CHAPTER SIX

The band sang of eyes of the bluest skies, jarring her awake.

Her ring tone. Guns N’ Roses.

Bleary-eyed and still groggy, she fumbled for her phone on the nightstand.

Squinting, she spied the edge of the red number on her clock radio—eight-thirty in the morning.

On a Sunday.

Crap.

It was too early for anyone to be calling with good news.

An all too-familiar burst of panic blasted through her when she saw “unknown number” on the screen. When Sam had called from his many stints in rehab, the number had always shown up as unknown. Likewise, the times he’d rung her up while out partying, plastered and begging her to take him back, he would block his number.

Logically¸ Elle knew that Sam wasn’t calling her from the grave. But a rabid fear pulsed through her nonetheless. She swiped her finger across the screen, sitting up in bed and doing her best to clear the sound of sleep from her voice in case it was a client or one of the kids she counseled at the center. They all had her number. It was on the website for the center, along with her bio about how much she enjoyed being involved in helping the kids in the community.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Marcus.”

“Hey there. What’s going on?” Marcus was one of the boys who played hoops at the center from time to time. “Are you trying to get into the center on a Sunday? We don’t open until ten. One of the volunteers should be there then.”

“No, actually. I’m not,” he said, speaking tentatively, the vocal equivalent of shuffling his feet. “I’m sorry to bug you so early. I’ve been thinking about what we’ve been talking about, and I’m finally ready to do something.”

“Okay. Tell me more.” She knew a little bit of his story. He hadn’t told her many specifics but he had started coming around the center a few months ago, when he’d graduated from high school and moved out of his family’s house. Lately he’d been opening up to her. He’d been raised by his father and a stepmother; his biological mother was out of the picture. She didn’t know much more than that, but his biological mother had other children, older siblings he wanted to connect with.

He cleared his throat and seemed to be drawing up his courage. “I just feel like I spent my whole life not knowing anything about my family and where I came from, and now I do. And my dad didn’t want me to find them, but they’re here in Vegas, and I’m not living at home anymore. So this is my choice. I need to do this.”

She tossed back the covers and headed to her closet as she chatted with him. “Then you should do it. Something is compelling you to connect with them, and you need to listen. Family is a powerful pull and a potent bond, and you’ve never had a chance to get to know them,” she said as she pulled on jeans, crooking her head against the phone as she zipped them up.

“But what if they don’t want to meet me?” he asked in a flurry, as if he had to spill out all the words in order to say them. She heard the tumultuousness in his voice. One moment he was courageous, the next he was hampered by fear. She wished she could cheer him on in person on this mission.

“Look, Marcus. I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you. They might have zero interest in getting to know you. They might not care. They might be so busy with their lives that they could give a rat’s butt. But this is in you,” she said, feeling a bit like a football coach giving a half-time speech. “You are trying to take a big step, wanting to connect with siblings you’ve never known, and that is bold.”

There was something quite soap opera-esque about his quest. The long-lost half brother…appearing out of nowhere…showing up on the doorstep of older brothers. But as soapy as it seemed on the surface, Elle had seen enough of the drama and danger in the world to know these scenarios were far more frequent than anyone would think.

“My dad once mentioned that one of them was closest to my mom, so I think I’ll start with him. Plus, he has a dog, so he’s out and about a lot in his neighborhood.”

Her antenna went up. “How do you know that?”

“Um.”

“Marcus, have you been following them around?” she asked sternly.

“Maybe,” he muttered.

“That’s not a good idea. It can freak people out. You need to be direct. If you want to meet them you need to man up and go over there. Don’t follow people. It’s creepy. Makes them think you’re dangerous. You’re not, are you?” she said, like a teacher doling out tough love. Some days she had to play that role with the boys and girls at the center. But hell, that was why she went into counseling and social work—for the chance to make a difference with young people who needed it most. Some of the kids who hung out at her center had been teetering on the edge: living in poverty, raised by drug-addicted parents, born to fathers or mothers in jail, or plain damn neglectful ones.

And gangs. Lord knew some of these kids had been tempted. Street gangs, like the Royal Sinners, preyed upon the young and the vulnerable, promising them riches through crime. She hated that gang; hated the way they tempted the kids; hated the way they ruined lives.

“I’m not dangerous. I swear. I’m just…” He stopped speaking, letting his voice trail off.

“You’re scared,” she supplied, speaking softly.

“Yes,” he said in the barest voice.

“Remember what we talked about?”

“Rise above,” he said, echoing Elle’s mantra, which she tried to instill in the kids.

“Yes. Rise above. You can be so much. If your goal is to meet the family you’ve never known, I’m behind you. But you have to stop stalking them. Do not let fear guide you. Rise above it.”

“Okay. I’m going to do it. I’m going to head over to this guy’s home,” he said, his voice stronger and more confident now.

She beamed as she wandered to the kitchen and grabbed a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Let me know how it goes. I want a full report,” she said, then ended the call and began cracking eggs and cooking breakfast for her son, who padded out from his bedroom a few minutes later.

“Hi, Mom.”

Her heart went warm all over. Her brain was flooded with pure happiness.

Hi, Mom.

The simplest thing in the world but it was music to her ears.

* * *

Colin scratched his head as he surveyed the six-packs in the beer section at the local Safeway near his brother Ryan’s home. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in eight years, and he honestly wasn’t sure what anybody drank when it came to beer in the first place. But Shannon had told him to grab some brew for their brother Ryan, since he was in some kind of a bad funk, and Ryan was a beer man. If Shannon had asked him to grab tequila, Colin would have been in and out of the liquor store in ten seconds with a beautiful bottle of Patrón—that was like liquid diamonds. Colin could have written a dissertation on the stuff. For many years, tequila was his best friend, his most reliable companion, his steady mate.

Hell, he and tequila had been deeply in love. You never forget your first love, even if you sample others along the way. Colin had started hitting the liquor bottle right after his father was killed when he was thirteen. He’d only flirted with it then—he had friends with older brothers, absent parents, and keys to the liquor cabinet. That was what being buddies with the Royal Sinners did for you. Gave you access to all sorts of shit. Better stuff than alcohol, too. His best friend at the time was Paul Nelson, and Paul’s older brother T.J. introduced the both of them to magic pills, because liquor was too risky for a teenager to pull off—the smell on your breath, the bottles in the trash…

But painkillers? They were the golden path to gliding through high school without your brothers, sister, or grandma knowing what you were up to. Colin had needed to numb the pain of missing his dad, hating his mom, and wishing his life hadn’t taken that turn into pure hell. Oxy was far easier to hide than booze. Stash it in a sock. Stuff it into the bottom of your gym bag. Hide some in a Ziploc in the toe of your shoe. Nobody looked there. No one suspected. Pop a few of those bad boys in the morning and cruise through trigonometry, European history, English lit.

Getting straight As did wonders to hide the problem and kept his family from discovering all the help he got from his little friends.

College was a dream—he didn’t have to worry anymore about his family finding out, so he could party all night, mix pills with tequila, and slam some Adderall the next day to speed up his brain in class. Worked like a charm. He grand-slammed his way through college, acing all his economics and business management classes while high, buzzed, or on speed.

Nothing could stop him.

Nothing except collapsing during the triathlon he’d competed in at twenty-three, dehydrated from spending too much time with Señor Patrón the night before. He’d trained hard for it, too. The Badass Triathlon was not just the standard swim, bike, and run—it also included a rock climb. After you scaled the rock wall, you turned around and did the first three legs in reverse.

It had been hard as fuck. Exhausting as hell. Only for the hardcore athletes, and Colin, a cocky bastard then, was sure he could finish well even hung over.

Nope.

He’d fallen as he climbed, and had he not partied too hard the night before, he’d have fallen correctly, sustaining only a few lacerations.

Instead he landed all wrong, injured his tibia, and passed out in Red Rock Canyon.

Emergency room.

Grandmother called in.

Brothers and sister told.

Job nearly lost.

Rock bottom.

There had been moments in those early days when he’d have given his left arm for another glass and his right for a handful of pills. Now, with eight years clean—no slips, no relapses, no just one drinks—he felt steady and calm. He’d made it through the hell of withdrawal, he’d had the support of friends and family in getting sober, and he relied on a solid network of like-minded men in his recovery support group. Every day, he aimed to live according to a new way of thinking—a sober way—and he honestly wasn’t tempted anymore when he walked past tequila on the shelf, or saw a glass being served at a bar.

But beer? That shit was nasty. He didn’t have a clue what anyone liked, so he grabbed some Corona and headed to the self-checkout. As he slipped his debit card through the register, a flurry of nerves skated up his spine. What if his sponsor Kevin saw him? Sure, he had an ironclad reason to be buying, but shit, he would sound like such a liar.

“Oh, it’s for my brother.”

That was the kind of stuff addicts said when they were falling off the wagon. Nobody lied better than an alcoholic ready to sidle up to the bottle again. Colin took solace in the truth, though. He wasn’t going to touch this stuff. That was why Shannon had asked him to stop by the store. She knew he could handle it. Hell, he was damn proud of himself for proving to his family that every day he was recovering.

And to himself, too. He intended to do that by competing in this year’s Badass Triathlon at the end of the summer. He hadn’t attempted it since his epic fail. But it was his personal quest to finish it this time. Whether he came in first or last didn’t matter. Finishing sober was all he wanted.

Colin paid for the beer and headed out of the store, ready to see Ryan. His brother had had a hell of a day. He’d spent it at Hawthorne, visiting their murderess mother in prison. Apparently she’d finally confessed to him that she’d had their father killed. Colin had never doubted she was guilty, but Ryan had held out hope she’d been framed, and that with the case reopened someone else would be nabbed. True, the detectives were still looking for the gunman’s potential accomplices, but for once and for all, Ryan was as sure of their mother’s guilt as the rest of them were. Now it was Colin’s job, along with Shannon and Michael, to lend some support to their brother.

As he got behind the wheel of his Audi, something nagged at him. Something he’d meant to do last night after he said good-bye to Elle. He snapped his fingers.

“The picture,” he said. The hot sex must have fried his brain. He’d forgotten to text her the image of the kid in the Buick who’d been stalking Shannon—Colin was sure he’d seen the guy around the community center playing basketball. He hunted for it now. But as he scrolled through his photo gallery to fire the picture off to Elle, all his recent images were gone. Right, he’d reset everything on his phone the other day after testing a new fitness app that downloaded a virus. Needless to say, his venture firm wasn’t going to fund that app.

He’d simply get the image from Brent another time. Now, he needed to be with his family.

And later this week, he had a date with Elle.

Well, it was hardly a date.

More like a plan to fuck.

But that was okay. He loved fucking her, and if fucking her was the way to win the heart that he wanted badly, he’d be up to the challenge.

* * *

“No one was there.” Marcus blew out a long stream of air.

“So you try again another time,” Elle said, trying to cheer him up as she untied her roller skates while chatting with Marcus on the phone.

“I guess so,” he said, his voice trailing off.

“Look, just because he wasn’t there this morning doesn’t mean he won’t be the next time. Besides, who’s at their house anymore these days?” she said with a laugh. She’d just finished her workout at the rink, and over at the arcade, Alex hammered the joystick in what looked like a furious game of Frogger. “It’ll probably take a few tries before you find them.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he answered, sounding a touch more hopeful.

She smiled as she tugged off her skates, glad that her words were giving Marcus some kind of courage. “So just go again until you do it. Life is all about risks, right?”

“Risks,” he said, as if he were letting the word marinate. “Right. Risks.”

As she finished the call, she dropped her skates into her bag then joined her son for a round of Frogger, soundly schooling him in the arcade game she’d aced at this very rink back in high school. “It is so much easier to crush you in games at the roller rink than on the Xbox,” Elle said, pumping a fist in victory when her frog successfully evaded more cars, trucks, and traffic than her son’s.

“As if your retro games even count,” he said with a smirk.

“Hey! I didn’t see you complaining about my retro games during practice. You were glued to the screen.”

He shrugged. “I pretended to like it.”

She answered him with a noogie. “What do you say to you, me, fries, and a shake?”

“Mix in a burger and you’re on, T,” he said, calling her by her roller derby name. Only the “T” stood for more than just her alias – it was her word to live by.

“It’s a deal.”