to blink away the burning in his eyes. As his brothers’ words settled into his mind, he still didn’t feel like a hero, but for the first time, he believed that he had as much right to be as happy as the next person.
Would he ever hurt Taylor in a fit of anger? No fucking way. Alex had it right. He’d put a gun to his temple first. He pressed his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. Hell, if he even dared to raise his hand to Taylor, she’d put him on his ass.
What about her girls? Could he ever lose his temper enough to hurt them? He thought about it, and the answer was an adamant no. There was nothing they could do to make him want to hurt them.
If he did get angry over something, all he had to do was walk away until he calmed down, something his father had never done. But was it really that easy, walking away? He considered it. Yeah, it really was. Just put one foot in front of the other and leave. Go for a long motorcycle ride—which always calmed him—or go to the gym and kill a punching bag.
A weight that had lived like a heavy rock in his chest for as long as he could remember vanished with the understanding that he could control his actions. So simple, and so stupid that he’d never grasped that before now. Screw the statistics. He didn’t have to be like his father unless he chose to be.
