Chapter 8

Scotty stareddown at the ground, tapping his right foot against the floor. A heavy silence permeated the space as he inhaled myriad smells inside the mechanic shop: machinery, oil, rust, dust. He couldn’t help glancing at the door. It was right there and no one was around watching him.

Yeah, Zander had warned him, but maybe Scotty could just… He chanced a quick glance over to the back office. Through the window, he made out the other two men, deep in conversation. A conversation that didn’t look to be productive, not with the scowl on Vince’s face. Or maybe that was just the marshal being in pain.

A regretful pang hit Scotty in the chest and he rubbed the spot right near his sternum.

He’d shot a man. Vince didn’t appear to blame him, it seemed as though he’d directed all his animosity toward Zander, but Scotty couldn’t get over the guilt. He wished…so many things. Mostly, he wished he hadn’t made the decision to break into this place. Zander could’ve hurt him at any time. The fact that he hadn’t done so yet didn’t mean anything.

Zander scared him, but Vince acted as a sort of buffer. Which was way more than Scotty ever had growing up.

If he snuck off—and he wasn’t even sure that he could—Vince would be left with Zander. Scotty didn’t trust the mechanic to take care of Vince, so Scotty had to do it himself. It was the least he could do.

He blew out a breath, shoulders sagging.

So, he was staying then?

His stomach roiled and he rubbed it, swallowing, hoping he didn’t throw up again. Once was enough. Even now his face heated with embarrassment that he’d almost vomited on Zander.

He would have deserved it, though.

His lips twitched at the thought as he stared at them through the window. They were closer now, the back of Zander’s head blocking Scotty’s view of Vince. He took an involuntary step toward the office.

He didn’t know what they were discussing but it was clearly something important. Zander had secrets and schemes up his sleeve. Scotty didn’t like him, but Vince… He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he needed medical help. Scotty couldn’t even give him that.

He shoved agitated fingers through his hair. His fingers got stuck in the tangled strands and he frowned, trying to work out when was the last time he’d gotten a haircut. He’d swept up the floors for the barber over on Fourth Street and in exchange, he’d given Scotty a trim. But that had been months and months ago. Sometimes it was so hard to keep things like that straight, to remember to take care of himself, because he’d get so lost in trying to outrun the sound of a skull cracking against the edge of a countertop or trying to wash away the memories of blood pooling around his feet.

Fuck. His breath turned ragged, chest constricting. Don’t think about it. This was not the place to have a meltdown. Maybe Zander would kill him and put him out of his misery; little did he know he’d be doing Scotty a favor. He was a coward, otherwise he’d do it himself. He’d thought about it a lot, though. What if he took a hit and never came down off that high? What if he closed his eyes and never woke up? Death promised oblivion, and that was what he’d been searching for so desperately for so long.

He made his way back to the office. When he entered, he found Vince and Zander almost nose to nose, Zander stroking Vince’s chin while Vince remained still. He didn’t know what was going on, but it felt as if Scotty was interrupting something. As if the two men had forgotten his existence, and wasn’t that the story of his life? It probably shouldn’t affect him anymore, but it did.

As if reading Scotty’s mind, Vince’s gaze flickered over him and his expression softened, smoothing out. Was he—Was he glad to see Scotty? Not that it should matter. They were strangers, the three of them, and Scotty had shot Vince, for fuck’s sake. Still, something warmed in his chest a little bit when Vince looked at him. Then Zander glanced his way, too, glowering, and the warmth in Scotty’s chest froze over.

He didn’t like that look in Zander’s eyes. Didn’t trust it. It put him on alert and he cursed himself for not attempting to escape when he’d been alone out there.

“Scotty, come here.”

Zander’s hand fell away from Vince’s chin as Vince gestured Scotty over. The marshal ignored Zander, acting as if Zander ceased to exist, his full focus on Scotty. There was a lightness in his eyes now that wasn’t there when Scotty first entered, and he wondered selfishly, stupidly, if that lightness was for him, because of him.

Fucking idiot.That sounded suspiciously like Don’s voice ringing in his head.

Scotty went over to Vince on the couch and Zander got to his feet, expression hard as he turned and walked out of the office, the door banging behind him. Vince watched him leave, forehead creased in a frown, absently stroking his injured shoulder.

Scotty touched Vince’s knee. “Do you need more pain pills?” All Zander had available were over-the-counter pain meds, but Vince had told Scotty earlier that they helped a bit.

Vince shook his head at the question. “No. I’m okay.”

Was he, though? “What did he—” Scotty flicked his gaze to the door and then back to Vince. “Did he hurt you?” Not as if he could do anything if the answer turned out to be yes, but he still had to ask.

Vince’s lips twitched. “No, Zander didn’t hurt me.” But there was a heaviness to his voice and words that Scotty didn’t miss. Vince shook his head slightly as if to clear it and blew out a breath. “Tell me about yourself, Scotty.”

Scotty stiffened, he couldn’t help it. “W-what do you want to know?”

Vince watched him, eyes a little bit knowing. “Whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

“And will you…” Scotty licked his lips. “Will you also tell me about you?”

Vince nodded. “I will. Yes.” He paused, then asked, “Would you like me to go first?”

“Yes, please.” The words couldn’t leave Scotty’s mouth fast enough, but Vince didn’t seem to mind.

He was a cop, but not just any old cop. A federal marshal. He probably saw and heard bad things every day. Scotty didn’t have to tell Vince his life story. But he wanted to. He ached to share it with someone who wasn’t on a first-name basis with his uncle, who wasn’t afraid of the man or dependent on him for their livelihood. Yes, he would share his story with Vince.

“Well, I’m forty-three and I’m from New Jersey,” Vince said.

“That’s close to New York, right?” He’d never left Alabama. Never left the town where he’d grown up. Not for a day or even an hour. For all that Don hated him and wanted him dead, his uncle also preferred to keep him close.

“It is close to New York.”

“You have family there?” Scotty used to dream of a large family. Back when he’d thought somebody out there would come and rescue him.

“I don’t.” Vince shook his head. “I grew up in foster care, didn’t have anyone. Now it’s just me.”

So they had that in common. “No children or-or a wife or husband?”

Vince grinned and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that shouldn’t be appealing but somehow…was? “No children. No husband. Or wife either.”

For some reason, it made Scotty sad, the thought of Vince being alone. “Do you like being a federal marshal?’

“I do. It’s the only thing I’m good at apparently.”

Scotty didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it couldn’t be true. He parted his lips to tell Vince that just as the office door opened and Zander stepped inside. Scotty wanted to take away the sudden melancholy that darkened Vince’s eyes. But instead, entirely different words came out of his mouth. “I watched my uncle kill my mother.”

Zander frozein his tracks at Scotty’s words.

“I watched my uncle kill my mother.”

His gaze flew to Scotty, who was staring at the floor, teeth worrying his bottom lip, then to Vince, whose eyes had widened to at least twice their normal size.

“Fuck.” Vince was the one who spoke, touching Scotty’s shoulder. “Scotty, I’m?—”

Zander should leave. He didn’t want to be a part of…whatever this thing was. The marshal and Scotty bonding. He didn’t want to be involved, didn’t want to know anything about Scotty that he didn’t already know.

But his feet refused to work, so he found himself locked in place with his back against the door. An unwilling witness as Scotty spoke, voice soft and sounding as if it came from far away.

“It was my birthday and they were arguing.” A red flush crept up over his neck and throat, then covered his face completely.

Zander couldn’t stop staring at him, at the pain his posture broadcast.

“I don’t know what they were arguing about, but I entered the room just as he slapped her. She swung back at him and he—” Scotty’s voice seemed to collapse then and his gaze lifted, settling on Zander, who tensed.

Why him?

Why was Scotty looking at him?

If he was seeking comfort or understanding then Vince was the one for that. Not Zander. He didn’t know softness. Didn’t know kindness. Wouldn’t know what to do with it even if he did.

“Don grabbed her head in both hands and slammed it down onto the edge of the kitchen counter. I still hear the crack of her skull when I close my eyes.” Scotty spoke those words while staring into Zander’s eyes, and Zander wanted to yell at him to look away, look at Vince.

There’s nothing for you here.

No sympathy. He hoped Scotty heard his unspoken words, but his chest felt tight the longer he stared at Scotty and the despair that filled his eyes. The sight made Zander’s skin feel as if it didn’t belong to him.

Scotty turned to Vince then and it was like a thread snapping. Zander took a deep breath, hands fisting at his sides with the urge to touch his chest.

“He tossed her to the ground and there was so much blood. I ran to her.” Scotty’s voice wobbled. “But she didn’t move. I kept sliding in the blood.” He cut off, staring past Vince’s head. “I remember the warmth of the blood and calling for her. She never moved. She never woke up.” He spoke all that with dry eyes.

Vince stroked between Scotty’s shoulder blades, pain creasing his features, offering comfort. He was the type. Zander had pegged him right. They each had their roles; Vince was the soft and nurturing type. Zander was all violence—lead and copper. He wished he hadn’t heard any of what Scotty just shared. And as he stood there, watching Vince comfort Scotty, something he’d never felt before washed over him.

Awkwardness.

As if he was intruding. As if he shouldn’t be witnessing any of it.

He tightened his jaw.

“He told everyone that my mom had been high and stumbled in her heels, knocking her head. Nobody questioned it. He took me to live with him that night. Got a doctor to keep me drugged up, said it was because I was distraught over the loss, but I realized later it was because he didn’t want me to tell anyone what he’d done. He started feeding me coke, kept me close while putting me down to anyone who would listen, discrediting me as the junkie, the thief.”

He was a thief, wasn’t he? He’d broken into Zander’s fucking place.

“That way, if you said anything, no one would believe you,” Vince finished softly. Scotty nodded and Vince caught his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.

“He’s the mayor,” Scotty mumbled. “I knew nobody would believe me if I told.” His voice cracked. “He didn’t have to do what he did to me.” He sounded so young then, so fucked up.

Zander had seen Mayor Don on TV. He was a man who believed in his own self-importance. Who liked to think he mattered more than he actually did. He had a hawk nose and rapidly receding hairline, and a face wide enough to catch several bullets.

Not that Zander would do anything. He scoffed to himself at the thought.

He didn’t care what Scotty had gone through. Sucked, but everyone had a story. Hell, Zander had his own story. One he wouldn’t be sharing with those two huddled over there.

He should leave. They didn’t even look his way, probably forgot he was in the room with them.

Why wasn’t he leaving?

Vince hugged Scotty to his chest, stroking his back, expression turned inward. “When I was fourteen, I got put into a new foster home. This one was so warm and inviting, a husband and wife who smiled and didn’t come into our bedrooms at night. Way better than what I’d been used to. There were three other foster kids there, two boys and a little girl. One of the boys, David, was around my age and we became fast friends. Then one day, he kissed me.” His expression softened the tiniest bit. “I was happy because I’d wanted to kiss him but was too scared to make the first move.”

He paused and took a deep breath. “Our foster father caught us making out in my bed sometime later. David was on top of me and our foster father pulled him off and just started beating him. It was as if a switch had been flipped in that man.” His gaze lifted to Zander’s then, bleak and filled with self-loathing before Vince glanced away. “He kept saying it was against nature, that David had the devil inside him, and accused him of trying to force himself on me. Said he needed to beat the evilness out of him and I just…” He blew out a ragged breath as Zander cursed himself for hanging on to his every word, gut twisted up.

Scotty had pulled away from Vince’s embrace as he talked and he stared at Vince with a haunted expression, mouth agape as if knowing that story wasn’t about to have any kind of happy ending.

“I just sat there,” Vince continued. “Too scared to defend David, to say that I wasn’t being taken advantage of. I choked the words back because I didn’t want to be beaten. I didn’t want to leave, not when I had a warm bed and three meals a day. So I kept my mouth shut, even when the ambulance came and took David away. Even when he died a week later from all the injuries, I didn’t speak up.” He snorted in obvious self-loathing. “It was all for nothing. The authorities took me away from there anyway. And it was back to stealing food and being afraid to sleep at night. I stayed away from boys for a long time after that,” he finished quietly. Brokenly.

“I’m sorry,” Scotty told him.

Vince shook his head, rejecting the words. “I was a coward.”

“You were a child,” Scotty told him.

Vince’s lips curved into a little sad smile. “Old enough to know better. Actions, even non-actions, have consequences.”

What were the consequences for fourteen-year-old Vince not telling the truth in order to protect himself? Zander had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted the answer to that question.