Gray wasn’t sure how to respond at first. He appreciated the concern, maybe, but Dominic didn’t know the hell Gray had already come back from. Unless the same situation waited for him in Philadelphia, he wasn’t scared. Perhaps that was naïve of him…
It didn’t matter.
“I made a promise,” he said quietly. Resolutely. “I’m not looking for trouble or anything. I just wanna find the boy.”
“Yeah, I get it. The problem is, my only contact—that I believe would work the best—will take you straight to trouble, so to speak. It’s a guy I worked for on and off when I lived on the streets myself.”
Oh. So, Dominic really knew Philadelphia that way.
“Would it kill me to just talk to him?” Gray asked, somewhat patiently.
Dominic sighed. “No, probably not. He owes me a favor, so you’re gonna have to run with that.”
“I won’t cash that in,” Gray protested. “I only wanna talk.”
There was a hint of a smile in Dominic’s voice when he answered. “No, you don’t. You wanna find someone, right? You want information, and information costs with these people.”
These people. Fucking great. Gray had barely escaped from one criminal organization, and now, by the sound of it, he’d be going up against another.
“That’s not my life anymore,” Dominic said. “Cash in the favor. It’s not like I have a use for it, but you will—trust. It’ll also make him listen to what you have to say.”
“Okay.” Gray swallowed his nerves and pushed forward. “Thank you. How do I find this guy?”
“There’s a bar. I’ll text you the address. You go over to the bartender and ask for Mick—he owns the place. You ask him—only him—for Kellan Ford. And you tell Mick to relay the message that you’re a friend of Dominic Cleary. Got it?”
“Got it,” Gray copied. Jesus Christ, he better not get himself into a mess now. “You believe this is necessary?”
“Unfortunately,” Dominic responded grimly. “Street kids in Philly who don’t wanna be found?” He let out a whistle. “They’re resourceful little shits.”
Despite it all, Gray mustered a little smirk. He’d heard from Jonas that his brother was feisty. Feisty was good.
Gray would just have to suck it up. End of.Slumping down on the bed in his little room, he sighed and brought his duffel bag closer. Darkness had fallen by the time he’d wrapped up his call with Dominic Cleary, taking the last of the heat of the South with it. Tomorrow, he’d be far enough north that his wardrobe of sweats and hoodies would need some additions.
First things first, though. He tugged off his T-shirt and threw it next to him on the bed. Clothes still didn’t feel great on him. It was as if his skin had become hypersensitive. The softest of fabrics felt scratchy and confining. For months, he hadn’t been allowed to wear anything other than underwear; one would think he’d relish the opportunity to dress however he wanted. Instead, he preferred nothing but a pair of sweats.
The wounds that covered his entire torso had mostly healed, but some of the scars weren’t pretty, and his skin was dry in places. He could feel them, especially when he wore clothes. A tiny thread could brush over an uneven surface of his skin, and he’d shudder in revulsion.
He dug through his bag and did a quick inventory of his belongings. Some clothes, his meds that he had to take before bed, toothbrush, toothpaste, phone charger, few pairs of boxer briefs, socks, and the piece of paper with instructions for breathing exercises in case he had a panic attack. His trauma specialist in Fort Lauderdale had written them down for him to learn, which he hadn’t done yet. He’d get to it.
There was something else too, and Gray frowned. What was this? He retrieved an envelope from the bottom of the bag and flipped it over.
Knucklehead.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek as a pang hit his chest. That motherfucker.
Even though he was tempted to throw the envelope away, he knew he wouldn’t. For chrissakes, this was the problem with Darius—and one of the reasons Gray had left. Because when Darius was around, Gray couldn’t stay away. And now the asshole had left a note.
Did Darius have to know everything? Or was Gray just that predictable?
Opening the envelope, he noticed there was something inside that was a little heavier than a piece of paper. It fell out, and Gray cocked his head at the bottle cap that’d landed on his thigh.
Then he unfolded the letter and read.
Maybe it takes a fighter to recognize a runner. Maybe I’ve just been in the game long enough. If you’re reading this, you’re on the road somewhere, and you’ve decided there’s something you have to go through alone.
I know the feeling, knucklehead. I know because I’ve been there. You get claustrophobic; the walls close in on you, and you feel like a stranger. You want things to go back to the way they were, but they won’t. Your loved ones can sympathize but never relate. You’ve changed. How you look at the world, how you interpret things, how you observe—it’s all different. You can’t laugh at the same jokes your family finds funny, so you put up a front. You pretend, and it works—for a while. Sooner or later, you implode. Or explode in my case.