Dylan(11)

“That why you stopped coming to train with us? Getting all the work-out you need at the gym?”

He’s teasing me, but I shake my head. I miss the sparring sessions with the guys and the bantering during and afterward. I miss practice, and my football team. Studying. Learning new things and hoping for a better future.

Shit.

“You still there?” Zane asks.

“Yeah.” As if there’s anywhere else I can go.

“Maybe I can swing by, bring a couple of beers.”

“No.” The word comes out harsh, and I wince again. “Not now, man. The kids are trying to sleep. To be honest, I’ll turn in myself, soon.”

“Jeez, man, you’re joking, right? It’s eight thirty in the fucking evening!”

“Yeah?” Anger rises inside me. “And your point is?”

In the silence that ensues, Zane says very quietly, “Sorry, fucker. Wasn’t thinking.”

Yeah. Dammit.

“Not your fault,” I grind out. Not his fault I’m ready to drop dead at eight fucking thirty in the evening. Not his fault I don’t have time for parties, and practice, and college. Nobody’s fault.

I think of Mom, and the anger twists inside me, knots my gut. Is it her fault? For making Dad love her so much and then leaving him? Leaving us?

It’s love’s fault. Dad’s fault for fucking loving her.

“You still doing security guard gigs?” Zane asks.

I perk up. “Why? Did you hear anything?”

“Saturday. I know you said you can’t find a babysitter, but if you can… There’s a gala. Autumn Glitter, or some other shit. I heard they’re looking for security guards.”

“You heard?”

“Tessa told me about it.”

I blink. Right, of course. The only one of us moving in the upper social circles would be Tessa. “Thanks. I’ll see if I can make it.”

Because money is real tight. We have food stamps, and Medicaid, but it’s not enough. I’ve worked as a security guard before. Being an athlete, I’m often selected for that kind of job, and I have some references to show.

“You do that,” Zane says, not seeming to pick up on the fact I said I can’t go to Dakota’s concert because I have no babysitter, but then saying I can go work.

Then again, Zane has been through some real tough times. If anyone can understand the difference, it’s him.

I hope the others can see it, too. I feel like I haven’t seen them in ages. Not sure I have friends anymore. I’m not there for them, and everyone eventually moves on, finds new interests, new friends…

“Are you growing deaf, fucker?” Zane is still talking, and I force myself to pay attention.

“What?” With one last look at Teo, I get up and step out of the room. I turn off the light.

“I said, call me if you need anything, okay? We all want to help. You only need to tell us how.”

I glance into Miles’s room, but he’s a lump under the covers, and the light is already off. Could it be that simple—ask the Brotherhood for help, with everything they’ve got going on in their lives? I chew on the inside of my cheek, just standing there.

“Dylan. Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.” I rub my eyes. “Thanks, Z-man. I appreciate it.”

“Talk to you later,” he says and disconnects.

I shove the cell into my pocket and step quietly into the room. Miles’s eyes are closed, but I’m not sure he’s asleep. What if he is, though? I don’t want to wake him up. I suck at this parental thing. I’m no good at filling in for Mom and Dad both.

I squat down by the bed and put a light hand on his hair, short and blond like mine. Both my brothers look a lot like me. A lot like Dad.

His jaw is red, already bruising. Dried blood stains his chin. Charlie assured me no injuries are hidden under his clothes, just a few bruises on his arms, or I’d wake him up to check.

Dammit, I have to talk to the school again, ask them to do something about the bullying. Every single time I talk to them, they say what happens on the street is not their responsibility.

That’s true. It’s mine.

My eyes burn, and I dig my thumbs into the sockets. I’m just fucking tired. I’ll talk to Miles, make sure Teo gets better, talk to Dad, ask about the security job on Saturday, find a babysitter, talk to Coach West…

My head hurts. My whole body hurts. The thoughts blur. Damn.

I get up and stumble into my bedroom. Over my desk, I have a photo of Tessa. I taped it there long ago, and I wander there first, as usual, and touch her face in silent apology.

“Hey, Tess,” I murmur, tracing the shape of her pretty mouth, those wide blue eyes, filled with laughter and mischief, and smile at her. “Hope you’re okay.”