Chapter 6

Bentley didn’t endup coming home with me. He needed to stay and work. Plus, his grandparents were having a big wedding anniversary party the week after I left. It all sucks, but I understand.

It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him like crazy.

Especially now when I could really do with him by my side, even though this is the last place I’d ever want him to be.

I never want him to come face-to-face with my old man. Not ever.

The buzzer sounds. The slamming of a door echoes around the soulless waiting area.

I don’t want to be here. Both Mom and my stepdad tried one last-ditch attempt to talk me out of coming, reminding me that I don’t owe Trevin anything.

They’re right. Of course they are.

What they don’t know is that he caught me and Jamaal. They don’t know I’m responsible for Trevin attacking him. If we hadn’t been together, Trevin would have just walked on by.

Sure, he would have had a few choice words to say about Jamaal—like several people had about the only out player on our high school team—but he wouldn’t have almost killed him.

And that Jamaal never outed me, nor Trevin—and fuck, I never outed myself, absolutely not telling the whole truth in my video testimonial for the trial—well, this is my penance.

I always come at the same time of year like clockwork, courtesy of a deal I struck with Trevin.

Being a coward and feeling like shit is something I wear daily, and fuck, I’m exhausted—and scared. So fucking scared, and not even for myself.

Another buzzer sounds, and the green light turns on.

I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves before I follow the other visitors. Heading to window five in the sterile room, I exhale slowly and try to regulate my racing heart. Just twenty minutes and I can get out of here. Twenty minutes and I can go a whole year without seeing his face and being reminded of the nightmare.

The plastic chair creaks as soon as I sit, and I wait beneath the cold fluorescent lighting that casts shadows on the linoleum floor.

Hurry up. Hurry up.

A kid screams somewhere to my right, and a man is talking loudly, but I try to tune them out.

The door opens, and I sit upright, putting on my armor.

He’s the fourth inmate through the door and is easy to spot, as he towers over the men before him, his presence commanding attention.

As he approaches, his gaze doesn’t stray from me. We have the same strong jawline, the same deep-set eyes. But where I can sense uncertainty and a shitload of apprehension in mine, his are hardened. We make eye contact, and for the briefest of moments, I’m sure there’s a hint of emotion there, but it’s quickly replaced by indifference.

He takes a seat across from me, and even through the thick walls and plexiglass, I hear the metal chair creaking. We stare at each other, and with an impressively steady hand, I reach for the phone. He does the same but doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

The silence between us is heavy, suffocating. But I have nothing to say to him.

Before I take another breath, he speaks, his voice low and gravelly.

“Hey, kiddo.” His tone is brusque, but that’s nothing new. It’s the “kiddo” that rattles me. It’s the first time he’s called me that in years. Certainly long before he was sentenced. It catches me off guard.

“Hey,” I reply, my voice strong. That’s the thing with Trevin—you can’t show fear or weakness. He’s like a circling shark just waiting for the first drop of blood.

He doesn’t respond immediately, so I study his face, the lines etched into his skin. They’re faint. Truth is, he looks good, even here. He was just nineteen when Mom got pregnant, something I still struggle to wrap my head around. While I know the story of how they got together, how she left him when I was a toddler, it’s difficult to imagine them as a couple.

“You won the championship,” he states, a nod of approval following. “Good. What’s the plan for next year and entering the draft?”

My heart sinks. Of course he’s asking about that. I shake my head. “I’m not.”

I see it. The transition. The sneer forms in almost an instant.

“The fuck do you mean?”

“I’ve no interest.” I keep my voice steady while my heart hammers. Don’t get me wrong, if I thought I was in for a real shot, I’d enter, but while I’m good on the court, I’m not fucking phenomenal.

“That’s fucking ridiculous. I fucking sacrificed everything so you’d have a shot at joining the League.”

The fuck?

“Sacrificed?” I shake my head, hating the wobble in my voice. “What have you ever sacrificed for me?” White-hot anger sparks to life in my chest.

“You fucking know what. Do you think for a second that you’d be where you are now if everyone knew what I caught you doing?” Disgust laces his words, and lead solidifies in my stomach.

This is the first time he’s ever mentioned what happened.

I grit my teeth, my back molars grinding. Don’t bite. Don’t bite. There’s no point—not with someone like Trevin.

“What the fuck do you think everyone would say, knowing you’re the reason why your old man’s in prison? The reason why that cocksucker got the shit kicked out of him?” A menacing smirk plays on his lips. “You won’t feel so precious then. You’ll be left in the cold like I am.”

Jesus.

I shake my head. Not a chance I’m putting up with this bullshit.

I pull the phone from my ear and go to stand. The bang on the plexiglass has me pausing.

With a sigh, I put the phone back to my ear.

Trevin’s shoulders relax. “So, you got a job lined up, then? What are you doing with your fancy fucking business degree?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll start looking in the new year.”

He nods, acting like his outburst from a few moments ago never happened.

“I need you to do something for me.”

Here we go. This is much more standard.

“What?”

“Have you seen Calvin or Caleb?”

Surprise flitters through me that he’s asking about his brothers. “No.” It’s not like I’m at school in the same state. As far as I’m aware, they still live in Shelby, where I was born, which is a good three-hour drive from where I grew up with my parents and siblings.

“I need you to get in touch with them for me.”

I dip my brows. “Why?” Though I suspect I know the answer. While I have nothing to do with Trevin’s side of the family, the last I heard, neither does Trevin. He smashed too many bridges over the years.

“I’ve applied for an early parole hearing. It’ll be in January. Good behavior.” He snorts as though this is all a joke, making the ice of dread already slithering through my veins drop a few degrees cooler.

Early parole?No fucking way.

“They’ll be talking to you, I suspect, so don’t you let me down.” There’s no disguising the threat in his tone. “I need Calvin and Caleb to vouch for me. They’ve always had steady jobs. Upstanding citizens and all that bullshit. Need one of them to get me on the payroll too.”

Words freeze in my throat, held hostage by panic.

Almost four years. That’s how long I should have left with him locked behind bars. The thought of him being released early turns my blood to acid.

He leans forward, closer to the plexiglass. “You hear me, boy?”

Numbly, I nod.

“Good.” He settles back and swipes his thumb over his bottom lip, revealing his scarred hand complete with fresh cuts.

Good fucking behavior?What a joke.

“Stop on the way out and put some money in my commissary. And make sure you get looking for a job. And get my brothers to visit me.” He stares at me hard, waiting for me to nod. I do so before he places the phone back on the cradle and stands.

Fuck.

I need to get out of here.

The next few minutes are a blur as I escape the confines of the correctional facility. It’s all I can do to get in my car, start the ignition, and remember how to drive. Everything is on autopilot as I start the three-hour trip home.

What I don’t do is put money in his commissary. Nor do I have any intention of calling his brothers or talking to anyone who might want to speak to me about his early release.

There’s no way a board would agree to that, right? Jesus, he nearly killed a kid and battered me in the process. Six and a half years isn’t long enough.

The heavy thud against my ribs hurts. I rub at the area, though it’s going to take more than that for my panic to dissipate.

What the fuck am I going to do?

The first thing I should do is warn Jamaal. I have no idea if he still has the same number, but my friend Booker’s still in touch with him, I think. Giving him a heads-up is the least I can do.

Fuck.

I slam my hand against the wheel. The sting helps me catch my breath.

I need to tell my parents. Bentley.

Fuck, Bentley.

I trust him more than I’ve trusted anyone. He’ll understand, right?

Dread sends a shiver down my spine. Not telling him—who am I kidding? Not telling anyone—is unforgivable.

I glance in the rearview mirror when my stomach churns. Seeing nothing behind me, I pull over, open my door, and throw up.

The acid from my empty stomach burns.

I take a couple of deep breaths, my forehead pressed against my car door.

At some point, all this shit is going to catch up to me. Trevin will make sure of that—well, if it’s in his best interest to. I also know the last thing he’ll ever want to admit is having a gay son.

What I should be doing is telling the people I love the truth. And I will. The threat of my world blowing up isn’t exactly a motivator, but at some point soon, I need to. And before Trevin’s hearing.

My cell rings, making me jolt. I glance at the screen, my heart leaping. Bentley.

I pick up immediately. “Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, and in that one word alone, I hear his worry. “You’ve picked up, so I’m assuming you’re on your way home?”

“Yeah. Been on the road for maybe fifteen minutes.” Rather than sitting back, I exit my car and lean against the warm metal of the back door.

“It’s quiet.”

A humorless laugh stumbles out of me. How the hell is he so observant?

“Yeah. I needed to pull over.”

“Shit. So it didn’t go well, then?”

“Not exactly. He’s going to apply for early parole.”

“Fuck, seriously?”

The sound of a door closing reaches me. I can visualize him leaving whatever room he was in for privacy. That or he’s grabbing a beer. God, I could do with one right now.

“As a heart attack.” I sigh. “He said something about good behavior, but I don’t buy it for a second.” It’s not like Trevin was ever a gangbanger or deeply into drugs or anything. But he was a drunk and constantly in and out of jobs. He also hit my mom. It was the second time he hit her that Mom packed our things and left.

She was so damn brave. Still is. Yet here I am, sitting on all this shit. Shame makes it difficult to breathe.

“Hey, Sammy. Sammy? It’ll be okay. Even if he does get out, you’re away at college, and he won’t be allowed to leave the state, right? It’ll be okay.”

I tune in to his words, the familiar cadence registering and easing the weight of my panic.

How he does that should boggle my brain, but it’s a skill he’s always had.

“Fuck, I miss you.” My words escape before I can stop them. I should want to take them back, but I don’t have it in me. He’s my best friend, the man who I can’t get out of my head. I miss him all the damn time. I’m finding it more and more difficult to breathe when he’s not by my side. “I don’t deserve you, you know that?”

“Sammy.” There’s a roughness to his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I miss you too. Of course I do. Not long now and we’ll be back at Brixham, and everything will be as it should be.”

I close my eyes, grasping on to his words like a promise.

“Yeah, I know.” I shake my head and clear my throat, pulling myself back together. “Sorry, you know I’m like this every year after I visit.”

He doesn’t call me out, even though I’m not usually so “woe is me.”

“You’re still heading to school a few days early, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, for sure.”

A smile forms on my lips. I can’t wait to hang out and talk shit late into the night.

Who am I kidding? I can talk shit at any time of the day. And for some reason, Bentley likes this about me.

“You really are going to be okay, you hear me?”

He ignored me earlier, but I really don’t deserve him. “Thanks, Bentley. I’d best get back on the road.”

“Sure. Let me know when you’re home, yeah?”

“Will do.” I can’t help but smile again. “You have a good afternoon. Don’t get scraping up those hands. It’ll be practice again before you know it, and Coach will kick your ass if you can’t dribble ’cause your hands are fucked-up.”

Bentley snorts. “I’ll keep my gloves on. Drive safely, and don’t forget to text or call me later.”

After hitting End, I get back in the car and start the engine. A wave of relief washes over me, a soothing balm to the panic scratching at me.

Strength… I swear, I don’t know how he does it. Our exchanges are simple. There are rarely any moving speeches or anything like that, but honestly, he gives me so much strength that I feel centered and able to tackle the world.

At some point, I’ll need it to take on Trevin. If not this year, then likely at the end of his ten years.

I just hope that by the time I have the courage to tell Bentley everything, he’s still willing to keep lending it to me.