5. HOLDEN

HOLDEN

M y head is pounding, or is that the door? I’m not sure but whatever it is, needs to stop. I groan, the persistent banging getting louder as I tuck my head under the piece of cotton I claim is a pillow.

“Holden! You have about two seconds to get your ass up before I break this door down!” I hear Cole yell from behind the trailer door.

The cold, yellow, dingy linoleum feels sticky against my skin as I peel myself up off the floor. At least I remembered the pillow this time. Sitting up I sigh, rolling my left shoulder a few times. Wincing when it gets to the one sore spot that only shows up when I’m dumb enough to sleep on the floor again.

“Untwist your thong, O’Neil,” I bellow, using the flimsy counter to pull myself up to my feet. With a hard yank, I pull the door open giving view to Cole’s now furrowed brow.

“What took you so long?”

I roll my eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed I missed when I stumbled into the airstream last night. “I was planning your murder,” I bite back. “Had to hide the evidence.”

Cole mockingly laughs. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Funny.”

He steps into the trailer and I know the smell of old beer, sweat and cigarette smoke floods his nostrils; his feet barely missing the maze of beer cans as he steps further inside. He does a once-over of the trailer before his eyes land on me.

“Jesus, Nash.” He sets the bag of food on the small kitchenette, pushing a tower of beer cans and a pizza box out of the way. “When was the last time you took a shower? Or cleaned?”

I groan, knowing this conversation all too well.

My friend turns back towards me, brows still furrowed. The disappointed father look is adorned all over Cole’s face. I hate that look. It makes me feel like a child again and I don’t need another father. The one I had was shitty enough.

“What do you want Cole?” I grumble, running my fingers through my long hair.

Cole sighs. “Look, it's been a month, and everyone is torn up about Rebecca’s death… Nash. But it wasn’t your fault. You can’t…”

“If you’re about to tell me that I can’t blame myself, save it. I don’t want to fucking hear it, Cole,” I snap. My fuse is much shorter these days.

“Well, you’re gonna fuckin’ hear it, Nash. You need to pull your shit together and get back to your life—” I go to open my mouth, but Cole stops me. “This isn’t a fucking life, asshole. You’re a fuckin’ shell of who you used to be, man. You need to figure out how to crawl out of the hole you’re in because if you don’t, you’re gonna end up six feet in the ground next to Becca.”

I narrow my eyes on my best friend. Anger bubbles in my chest, fists clamped around the edge of the platform bed. “You fuckin’ done?” I grit out.

Cole shakes his head, bending over, grabbing a shirt off the floor, and tossing it to me. I catch it with my left arm, wincing as the pain shoots through my shoulder down into my side.

“Get your ass back in therapy, Nash. The club needs you…” He pauses, his hands resting on his sides. “I need you,” he says softly and it feels like a knife right through my heart hearing my best friend beg. “Maggie made up your favorite. Eat and meet me at the garage later. We got an older car to look at and I could use your expertise,” he says, walking towards the trailer door. I haven’t said a word, my fingers fumbling with the balled-up shirt in my hands. “Don’t make me drag your ass back to the clubhouse.”

The trailer door slams shut behind Cole and I let out a shaky breath. My head drops and my eyes slide shut to keep the tears brimming in them from falling. After a few deep breaths, I stand, undoing the knot on the bag of food, and open the carton, shoving a piece of bacon in my mouth before washing it down with the bottle of whiskey I keep on the milk crate I call a nightstand. It’s gonna be a long fuckin’ day.