“You up to this?” I whispered.
He shot me a tired wink. “Forward my mail, tell my story, I’m not coming back.”
Despite the pit of fear gnawing a hole in my stomach, I snorted a laugh, then sucked in another breath. I knocked on the door to my own apartment.
It opened a crack, and Mom peered out. Her eyes widened for a moment with joy and then shut down again with fear. “Miller. You’re back.”
“Is he here?
“Yeah, he’s—”
The door pulled open all the way, and Chet filled the space. “Go lie down, Lynn. I’ll handle this.”
Mom looked at me uncertainly. I gave her a nearly imperceptible nod, hoping she would do as he said and take shelter from the storm that was coming. She hesitated, then retreated into the darkness of the apartment.
It took everything I had not to glance at Ronan and Holden, standing like sentries on either side of the door frame.
“You need to get out of my house.”
“You don’t live here anymore, son. You’re a grown man now and can’t be leeching off your mom. Now go on.”
He started to shut the door, and I blocked it with my boot, at the same time Ronan swung around from the wall, throwing the door all the way open with a bang. He strode into the house, gripping Chet by the collar of his shirt and driving him backwards as he went. Chet gave a shout of surprise, stumbled, and fell on his ass.
“Who the fuck are you? You can’t be in here!”
Ronan stood over him, still and hard as stone, hands balled into fists, his eyes like a snake’s before it struck.
“We’re your unwelcome wagon,” Holden said, leaning casually against the door, examining his nails. “As in, you are no longer welcome here, fuck-nugget.”
Chet’s panicked glance went between them as he scrambled to his feet. “Get the hell out of my house.”
“You good?” I asked Ronan.
“I got this.” His gaze hadn’t moved from Chet for a second.
I went to go around them in the small space.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Chet’s hand shot out to grab me, and Ronan was there. Like a statue come to life, his fist shot out, connecting square with Chet’s flabby cheek. Chet snarled, cursed and flew at Ronan, tackling him to the ground. The two became a tangle of arms and legs, grappling and grasping, cursing and grunting.
“We’re good.” Holden waved his hand. “He’ll tag me in if he needs me.”
I nodded and hurried down the short hall, nearly crashing into Mom.
“Miller, don’t do this. Please.”
“Do you love him?”
“N-no,” she said in a small voice. Then louder. “No.”
“Good.” I went past her into their bedroom as the sounds of our coffee table being demolished came from the living room. “This his bag?”
Mom nodded at the dirty red duffel bag in my hand.
I handed it to her. “Pack up his stuff,” I said and went back to the living room.
Ronan had Chet pinned to the floor face down, one knee in between Chet’s shoulder blades, the other on his elbow. He had a fistful of greasy hair and was pressing his face sideways to the floor.