MAXWELL

Regret.

A six-letter word that didn’t scratch the surface of the emotions I’d felt over the last few months. I fooled myself into thinking that I had it all figured out, that I was in control of everything in my life, that as long as my brothers stood with me, I could conquer anything. The truth was always staring me in the face, and like a fool I ignored it, choosing instead to pretend that I could do it alone, fight the shadow and win. Just once I wanted to show that fucker that I was strong enough to take him on without someone holding my hand and guiding me. I wanted to stand on my own two feet like a real man, a normal man, instead of leaning on my family to pull me up by the shirt tails. How foolish I was to think things would be any different, that I was strong enough like Buck always said. The shadow always won; it lurked just below the surface, reminding me that I was that scared little boy who shook with fear every time he came to visit me in the dark.

My troubles hadn’t started with Mitch and his sick obsession with Ashley Benjamin. True, he used me to get closer to her by pretending to be my friend, but he only succeeded because I refused to listen when my brothers tried to warn me about him. Mitch wasn’t some brilliant mastermind who fooled everyone with his well-thought-out plan to take Ashley at knifepoint and keep her for himself. I just hadn’t cared enough to read between the lines and see just how fucked up he really was. I kept Mitch around to play a role in my twisted sexual games, games I needed in order to escape reality through pleasure. It wasn’t his body I craved but his willingness to inflict pain at just the right time so I could get off and force the shadow back and release its hold. Buck had known about my sexual proclivities and never judged me for them. To him, every man had his own way of getting off, and as long as it didn’t hurt anyone, it was no one’s business. He had been the only person who could keep my head on straight, my ever-present voice of reason and encouragement, but he decided to leave me when I needed him the most. Buck had been my rock from the very beginning once I made my escape and tracked him down at the junkyard. He became my everything, what I needed the most; but even he couldn’t help me with what I was fighting against.

Buck knew every single one of my secrets and never broke his promise by sharing them with the other boys. When I needed to talk about where I felt my life was going, he dropped everything to hear me out. He always told me I was strong, strong enough to walk through hell and back without getting burned. He wanted me to live a normal life filled with love and family, all the things he’d had but lost. I killed that dream of ever having at a normal life the day I ignored his phone call to get over to Foster’s as fast as possible, choosing instead to finish getting a blow job from some bitch whose name I couldn’t even remember. I was responsible for Buck’s death that day at Foster’s, the same as if I’d pulled the trigger myself and watched him bleed out on the checkered tile floor. It was a sad truth that I accepted willingly even after Range tried to convince me that it wasn’t my fault, that there was no way I could have prevented what inevitably happened. Buck’s death sent me over the edge, but my downward spiral began long before he had been laid to rest.

That work day had started like any other, bright and early on Monday morning. I had a coffee in hand and a full schedule to look forward to. My marketing firm was the best on the east coast with clients who ranged from celebrities to pro athletes, successful businessmen to politicians. The waiting list of potential clients was nearly as long as the ones I actually represented. I was selective with my clientele. I carefully scrutinized their need for representation and considered all the facts before I chose to represent them. I worked hard to get my business to where it was, and like Buck had always taught me, “Never find yourself outworked by any man. The only person you end up half-assin’ is yourself.” I believed in that motto, followed it closely, until my reputation was that of a trustworthy advocate and a man who always got the job done. I demanded top dollar for my services, along with absolute autonomy in my decision-making process. One lie, one false statement, and they were out on their asses with a demand letter for final payment and a cancellation of our contractual agreements.

These people weren’t my friends; we didn’t go golfing on the weekends or hang out at family barbeques. It was strictly business and never personal. I had power over the most influential people in the world, and it fueled me, made my dick hard when I took away their choices and demanded respect. The more resistance they gave, the more I established my stronghold, until the contract was over and the job was done. My clients were wealthy, upstanding citizens to the outside world, when in truth, they were the scum of the earth. The money made them feel invincible, until they fucked up and had to dig their way out from the messes they created. I knew these people well, long before I decided to open my business and become a publicist. I lived in their tiny little bubble filled with champagne and caviar and saw firsthand what one demented human being was willing to do to another when they thought no one was watching. I relished the frantic phone calls as they begged me to help them out of a jam. I tortured them, made them feel small and vulnerable, just as I’d felt when I was held under their thumbs as a boy. I was a god to these people, until one voice mail after many years of silence rocked my well-crafted routine, my illusion of power, and catapulted me straight down to the depths of hell.

I sat alone in my office that day, earlier than my secretary, who always arrived just before eight with a warm smile and a fresh cup of steaming hot coffee. Betty was efficient at her job, anticipated my every need and followed instructions to the letter. She had been my right-hand woman since I started O’Neill’s and knew the type of clients I would and would not accept. She handled the rejects with grace and decorum, which was more than they deserved if they fell on the no-go list. I paid her well for her discretion and generously shared the spoils of this retched business we found ourselves in. She was privy to my clients’ secrets, but she was not acquainted with mine. Those were kept under lock and key until the day one phone call forced them back and I was helpless once again to stop the train wreck. I listened to that message over and over again until I memorized each and every word of it. The tone was businesslike, a potential client seeking representation from the best in the business. A delicate matter that needed a “gentle” touch, they said. I was asked to return the message as soon as possible to discuss the particulars of the situation. I never did.

I left my office and sought out the weapons I used to fight the shadow and maintain my illusion of power. My mind was being overrun with flashes of memories, feelings of pain. I needed them gone, locked away where they belonged, until all that was left was a song. Time was not on my side. I could feel it coming quickly; the shadow was waiting for me to falter. It would not win. I reached for my phone and dialed, failing miserably to keep the panic from my voice as I demanded an impromptu meeting. I didn’t need to explain why. Marci was more than willing to put her skills to good use, but I needed more, much more. A second phone call was made. The desperation in my request wasn’t missed and within minutes, I arrived back at the junkyard with one thing in mind: to beat back the darkness.

It took three days of fucking, sucking, and of course…pain, to beat the shadow back, three days until I could finally hear nothing but the song. In my mind, I was winning the battle on my terms, without the hand holding and coddling from Buck and my brothers. I didn’t need them, any of them. Buck had held me together so long that when he died, I knew my life was all but over. He had been the only one who knew my struggle, the reasons why I never felt normal. I stopped caring about everything. My family, friends, work; it all meant nothing without Buck. I hurt so many people and yet they never gave up until I left them little choice. Time after time, my friends begged me to come back to the junkyard so they could help me. I wasn’t some kind of charity case. I didn’t need their fucking help, nor did I want it. They had it so fucking easy, tough military man, sensitive gentlemen, and hardworking, dependable rock. I wanted to replace them all, toss them aside like yesterday’s trash, so I let a deranged psychopath take their place. I lost it all: my brothers, my father, my home, and I’d never felt so alone in all my life.

I wondered around those first few months away from the junkyard. Picked up strange women and fucked my way through the entire east coast. The days turned into weeks; before long, the nameless faces claimed more and more of my heartless soul until I was nothing more than an empty shell. Food and water kept me alive, but that was far from living; it was existing, like a nomad traveling along the Sahara Desert with no place to call home. I was lost. I grew tired of it all, the nightmares, the not giving a fuck about anything including myself. I wasn’t that man; he was weak and frail. Buck had taught me to be strong and brave. I did the one thing the four of us vowed never to do: I gave up, tossed in my chips, “pussied” out. Well, fuck that. No more.

I returned to the beginning, where the bullshit had started and my life had been fucked. I stood outside the doors to the one place I’d vowed to never walk through again, and I waited. For what? Divine intervention? A lightning bolt? I was hoping for any sign that would convince me this was a bad idea and I needed to turn the fuck around and leave. I had so many questions that needed to be answered, but was this the right way to get them? My brothers, who I loved more than life, told me to get my shit together or I wasn’t welcomed back at the junkyard. As much as I hated ultimatums, they were right. The time had come for me to make a move. I was a mess of a man, wrinkled clothing, overgrown hair, and a week’s worth of stubble that was now a full beard. I looked like shit. I reached up for the brass doorknocker and froze solid. I had to fight to take in enough air to fill my lungs just as sweat began to trickle down the sides of my temples. My legs became weak, no longer able to hold my weight. I sank to my knees just before the blackness took me and I toppled over onto my back into nothingness.