Worth Any Risk

Ch. 20 Bad Memories, Worse Ideas

*Cole

The second Jordan rolls off to work, I have one purpose in mind—find Brandon and make that bastard pay for what he did to her. I managed to cage my anger, keeping it fully locked in a small space at the back of my mind the whole time she was here, but now there's only me and my desire to smash in his face. I wipe my hands one last time with the rag and stack the tools I've been using nice and neat on the workbench. Some habits are too strong to break. Then I'm pushing my car as fast as is reasonable on the twisty, back road towards town.

When I reach the populated edge, I slow to the speed limit and at a stop light, I call Javier.

"Hey," I say, when he answers. "You busy today?"

"I've got the kids, as usual. Are you going to the park, do you need me to push you on the swing?"

"Not exactly. If I need you to get me out of jail later, would you be up for it?"

"I'm going to have to be honest and say no. I've got two four-year-old hellions clinging to my legs, sucking the life and energy from my bones. The last thing I need to do is introduce them to a life of crime and have them explain to my wife they got to visit the county jail with daddy's friend."

"And I appreciate your honesty," I say.

"Here's a thought, don't do the thing you are thinking of doing that's going to get the cops called on your ass."

Which leaves me with the Roberta option. She probably knows her way inside and out of the county jail, anyway. "No worries. I can call another friend to bail me out, should it be necessary. I'll talk to you later."

"No, wait—"

I hang up and don't reply when he calls back. The light had turned green, so number one, it isn't safe to answer, and number two, he won't change my mind. I reach the old-fashioned city square with a miniature park in middle of the four streets that made up the town's center. There is an obligatory statue in the middle of it, this one of a Native American, which is really a sick joke. We killed them off, took their land and then put up a statue to remember them by? Fucking hell. The people who commissioned the statue were the same kind of people who are mayors, run the school board, sit on the judge's bench, and have a dozen family members in the sheriff's office. People like Brandon's family. People like my mother and her wonderful husband, Leroy.

Memories of my family aren't my only demons in this town, though. That grey, lifeless face, the strings of greasy hair, the blackened pool of blood—the sight of the dead man haunts me from the alley behind the old pizzeria. I should have been stronger. My last major fuck-up before I lit out of town.

Rolling my shoulders, I banish that memory. The others are bad enough. I can't get out of this place soon enough, the only thing that is holding me back is Jordan. I understand she has to organize the sale of her house and figure out the logistics of moving...but hell. I walk past the Brave with his hand shading his eyes, his bold stance filling the park with a sense of forgotten glory.

No one even bothers to look at him anymore, myself included.

I came here one night and sat at his feet until the deputy found me and took me home. I huddled at the statue's feet, wishing it would come alive and scalp my enemy, then take me off to the forest to be free and wild. I was weak and afraid and no one helped me.

The deputy who took me home didn't ask why my face was bruised or my lip was bleeding. I was eleven. He didn't care. My mother didn't care, except that she was embarrassed I ran away. She came storming out of the house, crying as if she was overjoyed to have her little runaway home safe and sound. The instant we were inside and the door was closed, she slapped me and sent me to bed. Oh, and she called me a fucking drama queen.