Page 143 of Shrapnel

Jamie made a life for himself on the bones of who he used to be. But bones couldn’t change. They were who you were. Was the rest just lies? Was Jamie a lie?

“You’re not Jamie, are you? Don’t forget, I know you. I’m the only one who does.” Dominic reached for him again, sliding his hand around Jamie’s neck, thumb lovingly tracing circles under his ear.

“Every dirty secret, every confession, every so-called sin. I know them all, and I love you anyway.”

Jamie couldn’t help it, he looked toward Paul’s. Across the street, Owen and Jackson were dragging a limp Mateo out of the restaurant. They were looking around. Had they discovered the chain locked around the back door? They would know he was gone by now. Noah was limping, looking down at a cell phone. He was probably calling the phone Jamie tossed long before his gun.

“Could they say the same? Would they still love you if they knew what you’ve done?”

Would Owen still look at him the same way, cheeks bunched up so tight his eyes creased? Would Elijah still trust him at his back? Would Grant still think he was worth something?

They would. They wouldn’t be disgusted with the blemishes on his soul. They would forgive his transgressions and welcome him back.

Did he want them to? Did he deserve it?

Jamie knew the answer.

Dominic waslookingat him. Waiting for him to come to the same conclusion he knew. His hands cupped Jamie’s face and he brought his forehead to his lips, breathing in his scent with a smile ghosting across his lips.

Jamie dropped his head, breathing shallowly. Destiny brought him back to the burned ruins of his past. Perhaps this was his punishment for daring to leave it behind. He fisted his hands to keep them from shaking. He didn’t want this. But people who got what they deserved rarely did.

“Nothing can ever come between us, little fox. I won’t let it.”

Ian shifted, his gun scraping against the metal railing. Jamie’s focus wavered from the gun to where it was pointing.

“Nothing,” Dominic said again. “Are you with me?”

Jamie felt himself reach for the gun. Ian moved out of the way, letting Jamie wrap his hands against the sun-warmed metal. It felt foreign. It wasn’t his gun, and it didn’t sit right nestled up against his shoulder as he looked down the scope.

Owen’s shock of orange hair caught the light. His hands were cupped around his mouth. It wasn’t the first time he had seen him through a scope, but it would be the last. He was beautiful, in every way Jamie didn’t deserve.

Jamie was shrapnel—spat out, used up, and twisted beyond repair. Owen saw that and still tried to smooth out his corners. Pushed and pulled at them until the sharp edges cut his hands, then he wiped the blood from his fingers because he was afraid to leave a stain.

His hands were cold. Even the blood in his veins didn’t want to be part of this.

“You know if you take that shot, they’ll never take you back.”

Jamie inhaled shakily. Then squeezed the trigger.

26

I Left You Alone, in a House, not a Home

There was so much blood.

The fine lines on his palms were creased with rust. Some of it had dried and it was turning brown, sticky, and tight on his skin. His clothes were saturated. Even now, his pants were still uncomfortably damp and clinging to his legs. The shiny clean hospital floor was awash in gore, droplets of blood snaked down the thin metal legs of the waiting room chair and pooled beneath him.

It was even in his shoes.

His goddamn shoes.

The only free space of skin was the half-moon marks on his palms from where his nails had dug into his skin. No thoughts were running through his head, though dimly he was aware there should be. All he could focus on was breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Nurses and doctors were staring at him. Like a bloodied person in a hospital was the strangest thing they’d ever seen. Someone asked him if he was ok, and he didn’t know how to answer. How could he ever be ok again? They must have gone away. He never even looked up.

His elbows were resting on his knees and his head was dropped. Only the bloodied space between his soaked sneakers was visible. It was all he could handle.

Overhead intercoms buzzed and doctors were paged. The words sounded strange. He knew he should understand them, but they sounded foreign. Fuzzy. Like he was underwater. Would the police come? Probably. That’s what happened when someone was shot. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to cry. He needed a release. Forcing his fingers to relax, he tried to keep his hands from shaking. They hadn’t been shaking when he was pressing his hands to the wound. They were steady as blood burbled from between his fingers and ran down his arms.