Page 7 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)
Chapter seven
Sawyer
I t’s wildly risky, what I’m doing.
What we’re doing.
If I’m going down, I’m taking Tytus with me. In my mind, we’re in this together. He could have pulled away. If he had, if he’d even shifted in his seat, I would have stopped.
But when I reached through the space between the passenger seat and the car door and wrapped my fingers around his bicep, he didn’t fight the connection.
He deepened it.
He pretended to scratch his arm so he could brush his long, calloused fingers over my hand, and he’s been leaning into my touch ever since.
I’m disoriented, the strain thrumming between us making me almost dizzy.
As we pass the No Outlet sign at the top of our street, I sigh and focus on savoring the last few moments of this.
Our home sits on two hectares of land in a small development built in the 1950s near Cap-Saint-Jacques.
Our family moved from C?te-Saint-Luc when Atty and I were in middle school.
Its proximity to the water and the parks was a selling point.
So was the additional bedroom, since, according to the caseworker from the Child and Youth Protection Centre, my parents had a better chance of fostering Ty long term if he had his own space.
I’ve always loved this house, but now, as the limestone dust kicks up around the car and we drive closer, it’s hard to breathe. Because once we’re back within the confines of the house, I’m all but certain Tytus will pull back.
As if reading my thoughts, he flexes his bicep.
I squeeze his arm tighter in response.
Patience , he implored.
I’m not sure there’s enough patience in the entire provence to ease the suffering I’ll endure while living under the same roof for the next few months.
Though that doesn’t mean I won’t try.
“You guys want to watch something tonight?” Atty asks as he eases the car along the gravel of our driveway.
Sitting in the dark beside Tytus when I can’t touch him sounds like torture.
“I’m not feeling great,” I say, groaning a bit as I reluctantly peel my hand off Ty’s arm and sit up straighter.
Atty meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I told you that blue shit wasn’t good for you.”
I don’t respond. It’s best to let him think that my current state is due to the gobs of Blue Monster ice cream I consumed rather than the anticipatory ache of not being able to touch his best friend.
“I’ve got to study for our calculus final. It’s Tuesday,” Tytus gripes.
“Shit.” My brother looks over at him, his eyes wide. “That’s on Tuesday?”
I snort. Schoolwork has never kept Atty from doing what he wants. Our parents are both tenured professors, but I got all the book smarts in the womb. Atty does okay in school, but playing hockey at a professional level has always been his goal.
A yawn catches me by surprise, which is why my eyes are closed and my brain is a bit behind when Atty curses under his breath.
“Who parks like that?”
As he slows the car, I sit forward, peering between the boys’ massive frames.
Ahead, a decrepit brown F-150 is parked catawampus in front of the porch. The rusty driver’s door is still open, the dome light casting a dim glow over the interior.
“What the hell?” Atty puts the car in park and yanks the keys out with more force than necessary, his movements urgent .
A trickle of dread coats my insides, ominous and thick.
Something’s wrong.
Tytus speaks, though he sounds far away. “The front door of the house is open.”
Breath held, I zero in on the porch, taking in the pretty French-blue front door my mom repainted three times last summer before committing to a color.
It’s not just ajar. It’s wide open.
My heart thunders in my ears. “Atty?”
Without responding, he exits the car.
Something’s really wrong.
We follow, Ty pausing long enough to help me out of the back seat.
“Atty,” I say again, my voice breaking. It’s the only word my lips will form.
Maybe my reaction fuels his anxiety. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Regardless, when my brother looks back at me, the unadulterated fear that paints his expression seeps into my bones and spreads like an aggressive, malignant disease.
Something’s not right.
Something’s really fucking wrong.
A piece of gravel finds its way into my trainer, and the pain that lances my foot as I step forward brings me to the here and now. Though I can’t stop, not even to fish it out.
As if I’m tethered to my brother, I charge ahead. Tytus walks between us, several paces ahead of me now.
I widen my stride, then break into a jog.
My midsection constricts, as if caught in a vise, and dread percolates in my gut.
It’s probably nothing.
We’re overreacting.
By the time I hit the first step, Atty and Tytus have crossed the porch.
They pause at the threshold, and Atty yells into the house. “Mom. Dad.”
The silence that follows is deafening, serving to amplify the worst-case scenarios running through my head.
A foreboding thud resounds from inside.
“Sawyer, stay out here,” Atty demands over his shoulder. Without waiting for a response, he darts through the front door .
“Atty,” I holler. Anger and fear coalesce inside me. Anger because he took off without me. Fear because staying on the porch doesn’t seem any safer than going inside.
“Ty,” my brother replies, his voice breaking on a sob.
The answering pain in my chest is almost enough to send me doubling over. An instant later, I respond to his sob with one of my own.
Tytus’s eyes lock with me, but he doesn’t speak.
“Don’t,” I warn, I beg . I don’t want him to go in. I don’t want him to leave me here. I don’t want to know why Atty’s crying. I don’t want to know what he’s discovered.
“Tytus!”
Tytus grips my shoulders and guides me backward until my body is firmly pressed against the side of the house. With his face inches from mine, he growls, “Stay right here.”
He takes off inside without a backward glance.
In that moment, I’m well and truly alone.