Page 73 of The Evening Wolves

“Ree, for fuck’s sake!” The shout echoed through the stillness of the house. When he spoke again, his voice was tempered. “Can you just not? Not right now.”

Maybe it was the darkness of the house. Maybe his eyes were having trouble adjusting. The dimensions of the room seemed skewed, and Emery fought the desire to put out a hand, find a wall, stabilize himself. He barely heard John when he spoke again.

“It is just so fucking unfair.”

Emery opened his mouth.

The front door opened, and heavy, staggering steps moved into the house.

John bent his head, and the movement carried him out of the light from the microwave. The gold fire of his hair went out, and he was just a shadow.

“A few more steps, bruh,” Ashley said and grunted.

Colt made an inarticulate noise full of pain.

The sound galvanized Emery, and he moved into the living room as two shadowy shapes stumbled out of the entry hall. He found a light, flipped it on, and stared.

The boys were dressed for a night out, and a distant part of Emery recognized that no one had told him, that he had sent Colt to Ashley’s house under the belief that they would stay home. Instead, Colt was dressed in a black button-up, black trousers, and the ridiculous velvet drivers that every teenage boy seemed determined to wear. He’d somehow managed to sneak John’s camel-hair coat out of the closet without anyone noticing, and now something dark stained the fabric in a long smear. Ashley looked similarly done up, in a hunter green blazer that was, apparently, velvet, a white button-up, and gray trousers. His velvet drivers matched the blazer, of course. Food covered his shirt and blazer—a red sauce, a stray noodle, a gob of something that might have been ice cream. In spite of the mess, both boys looked strikingly adult, like young men instead of boys, and on another night, it probably would have simultaneously broken Emery’s heart and made him unspeakably pleased to see.

Instead, he focused on his son: one eye swelling shut, blood caked around his nose, a split lip. Colt couldn’t seem to stand up straight. He had one hand pressed to his ribs, and Ashley seemed to be bearing most of his weight.

“Mr. Hazard,” Ashley said, his voice breaking.

Emery took Colt from him and helped his son to the sofa. Colt gasped in pain as Emery eased him down. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back.

“John!”

“Jesus,” John said behind him. “We’ve got to get him to the ER.”

Colt’s eyes flew open. “No!” He struggled to sit up. “I’m fine!”

With one hand on Colt’s chest, Emery forced him back down. “Pull the Odyssey out of the garage. It’ll be easier to load him in from the driveway.”

John nodded and went to grab the keys.

Biscuit slunk across the room; she looked like she’d just woken up, but she pressed herself against the sofa, trying to get as close to Colt as she could without actually climbing on top of him.

“Pops, no, please.” Colt was still trying to sit up. He’d already come into his full height, and he was strong—a far cry from the half-starved boy who had appeared on their doorstep more than a year before. But right then, he might have been a child again, too hurt to dislodge Emery’s hand and sit up. “I’m fine. Ash, tell him I’m fine.”

Ashley was crying and wiping his cheeks.

“What happened?”

Colt closed his eyes.

“Colt,” Emery barked.

The boy shook his head.

“What is that supposed to mean? Open your eyes and talk to me. This is serious, Colt. Someone hurt you. What in the world is going on?”

Colt’s eyes opened a crack. Tears glimmered. His voice was thick but steady as he said, “Nobody hurt me. I fell.”

“You fell? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Ree!” John’s shocked cry came from the stairs.

“Are you listening to this?”

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