Everything around me seems to be going on in such slow motion that I can’t even process the words coming out of the judge’s mouth. All I can feel is Olive’s hand digging into my knee, her shrill screech in my ear as the sentence is given.

I can see why I was attracted to him. Even in his prison jumpsuit, he looks so confident, handsome, and charming. Through the entire course of the trial he was nothing but polite to me, even apologizing profusely for all the pain and suffering he’s caused me.

Maybe he is sorry. Maybe he’s just sorry he got caught.

But now he’s serving a hefty sentence in federal prison for drug trafficking, murder, tax evasion, and assault and battery, amongst other things; and I’m serving a life sentence of judgement, self-loathing, and regret for all the time I spent under his spell.

“Sloan!” Olive screams, jumping up and down. “It’s over! You did it!”

I sure did.

With my testimony, I helped put away a serious player in the drug trafficking industry. I also managed to piss off my entire family in the process.

My stepmother is bawling in my ear behind me, crying so hard she’s dry heaving. Even though my father has since passed, I can still feel his breath on my neck, his voice in my ear when he put the pieces together and figured out what was going on.

“You’re a fucking nark, Sloan. You’ll get yours.”

I’m a terrible, selfish, stupid woman and I have the scars to prove it.

The only comfort I have is that I kept him from doing this to someone else. Someone more fragile than me. Someone less likely to roll over for self-preservation.

“Let’s get out of here,” Olive urges as my stepsister is beelining her way directly at me. Her minidress barely covers the tops of her thighs and her high heels clack on the marble floor. Her painted-on face is crunched into an intense scowl.

“I hope you’re happy, Sloan,” she shouts. I can smell the gin on her breath from ten feet away. “Arthur is a good man.”

I shake my head and squeeze Olive’s hand.

“Well he’s all yours,” I hiss at her. “I’m sure you can write him letters in prison.”

“You’re a bitch,” she taunts.

“That all you got?” Olive gets right in her face.

“Come on, girls,” Officer Brighton says as he approaches this scuffle about to happen. “Let’s get out of here.”

He grabs Olive and I by the shoulder and escorts us from the courtroom and into the lobby.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No problem. Your family sure knows how to make a scene.”

“No, Scott, I mean thank you for everything.”

Maybe it was a self-interested move, maybe he was looking for a promotion or something, but this man saved me from Arthur, and honestly, saved me from myself. From the day he first pulled me over and warned me, to the way he was by my side in the hospital, helping to set up my arrest so it would leave as little impact as possible on my life ahead, he was truly the catalyst for getting me out of such a bad situation.

“You did so good, Sloan. You were really brave. I should be thanking you. I know you saw some of Arthur’s evil up close and personal.”

“I had no idea how bad it really was until this trial, Scott. How many people he hurt. It was a real eye-opener. I’m glad he won’t be hurting anyone else.”

“Are you a hundred percent sure you don’t want to look into some sort of protection program? You barely made it out of the courtroom without getting mauled by a pack of crazies.”

“And that’s just my family,” I laugh. “I swear, it’s going to be alright. I’m not afraid.”

“Yeah, and I’m never letting her out of my sight again,” Olive says. I roll my eyes at her. I think her guilt about this whole situation is worse than the physical pain I went through. She’s my only true friend in the world and I’m causing her hurt just by existing.

“You ready to come get Bender?” he asks me, staring at the marble floor nervously.

Over the last few months, he’s taken care of my dog for me. Every day, his wife has been texting me pictures of their kids playing with him, dressing him up in tutus and snuggling with him on the couch.

“I can,” I say, but I know what the right thing is to do at this point, “but I don’t want to do that to your kids. They have a lot more love to give him than I do right now. If he’s a problem, I will happily take him back.”

He lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you. They’re so attached to that crazy mutt it’s unreal.”

“You have to let me come visit him sometime, though.”

“Absolutely.”

We stand there in silence for a moment, staring at our feet.

“So what now, Sloan?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I guess business as usual. I have a couple years left in my fellowship at the hospital, barring any sort of incident like the one we just went through, and that’s that.”

“Well, good luck to you. If you ever need anything, you have my card. Bye, Olive. You make sure you look after her.” He shakes our hands and walks away and she frowns.

“It’s a damn shame he’s married. I would totally let him cuff me and stuff me, if you know what I’m saying.”

“I’m sure you would,” I laugh. We leave the courthouse, the smell of spring drifting through the air. It smells like change, like new beginnings and fresh starts.

“You ready to go to the shop?” she asks. “I’ll text Mark right now.”

The scar on my arm had finally flattened and healed enough that it was time to cover it up. One more step further away from my past. I’d been debating for months now what I wanted to do to the red bumpy brand on my bicep that reminded me of Arthur every time I looked in the mirror. It might just be a random second degree burn to the untrained eye, but to me it was a tattoo that read “fucking nark” in Arthur and my father’s handwriting.

A fun kind of anxiousness flutters in my stomach. I’m so confused. I haven’t looked forward to anything in so long that I’d forgotten how it feels.

“Sounds good.” She puts her Jeep in drive and I brush my fingers over my skin. “Thank you, Ollie. You are seriously the best.”

“Shit,” I mutter, looking up at the clock on the wall for the first time in hours. I’ve been balls-deep in paperwork trying to get things back on track at the Bucktail Saloon after years of shady, at best, bookkeeping. Trying to go completely legit is a pain in the ass. I can see why everyone in the club has put it off for so long.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Pookie shouts from across the bar. “Did you finally realize you’re wasting your time with all that nonsense?”

“No, I forgot to pick Goob up from the school bus.”

“He’s sixteen years old, Gavin. He can walk. You gotta stop babying that kid.”

Before I can pull my phone out to let him know I’m on my way, he comes stumbling through the doors of the bar, his left eye black and his fist dripping blood.

“Dude, what happened?” I scowl. It’s never-ending with this kid. Between the fights, the drugs, and the constant issues in the classroom, it’s a wonder they haven’t kicked him out for good yet.

“Well, you don’t have to be worried about picking me up from school anymore,” he says. “I’m fucking done with that place.”

Ever since I brought him back to the mountain, taking him away from my junkie mother and her sick child predator boyfriend, he’s had a hell of a time adjusting. I know a lot of it isn’t his fault. There’s nobody up there his age for him to hang around with and his role models are, well…

“Atta boy,” Pookie says, puffing on a fat cigar. He looks like Santa Claus’ dirty twin biker brother, his white beard permanently nicotine stained. “You can go to the school of hard knocks like the rest of us.” His belly jiggles as he laughs.

“No, Pookie. This isn’t 1940 whatever the fuck year you went to school. You don’t just stop going. There’s truancy laws and stuff,” I bark. “If I did it, so can you.”

“I’m sure Dad won’t care. Ya’ll can homeschool me.” Goob shrugs, walking behind the bar and grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf.

“Please tell me I’m having a stroke or something? What do you think you’re doing?”

“Nobody else seems to mind.”

“Well I mind. This place is my livelihood and I don’t let underage kids drink here. The end. I don’t care who the fuck you think you are.”

He picks up a rocks glass from the adjoining shelf and slams it down on the bar.

“I swear to God, Goob, don’t make me come over there.”

He smiles at me in defiance. He still has braces on his teeth and freckles on his face, and as badly as I want him to be a grown man so I can deal with him the way I do with the rest of the crew, I know he’s just a child; a child who has never had a fighting chance.

“That’s enough,” Pookie says. “Get over here so I can fix your face, son. You hungry? How about I make us a pizza?”

And that’s how the last five years have been.

I don’t know if he’s supposed to be my child or my brother. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be the one laying down the law or if I’m just supposed to help him out of jams. Either way, I know I’m doing a terrible job.

I go back in the office and open up my desk drawer, thumbing through the stacks of brochures I’ve been collecting over the year.

I’m pissed at myself that I’m even considering this. I’m pissed that I’m ready to abandon him all over again when I was the one who came barnstorming in to “save him” and bring him back here to be with his family.

Unfortunately, I don’t think his family can undo the mess my mother made of him. He needs therapy. He needs discipline. He needs rules, a schedule, and to not be around men who think it’s perfectly ok for him to have an after-school whiskey.

He needs to go away to school if he wants a fighting chance to be anything but a scumbag like us. I start dialing numbers.

“This is Moses Boden,” I say. They’ll never know the difference. Hell, my dad probably won’t even notice. “I need to talk to someone about your residential program for my son.” My heart is broken, but for some reason, this broad on the other end of the line is giving me peace, making me think there’s nothing wrong with the choice I’m about to make. I’m not giving up on him, I’m giving him a way out of this life before it kills him.