Chase
The sound of my text messaging going off woke me up from another dreamless sleep, one where I felt music surround me, rocking me off to sleep.
I gripped my phone and stared down.
Nixon: You alive?
My head throbbed. I remembered Trace coming over, leaning in, oh shit, I groaned into my hands and then fired off a quick text.
Me: No bullet holes, and it’s not like you to miss.
Nixon: I didn’t.
I checked my body for blood, not one of my prouder moments, and came back empty.
Me: So you poisoned me?
Nixon: The thought crossed my mind at least a dozen times when I grabbed that glass of water — but I decided it would be too painless.
Me: So does that mean torture is on the menu?
He added Tex to the conversation, then Sergio, Frank, Phoenix, and, of course, Vic. Apparently the guy was getting closer to everyone though I barely saw him on my own property.
Tex: Catch me up. Who poisoned who?
Me: I’m alive.
Tex: I’m suddenly disappointed…
Phoenix: Nixon should have killed you.
I growled and gripped my phone in my hand so tight my fingers turned white.
Me: I was drunk.
Dante’s name popped in on the chat.
Dante: You’re always drunk.
It stung.
The entire conversation stung.
And lately I hadn’t given a shit, so why did it matter now? Was it because I actually got a decent night’s sleep without nightmares? Is that what sleep did to a person? Make them more human? Or was it the single tear from the most deserving to the least of them all?
She’d cried.
I remembered that much.
And I wasn’t threatening her.
Which meant something was making her sad.
And all fingers pointed at me.
Me.
I was making her cry.
Or they were tears of pity.
And for once I didn’t actually care, because pity was, first and foremost, grown out of a deep-rooted longing to care for another human, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that one tear was more emotion than I’d been given in a very long time.
Too long.
The anger built up again. Against her, against myself, against the situation that I tried to control, tried to make better, only to end up losing myself so completely that I’d become obsessed.
I didn’t want to apologize.
I wanted to fight.
I wanted to yell, shoot.
Instead, I replied.
Me: Nixon, you’re well within your right to end me, alcohol or no alcohol.
Sergio: Guys, CNN just said Hell froze over. Think Chase had anything to do with that?
Me: MIDDLE FINGER EMOJI, YOU ASS HAT!
Tex: There’s an actual emoji for that, you dumb fuck.
Me: Not a big enough finger… Not a big enough anything, if you get my meaning.
Hell, was I joking? Seriously? Maybe I should sleep more often…
Dante: Funny because last time I heard you say…
Nixon: Shhh, Dante, let the grown-ups talk.
Dante sent an actual middle finger emoji, making me smile at my phone for just a second .
Me: Why are we all on a group text?
Nixon started typing.
I waited, my nerves already overtaxed from having a woman spread across me not five minutes ago. If I was being honest, I’d admit that my body still felt hot to the touch, that the hair on my arms stood on end, still, at the sight of her in my clothes.
I shut that shit down immediately.
She might as well be Delilah to my Samson.
All women were.
Nixon: The commission is set for a week from tomorrow. The Families are flying in from Sicily. They will also be performing the bloodletting ceremony in order to strip Phoenix from the De Lange line.
Stunned, I just stared down at my phone.
Nobody said anything.
So I typed with shaking fingers, just seeing the name made me see murder and blood.
Me: Why?
Phoenix was quick to answer.
Phoenix: Because you’re my brother. And my sister is dead to me.
I closed my eyes as anxiety slammed into my chest.
He started typing again.
Phoenix: Because when I was the worst of them all — when I hurt Trace — when I hurt my brothers, myself, countless women, people — when I was covered in so much shit I didn’t even want to live, someone gave me a purpose, a reason to drop the knife I held next to my own throat. A reason. Don’t prove me wrong.
I tried to swallow the ball of emotion in my throat, but it refused to go down. None of the guys said anything.
I very slowly typed out my response.
Me: Thank you.
Frank typed next.
Frank: This only changes Phoenix’s bloodline. What you do with that, with the rest of the De Langes, will still be voted on.
Me: Understood.
Nixon: Think you can stop killing people for a bit?
Me: No promises.
Dante: Good thing he doesn’t have a hamster.
Me: Jackass.
But I was smiling.
Down at my phone.
As if I was looking at a naked picture.
I quickly frowned.
Mil had loved to tease me like that.
At first, I’d adored it.
And then it just felt — fake. As if I was being used because of how much I wanted her, how much I wanted to please her.
Men were fools.
All of us.
Driven by desire while getting slowly bled dry.
I tossed my phone onto the bed and managed to stand without wanting to take a jackhammer to my head to remove the pain.
I stared down at the three empty bottles of Jack littering my floor and shook my head. One thing was for certain; the alcohol was hindering my sleep.
Which left only one more option if I had any hope of resting and being at my best before I took every single one of those bastards down.
I peeked my head out the door.
My angel.
And a fucking truce.