Blood Ties (Part 3)

[chazper]

Look at that: I was determined to post a fic update of something before the end of the month, and I made it with three hours to spare.

That's right: It's all about the timing, not the quality.

For those of you who don't remember (and I'd be amazed if any of you did) this story based on the following sentence: Papa Atwood is getting out of prison and he wants Trey and Ryan to pick him up.

Disclaimer: Josh owns them all. And since he decided to finally give Papa Atwood a name, he's now Frank in this story too. I'm all about respecting canon--except when I'm not, which is why this Frank Atwood bears little resemblance to the season 4 version.

By the way, this was supposed to be the final chapter, but now it's the 3rd of 4. What can I say? I'm addicted to Atwood backstory.

Blood Ties 3



Trey strode back from the convenience store, alternately swigging a Budweiser and then knuckling his mouth dry. He paused for a moment, eyes slit against the glare of the sun, before he swung himself back into the car.

“Sure you don’t want anything, Ry? Last chance to fuel up before we meet dear old dad.”

Ryan chewed his lower lip. It was chapped, etched with lines of white skin, and his tongue seemed to snag on it when he replied. “Nah,” he lied. “I’m good.”

Trey shrugged. “If you say so.”

In one long, grateful gulp, he drained the last of his beer. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he lobbed the can out the window. It skidded off the lip of the trashcan and smashed into the concrete below. The sound, sharp and final as a broken promise, made them both flinch.

“Shit,” Trey muttered around a rusty laugh. “Gotta work on my j, I guess. Used to be able to make those shots.” He turned, as if to share the joke, but Ryan didn’t reply, didn’t stir, didn’t even appear to be listening. Trey’s expression darkened, smudged with disappointment. “Course,” he added caustically, “I used to be able to do lots of things.”

Ryan stiffened. He glanced over, startled, as an immediate echo permeated the car: his brother’s bitter complaint, only an hour earlier-“We used to be able to talk”-and his own distant, lonely reply, “We used to be able to do a lot of things.”

His eyes smoldered with accusation.

As though scalded by that silent reproach, Trey flushed. His cheeks burned a slow, dull red that Ryan remembered from their childhood. It was his brother’s last little-boy reflex, an involuntary admission that he had been caught in some minor misdeed, cutting school or stealing Dawn’s smokes, or forging her signature on a report card.

The color was half defense, half shame, wholly revealing. As they grew older, as his crimes became more frequent, more brazen and practiced, Trey learned to master it. Eventually his face set in shades of constant defiance, and he gave nothing away except his anger.

Until now.

That stain resurfacing on his brother’s skin told Ryan that Trey heard the refrain too:

“We used to be able to do a lot of things.”

And there they were again, survivors of an inferno, still picking through the ashes of their relationship for memories that weren’t charred, words that didn’t sting, something-anything-that they could still recognize and touch without pain.

There had been those few moments, though, by the side of the road. Ryan blinked hard, remembering.

Trey had helped him from the car. Brought him a tepid Sprite. Kept one calloused hand, firm and familiar, around his shoulders until Ryan was sitting safely against the tree.

They had even talked. Not much, but a little.

They had changed the blown-out tire together. Working in rhythm.

The way they used to do.

“You never had a j,” Ryan blurted suddenly.

Trey’s head snapped up in surprise. “What?”

“You could do that fancy behind-the-back dribble, but you never had any jump shot at all.”

A shaft of sunlight illuminated Trey’s face, and his lips twitched up before tipping into a transparent scowl. “That is a goddamn lie, little brother! Just because you beat me in one lousy game of horse--”

“Ten,” Ryan corrected. “Ten in a row.” Ducking his head, he sketched a complacent shrug. “Would have been more, except you quit playing.”

Trey jiggled his elbow almost, but not quite, letting it bump Ryan’s arm. “Hey,” he protested, “I was letting you win! You wanted to impress Theresa, but you were such a pathetic little runt that I figured you needed all the help you could get.”

A gust of warm air blew through Ryan’s open window, redolent of salt, grease, and the smell of baked earth. It reminded him of Chino when that place had been all he knew of home and Trey had been all he knew of family. He glanced sideways at the driver’s seat, allowing himself the faintest of smiles.

His brother caught it like a pass on the basketball court. Instantly Trey relaxed, slouching in his seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel. He smothered his grin beneath a practiced growl. “I took pity on your sorry ass, Ry.”

“Right,” Ryan scoffed. “Only Theresa had to leave for church after the second game. And you?” He shook his head, sighing wryly. “Still had no j.”

“Yeah, well, only because I couldn’t follow through, bro! It woulda been different if my stupid shoulder hadn’t been fucked up that day. Goddamn security guard--”

Trey stopped. Just like that, his brittle smile imploded.

Ryan flinched in response. “Yeah,” he murmured, fisting his hands deep in his pockets. “I remember.”

“What’s wrong with your shoulder, Trey?”

He had been ten, alone in the stuffy house when Trey had come storming in late one afternoon. His face had been pinched and he had flung his backpack to the floor, yelping in pain as the strap yanked over his head.

Ryan’s breath quickened, the same way it had done that day, and he swallowed the familiar taste of fear. He didn’t want this--another memory wrenching him into his past.

Now was really all that he could bear.

Still, in his mind, he heard himself ask again, “Trey? What happened? What’s wrong?” and the whole scene played out, insistent and vivid.

Eyes glazed with worry, he watched his brother struggle out of his t-shirt. Trey hissed as he eased the fabric off his body. When he peeled the cloth away and sank down on the couch, Ryan saw mottled fingerprints around his brother’s bicep. A large bruise extended upwards, scoring the flesh with streaks of ominous yellow-black.

“Trey?” The word skidded, slick with anxiety.

“It’s nothin’.”

“But--”

“Shit, Ry! What are you, deaf? I said it’s nothin’!”

Ryan recoiled. For a moment, he hesitated, scanning the room for some signal, his fingers clenching in time with his erratic pulse. Then he darted to the kitchen. He returned clutching a plastic bag of ice cubes. Placing it precisely over the angry bruise, he asked, “Was it him, Trey? Did he do this to you?”

His voice was wary, almost a whisper.

‘He,’ was a code word. It meant only one thing: Dawn’s boyfriend of the day.

Most of the time, Ryan and Trey didn’t bother with their names. What was the point? The men were there and then gone. Besides, no matter what they looked like, in every way that mattered they were the same, all of them large and loud and demanding, all filling the house with their looming presence, their smell, their fierce appetites.

All claiming ownership of everything inside.

All of them distorted images of Frank Atwood.

“Nah,” Trey growled. “It wasn’t him.”

Ryan waited. When his brother said nothing more, he backed up, tense. “Who then?” he demanded.

“It fucking doesn’t matter.” Trey darted a glance upwards. Ryan’s gaze blazed a fierce blue in reply. “Let it go, LB,” he sighed. “Shit, it’s not like you can do anything about it.”

“Yes, I can.” Ryan’s tone tightened, unyielding as his fists. “I’m not a little kid, Trey! I’m your brother!”

With a stifled groan, Trey rolled over to face him. As he did, Ryan stood taller. His spine stiffened, and the baby curves of his cheeks flattened into hard planes.

“Damn,” Trey drawled with reluctant admiration. “You really are growin’ up, aren’t you, Atwood?”

Ryan lifted his chin. “Yeah,” he said. “I am. So tell me.”

“Hell, bro. I appreciate you havin’ my back, but this . . .” Wincing, Trey shook his head. “It was the asshole security guards at school, all right? I should fuckin’ sue them, but it’s not like we’ll ever be able to afford a lawyer. Or like anybody would give a damn anyway.”

That was true, Ryan knew. It must be true. Trey had told him so often enough.

No matter what happened to them, nobody else would ever really care.

“What did you--what did they do?” he asked.

Trey’s eyes narrowed. “Damn it, LB! It’s not always my fault!”

“I didn’t mean . . .” Ryan began. He wavered, unable to finish the lie. “Just tell me, all right?”

For a moment, Trey simply stared at him, his gaze flinty and gray. Then he blew out a long breath and jerked his head toward his battered backpack. With instant understanding, Ryan dug through a jumble of paper and pulled out a wadded baggie. Wordlessly, he rolled a neat, practiced joint.

His eyes blinked a mute apology as he handed it to his brother.

Only after he had sucked in three languid drags did Trey bother to respond.

“I’m failin’ a few classes,” he explained carelessly. Peering over Ryan’s head, he expelled a ragged stream of smoke. “Okay, maybe more than a few. What the fuck ever. So the guidance counselor, Mr. Asshat, he calls me into his office for a pep talk. He gives me all the usual crap about how I’ve got to apply myself, work for the future, not throw away all my chances. Whatever the hell those are supposed to be. You know, ‘You’ve got to have a dream, Atwood’-like anybody is stupid enough to believe that hallway poster shit.”

A slow, shamed flush crept across Ryan’s cheeks, bright as the words surrounding his classroom door.

‘If you can dream it, you can do it!’

‘Aim for the moon! Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars!’

‘You have a CHANCE as long as you make the right CHOICE!’

He didn’t believe them either, not really, all those smug mottos emblazoned across rockets or stars or finish lines or rainbows.

Only sometimes, still, Ryan couldn’t help hoping . . .

Embarrassed, he dipped his head. Hiding his telltale eyes behind his lashes, he focused on the frayed ends of his shoelaces. One of them was loose, he noticed, ready to slip out of its lopsided bow. He wanted to retie it, but he didn’t dare move.

“And then.” Trey inhaled again. His expression clouded, hazy as the smoke that he reluctantly released. Everything tightened: his voice, his fingers around the slim cylinder, the grim line of his mouth, the rigid set of his jaw. “Then the prick starts talkin’ about dad.”

Ryan sucked in a harsh breath.

Dad.

Of course. Of course he would be involved.

It didn’t seem to matter how many miles separated Frank Atwood from his sons. There was always a line, like a charged filament, sizzling invisibly across the distance.

Somehow, every hurt connected to their father.

Ryan dropped onto the couch and scooted one hand close to his brother’s knee. With the other, he picked a stray piece of stale popcorn off the coffee table. Unconsciously, he crushed it between his fingers, letting the crumbs dribble into an ashtray. He didn’t even check to see where they landed.

Beside him, Trey continued, oblivious.

“He goes on and on about how I should learn from my father’s rotten example, how even though he screwed up his life, I don’t have to do the same thing. I don’t have to wind up a loser like him--” With a strangled snarl, Trey hurled his icepack to the floor. “That asshole called our dad a loser, LB!”

Ryan’s thumb pressed remorselessly into the ashtray, grinding the greasy crumbs into dust. “Did you hit him, Trey?”

It wasn’t even a question.

“Shit, Ry! What was I supposed to do? Okay, yeah, I know he’s a fuck-up, but hell, he’s our father, right? Right? He’s still our dad. Nobody gets to talk shit about him!”

Ryan scrubbed his fingertips on his jeans. When he pulled them away, a faint oily smear marred the faded denim. “You do,” he said quietly. “You talk shit about dad all the time.”

For a moment, Trey’s eyes glinted, sharp and metallic. Then he sighed, shook his head, and held out the joint. Ryan accepted it diffidently. He hesitated, his fingers clamped around the slick paper, his eyes locked on the damp, mouth- pinched end.

“Go ahead.” A challenge underscored the curt words. “You’re wastin’ it, Ry. What the hell are you waiting for?”

Ryan ducked his head. Eyes veiled warily, he inhaled, swirling the sweet-acrid smoke with his tongue, releasing it on a long, empty breath. He could hear Trey’s voice, distant and weary.

“It’s different with family, LB. You gotta know that by now. No matter how fucked up they are--shit, no matter how much they fuck you over--you can never turn your back on blood.”

Something stung, and Ryan pulled his hands out of his pockets. He opened them slowly, staring bemused at the small, angry crescents his nails had imprinted across his palms. They throbbed, first white and then red.

“We should have had a rematch.”

Startled, Ryan blinked and closed his fists again. “What?”

“After my shoulder healed.” Trey shrugged, trying to recover their lost amity. “We shoulda played again.”

“We couldn’t,” Ryan replied tonelessly. “You left. Before Mom could find out you got expelled. Remember? You just took off.”

Trey’s jaw moved. “Ry--” He ground to a stop, and the faint belligerence in his tone seeped away. “Okay, yeah, you’re right,” he admitted. “I did.” Grimacing, he shifted in his seat. His foot inadvertently pumped the gas pedal and the car jerked forward. It almost hit the minivan just ahead before Trey managed to veer into the next lane. “Shit!” he snapped. He gritted his teeth for a moment and then repeated more quietly, “Shit, Ry. I know I shouldn’t have left you like that, but it was just for a while, until Mom cooled off. Her and that asshole she was with back then. But hey, I came back. I just . . . Look, I know I cut out a lot, but I always came back for you, right? Didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Ryan admitted, staring straight ahead. “I guess you did, Trey.”

The brothers lapsed into silence. On the dashboard, a digital display ticked off the minutes, the miles, time and space stretching between and behind them, in figures as red as blood.

Trey lit a cigarette, his fingers fumbling slightly, as the light changed and he braked to a stop. He coughed, clearing a path through the dense quiet, before he spoke. “So, listen, Ry, I’ve been thinking. You suppose Dad found God or something while he’s been in the joint? Cause damned if I can figure out why he wants to see us after the shitload of nothing we got from him all these years. No letters, no phone calls, not even a lousy birthday card.”

There was no answer for that. It was true.

Those first months, with Dawn in a stupor of sodden self-pity, they had waited expectantly. Of course, Trey had feigned indifference and belittled Ryan’s naïve confidence.

Shit, LB, he had scoffed, you still believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy too? Dad’s gone for good this time. He’s not gonna call. Who the hell wants to talk to him anyway?

Still, he had rifled through the mail every day and scrambled to grab the phone each time it rang.

Despite his brother’s bravado, Ryan knew they had both made the same wish: for some sign that, wherever he was, Frank Atwood remembered that he had sons.

Remembered, and maybe even missed them.

Maybe hoped to return someday and be a real dad.

Only no sign ever came.

Gradually their flimsy hope splintered, whittled away by time, disappointment, and, finally, impotent anger.

It began to feel as if they had never had a father.

Ryan shook his head, shoving away the old hurt. “He wants something, that’s all,” he predicted. Unconsciously, he touched the phone in his pocket, like a talisman. “That’s when Atwoods show up, right? When they want something?”

They.

He didn’t mean to say “they.” He meant “we.” After all, he was an Atwood too.

Ryan mouthed a correction, but it was too late. There was no way to reclaim the word. Ashamed, his eyes flickered over to Trey and then back down to his lap.

He couldn’t tell if his brother had heard or, if he had, if he even cared anymore.

What was one more betrayal when they could already count so many between them?

“Yeah,” Trey conceded flatly. “I guess that’s true, pretty much . . .” He flicked a dead fly off the dashboard, his mouth twisting as he watched it fall. “Look, Ry, I know nothing’s right between us. Hell, I don’t know how it can ever be right again. But whatever goes down with dad, whatever he wants--” Trey’s jaw worked. He paused and then spat out a turbulent rush of words. “It’s you and me, okay? Like--” The light changed and abruptly, almost violently, he pulled back into traffic. “Like we were before.”

Before, Ryan thought.

Before what exactly?

Before their father went to jail?

Before Dawn traded her sons for a bottle and a dangerous parade of transient boyfriends?

Before Trey, bitter and bereft of hope, became someone Ryan didn’t recognize, just one more Atwood who hurt people he loved?

Before Ryan himself changed so drastically?

He didn’t even know how it had happened, but at some point, Ryan admitted, he had just stopped: stopped trying to remember the rare good times, stopped imagining reunions and redemption, stopped trusting anyone who had once been his family.

With a start, he realized that Trey was still speaking. It took Ryan a moment to decode the low, intense words.

“I mean it, Ry. Swear to God.”

Without looking, Trey pulled another beer from the six-pack on the floor, wedged it between his knees and popped the top open. Foam gurgled out of the opening, like surf breaking over rocks. “To the brotherhood!” he declared. Tipping the can, he gulped a mouthful, and, eyes still riveted on the road, extended the beer sideways. His tone was like old parchment, thin, nearly transparent, worn sepia-brown around the edges. “What do you say, Ry? We in this together?”

Trey’s question summoned another, distant but still urgent.

“What do you say, Trey? Can I? Please?”

Ryan gritted his teeth. Just like that, he could hear his own desolate entreaty, feel the scabbed surface of their bedroom door under his palms.

But why, he wondered. Why did everything today seem to hurtle him back through time? And why couldn’t he resist the pull of those memories?

Wordlessly, he snatched the beer from Trey. The bitter liquid didn’t quench his thirst, didn’t wash away his thoughts or the sick taste in his mouth, but he drank anyway.

“Come on, Trey,” his childish treble pleaded. “Let me in. I wanna join too.”

“Don’t be stupid, LB. Go play with your own friends. Anyway, you and me are brothers already.”

“But not the same way. Not special like you and Cody and Omar and Jamal.”

He peeked around his brother’s stolid body. Trey was blocking their door with one hip, but through the slit Ryan could see the boys inside. All long legs and cool nonchalance, they sprawled on the floor, passing a bottle from hand to hand. “To the brotherhood!” each of them crowed before they gulped a mouthful.

When the whiskey returned to Trey, he did the same thing, flourishing the bottle in the air like a flag on a battlefield.

Ryan clamped his teeth on his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“I want to be part of the brotherhood too,” he insisted.

Trey scowled. A familiar ‘No,’ had already formed in the pinch of his mouth when Omar abruptly called, “What the hell, Trey. If the kid wants to join, I say we let him.”

“Shit, man, he’s too young!” Jamal protested. “What is he, like four? I’m not in this to be no goddamn babysitter.”

“Six,” Ryan muttered. “I’m six. Almost”

“See? He’s almost six!” Omar laughed. “He can be like our mascot. Be good for a look-out too, maybe. Or you know, a decoy. We should let him join.”

“Yeah?” Trey chewed his cheek dubiously. He shifted his weight, and the door swung open just enough so that Ryan managed to squeeze inside.

“’Course,” Cody drawled from under the window. “We’re blood brothers here, Ry. Know what that means? We’ll have to cut you.” Casually, he flipped a switchblade open, holding up his own thumb in warning. It was smeared crimson, still oozing slow drops from a puncture wound. “You still wanna?”

Ryan blanched even as he nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. The word wavered, uncertain, and he rushed to shore it up. “Yeah, I do.”

Taking a deep breath, he extended his fist, thumb raised resolutely. Cody snickered. Then, shrugging, he grabbed Ryan’s wrist, squeezing it vice-tight. He was about to jab the blade down when Trey wrenched it away from him.

“Shit, C-Dog” he growled. “Gimme that. I’ll do it.”

Spinning them both around, Trey dropped onto the bed, one hand holding the grimy knife, the other hovering above Ryan’s shoulder. For a moment, he hesitated, assessing his brother’s pale face, the unblinking blue eyes that peered from beneath his tumbled bangs, the determined set of his chin.

Ryan sensed the question that Trey didn’t ask. There was a silent reminder in his brother’s gaze too: I’m givin’ you a chance here. Don’t embarrass me.

“Go ahead,” he said staunchly. “I’m ready.”

Trey blew out a breath that ruffled his own unkempt hair. Eyes unreadable and locked on Ryan’s, he swiped the tip of the blade across his jeans. Then, swiftly, he swung it down, piercing the flesh of the proffered thumb.

It didn’t hurt, Ryan told himself as he watched the blood well. It didn’t. Not really. Not as much as being shut out by a closed door, not as much as being dismissed as too soft or too young.

Definitely not as much as being ignored.

“What now?” he asked, only a little hoarsely.

In answer, Trey pinched his own thumb again, reopening the recent wound. He rubbed his blood roughly into Ryan’s. Then, taking his brother by the shoulders, he steered him around the circle so that Omar and Cody could do the same.

Jamal was slouched in the far corner of the room. When they reached him, the boy leaned back, arms crossed, his head cocked to one side. A malicious smirk played around his lips and his hands were tucked firmly under his elbows. Uncertain what to do, Ryan glanced up at Trey. His brother was glaring, a savage look he knew to mean, “Just do it, you fucker.” Jamal must have recognized the message too. With a resentful scowl, he grabbed Ryan’s thumb and mashed it violently against his own. Just before he let go, he pinched the skin, hard.

Ryan expected the gesture. He didn’t flinch.

“There,” Trey declared. “Now you’re blood brothers with all of us. Satisfied, LB?”

“I . . . guess,” Ryan replied.

He waited, sure that he should feel different. Older, maybe, or tougher or braver. At least, he hoped for a surge of belonging, some sense that he fit with Trey and his friends. Nothing changed, though. All he felt was the throbbing of his thumb and the shameful wish that he could suck the pain away. Swallowing hard, he managed a half-hearted smile. “What do blood brothers do?”

Omar shrugged. “Same things all brothers do. Look out for each other. Have each other’s backs.” Grinning, he hoisted the bottle of whiskey. It was damp, its neck smeared with faint traces of blood and sweat from its passage around the group. “Gonna drink to the brotherhood, Ry? Everybody else did.”

Instinctively, Ryan started to check with Trey. Then he stopped and made himself answer, “Sure.”

He had just touched the rim to his lips when the front door slammed.

“Trey?” their father’s voice yelled. “Ryan? Where the hell are you kids? Why isn’t the garbage out on the curb, huh? Didn’t I tell you to do that by the time I got home? I fucking gotta do everything here?”

“Shit,” Trey breathed. “He’s early.”

Instantly, as if the words were a signal, Omar and Jamal and Cody scrambled to their feet and climbed out the window. Trey started to follow. He was already straddling the ledge, ready to vault outside when he paused. “Come on, Ry!” he urged. “Don’t just stand there! Move!”

Ryan took one step. Then he froze again as his father bellowed, “You boys hear me? I’m sick of comin’ home to your shit!”

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall.

Trey gritted his teeth and slipped both legs outside. Over his shoulder he hissed one last frantic “Ry!” but the doorknob turned before Ryan could make himself move.

Shaking his head helplessly, Trey disappeared out the window. At the same moment, Frank strode into the room. Ryan swiveled around, quivering like a trapped animal. His fingers still clutched the forgotten whiskey.

“You didn’t hear me callin’ you, boy? I expect you to answer when--” Frank broke off. Sudden disbelief tightened his features, and his voice dropped, molten and ominous. “What the fuck, Ryan? Is that my booze? You little shit. You stealin’ my liquor now?”

Ryan’s eyes widened. He stared at his hand, wrapped traitorously around the bottle’s neck. “I . . .” he gulped. It was barely a fragment of sound broken by a desperate breath.

Dimly, through the fraught silence, he could hear a muffled scuff of feet on the driveway outside.

His blood brothers, waiting to hear if he would betray them.

Frank stepped closer to Ryan. Taking his time, he unlatched his belt and slid it from around his waist. It slithered, a trained snake in his hand, the metal prong flicking like a malevolent tongue.

“You wanna explain this to me, boy? You got ten seconds . . . Nine . . . Eight.”

The bottle slipped in Ryan’s sweaty grasp and he set it, very carefully, on the nightstand.

“Seven,” his father intoned, stony and cold. “Last chance, Ry. You got something you want to say to me?”

“No, sir,” Ryan whispered. “I mean . . . I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Frank’s mouth curled in disgust. “Damn right you won’t,” he snarled. “You think bein’ your mama’s baby means you can get away with shit like this? Shoulda known you’d turn out just like your damn brother. Grab your ankles, Ryan. Do it, boy! Now!”

The last word struck like a lash, and Ryan swallowed an involuntary whimper. Bending over, he buried his face against his knees, the way he had seen Trey do so many times before.

He willed himself to be quiet.

That was important, he knew-not making a sound.

Only, he wasn’t sure he could do it.

He didn’t know how.

His father had never hit him before. Not this way. There had been spontaneous smacks, a few cuffs behind his ear, some carelessly aimed swats. But nothing like this. Not a deliberate beating, one blow followed by another and another, hurting and hurting and hurting some more.

His skin tingled, anticipating the pain. All around him, the bedroom throbbed with silence, ready to be shattered by the crack of leather against flesh.

Only first, Ryan knew, there would be a sickening swish as the belt sliced through the air. He could feel his stomach churn, and he choked back the bile that rose in his throat.

Digging his fingers into his bare ankles, he braced himself for that sound.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he heard other noises: an urgent scraping, the thud of footsteps landing in the room, a sharp, shouted exchange.

“Dad, don’t!”

“Stay out of this, Trey.”

“No! Leave him alone.”

“Trey. I’m warning you--”

“I don’t care! He didn’t do it, all right?”

Everything stopped.

Incredulous, scarcely moving, Ryan peeked up.

He could only sense his father, looming out of sight behind him, but he could see Trey. Tensely defiant, he stood by the window, staring over Ryan’s head. His shoulders were hunched, stretching the cheap fabric of his t-shirt, his fists clenched spasmodically, and his eyes glittered in his drawn face. “Leave him alone,” he repeated thickly.

It almost sounded to Ryan like a sob clotted his brother’s voice, but that was impossible.

Trey never cried.

“You gonna get mixed up in this, Trey?” A dangerous current ran under their father’s soft words. “Gonna try to tell me what to do? Because that? Would be a goddamn mistake.”

Don’t, Ryan prayed. Don’t, don’t, don’t, Trey.

He opened his mouth to say something-anything-but before he could, his brother blurted, “Ry didn’t take your fuckin’ whiskey! I did!” Rage and despair boiled through the confession. “I stole it and then when I heard you come home, I stuck the bottle in Ry’s hand and took off! Okay?”

Ryan’s eyes filled with tears. He could scarcely breathe.

Trey edged a few inches closer. “Ry didn’t do nothin’,” he muttered. “The little bitch was too stupid to ditch the booze, that’s all.”

A calloused hand clamped around Ryan’s neck and his father yanked him upright. “Is that what happened, boy?” he demanded. “And you damn well better not lie to me.”

Ryan darted a desperate glance at Trey, but his brother’s face was shuttered. It offered no answers at all. Defeated, he looked back at Frank. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t figure out what to say. All he could see was the strip of leather, whip-like and waiting, coiled in his father’s hands.

Sour fluid pooled in his mouth and Ryan swallowed hard. “I . . .” he stammered.

“Tell him!” Trey pleaded. “Tell him! You didn’t take his damn whiskey, Ry! You didn’t even drink it! I did!”

The belt swayed, taunting Ryan. It looked lethal and alive.

“Well? I want an answer, boy. Now!”

Ryan shook his head, his whole body shuddering. “I didn’t . . . take it,” he choked. “But--”

He never got the chance to finish.

Instantly, wordlessly, his father shoved him out the door. It slammed shut, a solid barrier that kept him separate, but somehow safe from nothing.

Ryan dropped to the floor. He huddled there, his cheek pressed against the uneven wood. Unconsciously, he squeezed his thumb until he forced out a grudging drop of blood.

“But it wasn’t just Trey,” he whispered to the door. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t. I was gonna take a drink too.”

The car lurched to a stop, jolting Ryan back into the present.

Dazed, almost completely drained, it took him a moment to register reality: the thick, humid air shimmering off the asphalt, the empty beer can crushed in his hand, his brother, uncannily still in the driver’s seat.

“Trey?” he asked blankly.

Beside him, Trey gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white and he stared straight ahead as an orange gate creaked up, one inch at a time.

Outside, a bored guard waved them into the prison parking lot.

Trey turned deliberately to look at Ryan. “You ready?” he muttered. “Time to meet dear old dad.”

TBC