“You can’t be real,” I whisper, my hands shaking. I glance over to Mary, needing her more than ever right now, but she’s still unconscious. “You died.”
“Yeah, that’s a long story,” Mercy says. “He’s been an FBI agent for a while now. He’s been undercover for Mary’s father.”
There are so many questions.
“Who is Mason?” Slingshot asks, popping a skittle in his mouth. Everyone turns to him and stares from his poorly timed question. “What? What’d I say? Oh, please. As if no one else is curious?”
“Mason was my foster brother. I watched him die when I was fifteen, after he killed three guys that constantly bullied me. That’s how I know this is wrong.” I point to the man calling himself Mason, then to Mercy. “You have it wrong. This man no longer exists. And if he was safe, why is he zip-tied?”
“That’s Zip-tie’s doing,” Mercy says. “No one trusts anyone.” He snatches my ninja star from my hand and sliced the thick plastic, so the stranger’s hands are free. The guy that says he is Mason.
“I need to go. I need to clear my head.”
“Thomas—”
I silence Mason with a quick punch to the jaw, then another, and once he is off-balance, I slip a star into my hand from my cut pocket—the one I made out of the knives I found on the road all those years ago—and throw it as hard as I possibly can through the air. I’ve never thrown a star so hard in my life, but I’m so fucking mad.
So fucking hurt.
The star veers to the right, away from harming his heart, which is too fucking bad. It lodges deep into the muscle of his shoulder. Mason stumbles back and holds his hand to the wound. Blood is spilling, but he’ll live.
“I deserve that,” he says, as if we haven’t gone years without talking. As if I haven’t gone every day without mourning my brother. As if I didn’t visit his grave every single fucking day and wish like hell I had been in his place instead.
“You deserve that?” I ask, taking a step toward him, then back, because I don’t want to be anywhere near him right now. I still don’t believe it’s really him. “This is a fucking joke, right? You expect me to believe my dead brother has worked for the FBI all these years? What… he faked his death and wasn’t allowed to tell anyone? And then, boom, coincidence, he works for my ol’ lady’s father? Get the fuck out of here.”
“It’s all true. Every last bit of it,” Mercy says. “It’s a long story about how we found him, but—”
“—There are no buts,” my throat burns as I yell. “And I don’t give a fucking shit. You’ve been dead to me twenty years. You can be dead for another twenty.” I stalk forward and yank the star from his shoulder and start to walk out the door, then pause. I turn back to Mercy. “How long have you known? Have you known the entire time?”
“No, just recently. When I got put on the case, they gave me the file,” he says. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but Mason is our best lead to bring down her father.”
“No, Seer is.”
“We checked all the hotels with the letter M, and he wasn’t there Knives. Mason might be our best bet,” Reaper acknowledges.
“I would rather die than ever ask for his help. A person that would lie to his brother about being alive… all this time, knowing he was all I had, and still chose to leave me alone?” I lock stares with him, and Mason steps forward, holding his hand to his shoulder.
I hold up my hand and shake my head. “Don’t. Nothing you say will ever make me forgive you. Any information you have for Mary and about her father, tell Reaper. They will update me. I don’t want to hear a thing from you. And fuck you, Mercy,” I add for the hell of it.
Fucking, fuck everyone.
“Doc, call me when she wakes up, and I’ll come right back. I need to clear my head. I don’t want her to think I left her. I’d never leave anyone I care about. I’ll always be back.” I run out the front door, ashamed to admit that not only am I angry, but I have tears in my eyes. I am feeling a hundred emotions.
A part of me is happy that he is alive. Holy shit, my brother is alive, but a part of me feels stupid. I feel like that little boy again who knew nothing about the world, and I hate it. I have worked my ass off to not be that boy, yet here I am. Once again, Mason is showing up to be the knight in fucking shining armor, and I’m left to watch him save the day from a distance.
I pause at where I usually park my bike to see the spot empty. I’m confused for a second, wondering where the hell my bike went, only to remember it’s burnt to a crisp on the side of the road, so I can’t go for a ride.
“Sonofabitch!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I don’t need to ride like this anyway. Riding angry is never a good thing; that’s how accidents happen. You become more careless and not as aware of your surroundings. I need to be here for Mary when she wakes up anyway.
“Everything okay, Knives?” Braveheart pops his head from the security shed where he controls the gate.
“Does it sound like everything is okay, Braveheart?” I snap at the kid, feeling bad. None of this is his fault. I rub a hand over my face, trying to get my bearings. “I’m sorry, Braveheart. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s okay,” he says, his large Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps. He is wearing his glasses today, which reminds me of when he first started to prospect for the club. He usually wears contacts these days, so seeing him wearing the black frames makes me remember a doofy kid who had no idea what his strengths were.
He is a lot like Skirt, more of a scrapper than a professional fighter, but holy hell, Braveheart has the heart of a lion. It surprises me because he is tall and lean, a bit awkward too.
“Well, if you ever want to talk…” He lets the words hang out as bait, and I wonder if I should take him up on it. I’m still riled up from the tension in the clubhouse. It might be good to talk to someone who isn’t pissed off either. “I have hooch,” he says, holding out a bottle of whiskey.
“You dog. What the hell are you doing with that?” Warmth firing down my throat is just what I need.
“We can’t have any near Patrick, which is fine, but out here, I get bored and cold. Whiskey helps.”
“You know you don’t have to stay out here, right? Please, tell me someone told you that.”
“Um…” he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and twists the cap off the whiskey. He gulps it down and coughs from the spice of the whiskey. “No…” he admits, and his blatant oblivion has me tossing my head back and laughing. Oh my god, the poor bastard.
I take the whiskey from him and shake the bottle at him before sighing and take a swallow. “I needed that. Braveheart, man, you don’t have to protect the gate at all times.”
“Yes, I do. Too much shit has happened. Too many people have hurt us. I’m here. Night and day. I watch the road. I watch the gate. I don’t want anyone to hurt my family again.”
He feels guilty. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t have to. I see it in his profile as he stares down the road. Braveheart’s jaw is tight, and he stuffs his hands in his jacket pocket. It’s cold out here, lonely, and he feels obligated to protect us.