“Get the fuck off!” His arms thrash. “Don’t fucking touch me!” He fights, legs kicking, body violently whipping around in the confines of the tub.
“Calm your ass down and we’ll let you go,” Zeke barks over the rushing water of the shower.
“Fuck you,” Slate spats, water gurgling in every word. He pushes Zeke’s hands off him and glares down at me, wiping the water from his face. “Fuck, Jax.” He kicks at me. “Get off, motherfucker!”
“You okay,” I say loosening my grip, watching him closely before finally letting go.
“Yeah, I’m fucking okay.” He grabs the edge of the tub and pulls himself out of it, hitting the ceramic tile floor. He rolls over onto his back. “Fuck assholes, what the fuck!” He grabs the sides of his head.
“Sorry, dickhead,” I say, staring down at him, “but we couldn’t wake your ass up.”
He closes his eyes, shutting me out as usual. “Then maybe, fuckers, you should’ve just let me sleep.”
I want to reach down, scoop his ass up from the floor, and beat the living shit out of him. He pisses me off so bad. He’s letting his life go to hell. “Fuck this shit.” I turn to Zeke. “He’s all yours.”
I leave and head for my bedroom. Slate’s killing me. I don’t know what to do with him. Along with countless visits to the ER from overdoses, we got him in rehab a few times. He gets clean for a few days, once even for a few months, but then the dickhead’s back to using. I know he’s been through hell, but it’s as if he likes it there because he just keeps going back. The counselors keep telling me that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. But he’s my little brother. I’ve been saving him his entire life. Even if I wanted to, I can’t stop trying now.
I’m beat though, tired of being the big brother, the babysitter, and the parent. Hell, I’m thirty, and they’re both fucking adults now. I shouldn’t have to deal with this shit anymore.
I sit down on my bed in the dark and hear a door slam followed by the little fucker’s yelling at each other. I take a few deep breaths, but it doesn’t help. The fighting escalates outside of my room. I give in to my anger. I jump up, grab the lamp on my nightstand, and slam it against the wall. But fuck, that shit doesn’t help either.
I stalk out of my room. They’re in the kitchen, fists clenched, standing face-to-face, and shouting at each other.
“Hey,” I yell, hard and loud. And damn, it still works. They both stop and look at me.
“Dickhead here thinks he’s leaving,” Zeke rushes out.
“Fuck you.” Slate jabs Zeke in the chest.
I walk over to Slate, grab his wet shirt and pull him close. “You ain’t fucking going nowhere. You’re stayin’ right here, and Zeke is stayin’ right by your side. That’s the only reason your ass isn’t at the hospital right now. Zeke saved you from that.”
“Fuck off.” He goes to push me, but I catch his arm and clamp down hard.
And I know how much he hates being touched so I’m ready for his other arm. It comes at me, and I catch that, too. He might be strong when he’s coming out of a high from a dose of freezing water, but I’ll still beat his ass down and he knows it. “What? You want next time for one of us to find you dead in that fucking bed. You want to put Zeke through that shit.” I release his arms. “Get it together, Slate.” I shove him away from me.
Slate glances at Zeke, and I know he doesn’t want to hurt him. “I took a fucking sleeping pill, that’s why you couldn’t wake me up.”
“Yeah, right,” I snort. Three years ago, I mighta believed him, but now. He’s full of nothin’ but shit.
“Fuck you.” Slate shoots me a look, knowing I’m not about to fall for any of his bullshit. He takes a step toward me. My hands ball into tight fists and my shoulders lift.
“Come on, Slate, let’s go hang in the den,” Zeke says, trying to level the battlefield before it has a chance to build. “We’ll watch TV, or if you’re feelin’ up to it, I’ll kick your ass in Grand Theft Auto.”
I wait, hands clenched. It wouldn’t be the first time Slate’s challenged me. The last time we went at it, I ended up with a black eye, and he couldn’t fight for a couple months due to a few cracked ribs. I know all his moves. Hell, I taught them to him.
“Kick my ass?” Slate turns to Zeke with a weak devious grin. “Shit, let me get out of these wet clothes, and we’ll see whose fucking ass gets a whoopin’,” he says and walks to his bedroom without giving me another glance.