My hand’s covered in blood from where I pressed it to the cut in my side.
It finally hits me as I make my slow way through town, my teeth chattering with cold and reaction, that my father had me beaten. Roughed up to ensure I’ll comply with his demands. Maybe he thought to kidnap me and extort money from Ocean.
Fuck. I can’t keep this to myself. I could be putting my brother, his family and our friends in danger. Dad is more dangerous than I’d ever imagined. How is it possible that he has thugs at his disposal, like a mafia overlord?
And who’s this Simon guy that Jason mentioned? What’s the Club? I have names, and faces.
Now all I need is answers. Always the hardest part.
My own father. I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white. How fucked-up is that? Extorting me is one thing, but trying to kill me and threatening all the people I love… Jesus. And here I was thinking I had a grip on the situation. Just goes to show how out of my depth I am in this.
I’m shaking, the adrenaline seeping out of my system, the confusion over Jason’s role in all this making me feel even colder as I drive on home. Why was he there? How did he know those thugs?
Why did he put himself in danger to help me?
Once I inside the apartment, I deadbolt the door and jump into the shower to warm up and wash the grime and blood off me. I wince as the hot water hits various sore spots. The cut in my side is shallow, bleeding sluggishly, turning the water swirling down the drain into rust.
It reminds me of the cut on Jason’s arm.
My throat is bruised—and it reminds me of Jason, too. His throat had been bruised, too, a few times. My ribs are mottled, my arms have rings of dark fingerprints where I was manhandled.
Like Jason regularly is.
Jason, Jason… I slam my fist into the tiles, bow my head. He said he enjoys it. But is it true? Is that really what he said? Was he taunting me? What is true, and what is a lie?
This is driving me up the wall—knowing he’s out there, bleeding and probably more bruised than I am, in the cold, thinking I don’t give a damn about him.
I step out of the shower, throw on some old jeans, and shoot a text to Ocean, letting him know we need to talk. Tomorrow.
And I head back out.
Of course Jason is nowhere to be found. What did I expect, that things would be easy for a change? That I decide to fix what I did wrong and things would go my way?
Nah.
I cruise the streets for hours in the rain, up and down through town, before I give up and return home. Memories of Jason won’t let me rest—in the alley, at my feet, his dark eyes watching me.
I find my bottle of Jack and take it to bed with me.
And I wake up with a shout dying on my lips, my throat raw, my body stiff and drenched in cold sweat. Livvy. Oh fuck, that nightmare again, with Livvy—
No, it was Jason. In my dream, it was Jason in the car with me, covered in blood. Dead. And it was all my fault.
Livvy had been there, too. I grasp at the fading images from the dream. She was standing outside, on the street, staring at me, dressed in the yellow shorts and flowery blouse she’d had on that day.
Waving, and smiling.
I hunch over, feeling sick. What the fuck, mind? Is this some sick joke? And it’s almost time…
Ah fuck. I grab my phone, check the date. Yeah. The anniversary of her death is coming up.
Bile rises in my throat, and I don’t know if it was my drinking binge last night, the worry, or the memory, the real one, of the accident. Not this fake, distorted one that has Jason in the seat beside me.
Dead because of me, like Livvy is. Fuck, no. I shove my hands into my hair and fight the urge to go rock in a corner. Or throw up. In fact…
Bile rises in my throat, and I scramble out of bed. I stumble into the bathroom just in time to hug the toilet and empty my stomach.
Fucking dream.