Fifty-one

 

Conner

 

I’m not in the garage more than five minutes before I hear the back door slam. I think it’s my dad coming out here to kick my ass for being such a prick. That’s alright. I deserve it.

I am a prick.

Shit, let’s be honest, I’m hoping he does come out here and kick my ass around the yard. Maybe it’ll knock some goddamned sense into me.

“You want to tell me what your fucking problem is?”

Nope.

Not my dad.

It’s my dickhead brother.

And he’s alone.

No Patrick to pull us apart when shit gets violent.

And this shit is going to get violent.

“Don’t have a problem,” I say, barely sparing him a glance while I pop the hood on my mom’s ’76 Bronco. “What’s yours?”

He doesn’t say anything, just stands over me and seethes while I check the radiator and transmission fluid.

“You want to be mad at me for whatever excuse you manage to pull out of your ass today? Fine,” he finally says, his tone tight. Controlled. “But don’t take that shit out on Henley because it has nothing to do with her.”

Seriously?

Is this fucker kidding right now?

I slam the hood shut and nail him with a hard glare. “Are you for real?” I skirt the front of the car and don’t stop until I’m in his face. “It’s got everything to do with her. Who the fuck do you think you’re fooling? You don’t give a shit about Henley or how she feels. You brought her here to mess with me. To mess with us.”

“And why would I do that, exactly?” he says, trying his best to sound confused but he’s not. He knows what I’m talking about. He understands. And he knows I’m right.

“Because it’s what you do. What you’ve always done. You’re a prick, Declan,” I say, spelling it out for him anyway. “A miserable, selfish prick, who for some reason I’ve never been able to understand, feels compelled to destroy and infect everything and everyone he comes in contact with, like a goddamned disease.”

“I thought you’d be happy to see her,” he says, shaking his head, brow pulled low, eyes narrowed. “I asked Henley to dinner to—”

“To fuck with me.” I spit the words at him, not buying his bullshit. “Because it’s what you do.” I drill a finger into his chest hard enough to rock him back on his heels. “You fuck with me—you can’t help yourself. Half of me thinks you went after Tess because you knew how important she was to me and you couldn’t help yourself. You fucked her and then fucked her over because like I said…” I’m no one’s idea of a runt, but Declan’s still a half a head taller and nearly twice as wide. Right now, I give zero fucks. This is going to end bloody, one way or the other. “You’re a goddamned disease.”

I think that’s going to do the trick. I think it’s enough to get him to take a swing at me, but it isn’t. Instead of taking a swing, Declan takes a step back. “You’re right.” He nods his head, swallowing hard. “About all of it—you’re right,” he says, taking a step back. “I’ve done a lot of bad shit, and I’ve hurt a lot of people, but I’m trying to make up for it. I’m trying to make it right.”

“How?” I shake my head at him. “How the fuck were you going to do that?” I take a step toward him, closing the gap he put between us, trying like hell to hold on to the rage that’s slipping through my fingers. “By bringing Henley here so you can jerk us around, just like the good ol’ days?”

“No, that’s not…” he takes a step back, hands open, palms up. “I thought you’d be happy to see her, that’s it. I just want you to be happy, Con.” He knows what I want. He knows what I’m pushing for and wants it clear he’s not interested in a fight. “I know you haven’t been. Not for a long time and I know you blame—”

Fuck this.

I swing on him, lunging forward to extend my reach, crashing my fist into his face, sending him sprawling in the muddy grass behind him. “Let’s go, fuckstick,” I say, standing over where he’s laid out, glaring up at me. “I don’t have all day.”

He scrambles to his feet, charging me with a roar. I don’t even try to move, I just stand there and take it, the force of the tackle lifting me off my feet for a second before slamming me into the front fender of his truck, knocking the wind out of me. I clip him in the jaw with a fist before landing another one on his ear. He roars again, hands fisted in the front of my coveralls and pivots, trying to toss and flip me onto my back but I have a leg locked around the back of his knee and a hand on his throat, so all he manages to do is send us both tumbling into the mud at the edge of the yard.

He lands on top, popping his torso up to punch me in the jaw before I manage to work my arms and hands loose to block it. I finally get free, lifting my top half off the ground to swing wide into his kidney. I’m about to follow it up with another one when I get a face full of freezing cold water. Through the blur, I see my mom standing a few feet away, the garden hose in her hand on full blast.

On top of me, Declan starts sputtering and slapping at the torrent of water hitting us both. I shove him off, and we both lay there, side by side, wet and bleeding, covered in mud. I stare up at the sky, chest heaving. Jaw aching. Knuckles bleeding. I wasn’t done. Not by half.

In the distance, I catch the distinctive purr of Patrick’s Audi being started. A few seconds later, I hear it pull away from the curb, the engine’s sound fading as it drives away.

Before I can ask where he’s going, my mom throws the hose into the yard and shuts off the spigot. “Patrick took Henley home. Dinner is canceled. Get off my lawn.”