Page 54

TOMMY

“Why are you green?” I drive one-handed, the other in her lap, and with one eye on the rearview mirror as we speed away from the cemetery and onto the road toward home. But fuck! My father knows where she grew up, too. Should I take her to my house? Will he follow us? “Alana? Hey?”

“Take us home.” Her eyes are glassy and fearful. Jittery as she avoids my gaze. “I want to go home.”

“That’s him, huh?” Franky scrunches his little body tight like he’s trying to avoid touching Fox and Chris on either side. “Mom?”

“Don’t, honey.” She presses a hand to her mouth and stares out the window, her cheeks deathly pale and a sheen of sweat on her brow. “Please, not right now.”

“For years,” Chris snarls, “that prick has been gone. He wanted nothing to do with this town and nothing to do with us. He didn’t even bother us when Tommy took the title, which is prime fuckin’ time for a leech to come searching for blood.

But he left us alone. Not a single word.

Now Bitsy’s in the ground, and he thinks this is when he should cause a scene? The fuck is that?”

Alana’s chest heaves, her lungs spasming in search of fresh air. Her pulse thunders and tears glisten in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. Steely, she clamps her lips shut and waits us out. Clenching her jaw and gritting her teeth, she only shakes her head.

So I say nothing, and I ignore the panic desperately clawing at my stomach. I ask no questions and demand no answers. I merely drive, speeding just a little too fast and cutting corners when corners are empty and cuttable.

I take a five-minute drive and turn it into two, and when I sling the car into Bitsy’s driveway and slam on the brakes, I meet my brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror, thankful to find his arm over Franky’s chest and the boy safely held all the way home.

“I need to use the bathroom.” Alana pushes her door open before any of the rest of us make a move, then, climbing out, she goes to Chris’ door and peeks in past his hulking frame.

“Can you hang out with Aunty Fox for a few minutes, honey? I need to wash my face and take a second. Funerals are always icky.”

“Go.” Fox gently unsnaps Franky’s seat belt, sliding out of her side and taking his hand to bring him with her.

She doesn’t give him the chance to choose Chris’s door, which is interesting since he was leaning that way in the first place.

I meet my brother’s eyes in the mirror—if Fox is Alana’s representative, then he’s mine—so when he nods, knowing what I need, I snatch the car keys and storm around to follow Alana into the house.

Already, she’s through the kitchen, her shoes left abandoned and toppled to the side on the tile flooring, and though her perfume lingers in the air, the woman is nowhere to be seen.

“Alana?” I stalk into the living room, the TV still on from this morning, but no one here to watch it. Then I continue through when the creak of the stairs gives me the only hint I need. “Alana! Babe, come down here and?—”

“I just need a minute!” She tries for fake cheeriness. False pleasantries. Exactly how her mother raised her to be. “I need privacy for a moment, then I’ll come down and make lunch.”

“No.” I jog up the stairs and emerge on the carpeted landing, glancing left, then right. I need no invitation and have no use for a map. I’ve snuck through this house more times than I can count, and even if I’d forgotten the way, I need only to follow my nose.

Lavender will always call me home.

I push through Alana’s closed bedroom door and keep going until I reach the attached bathroom, only to find her on her knees, her head hung over the toilet bowl and her back heaving with the sounds of her sickness.

“Hey?” Sorrow slides through my veins, shoving aside the anger I came in here with, compliments of my piece of shit sperm donor.

“Lana.” I grab a light blue hand towel and soak it under the tap, then I cross the room and crouch behind her heaving body, dragging her hair back and placing the cold towel on her cheek.

“Jesus, Lana. I thought you were stomping up here to get your baseball bat so you could sneak out again to knock his head off. I didn’t expect you to be puking. Are you alright?”

“Go away.” She vomits again, her body caught in the clutches of a spasming stomach. “This is so gross.”

“Smells kinda gross, too.” Teasing, I try for humor when all I really want to do is get in my truck and pay a visit to the prick who made an already bad day worse.

If I could repay eighteen years of torment and physical abuse without landing in prison, I would. For Chris. And for the boy I used to be.

But I know my limits. I know the rage bubbling in my blood is as fiery today as it was in my youth.

So, I focus on Alana instead. On brushing her hair back and rubbing her shoulder.

“That ugly motherfucker’s face is enough to make anyone sick to their stomach.

But I’m actually starting to freak out a little bit.

So maybe you could do me a favor and take a breath? I need you to feel better.”

“Can you call Ollie?”

Surprise brings my brows together. “Ollie?”

“His dad,” she groans. “The cops. Anyone. I need Grady out of Plainview. Now.”

“I mean… so do I. But you don’t have to worry about him, okay? He’s drug fucked and too stupid to do much more than act a fool in front of a crowd. He won’t step foot on your property, I promise.”

“I need him gone.” She heaves again, but there’s nothing left in her stomach. Her chest clenches, and her breath catches. Taking the cloth from my hand, she tumbles back and sits on her butt, resting her head on my chest while she wipes her face.

“Alana!” Fox booms from downstairs, pounding her fists on the wall. “Alana Page! Ass down here, now!”

“God…” Alana pushes dizzily to her feet, swaying dangerously to the side until I stand and hold her arm, but she brushes me off and stumbles to the sink, turning on the tap and folding at the hips to drink from her cupped hands.

She chugs enough water to give her something to bring back up again in ten minutes, then she washes her face and rubs her eyes.

“Alana!”

“I’m coming!” She slaps the tap off and dries her face with a different towel, then she stalks out the door, slamming her shoulder to the frame on the way past.

Frustrated, I hurry behind and scoop her arm with mine before she tumbles down the damn stairs. “You should’ve had breakfast, Lana. Attending a funeral and dealing with all those people on an empty stomach was never gonna be a good idea.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” She wipes her cheeks with the heels of her palms, drawing a long, shuddering breath into her hitching chest and swallowing to wet her dry throat.

Then she frees her arm from mine—adding just another lash to my heart—before striding into the living room and skidding to a violent stop when her name flashes on the television screen.

A talk show. A stack of books placed between the hosts. And a woman sitting on the end, gushing about the novel titled ‘ Love and War ’ and its summer release date.

“No.” Alana’s cheeks drain whiter than they’ve been all day, her eyes glued to the screen and unflinching, even as Ollie and Eliza stride into the room.

“Alana is so sorry she can’t be here today.

” Helen—her name slides across the bottom of the screen—is a woman sitting somewhere on the other side of fifty-five, with midnight black hair and bright red lipstick slathered over thin lips.

She lovingly hugs a copy of the novel, stroking the cover the way she might an infant’s cheeks.

“Her mother passed recently, and today was the funeral.”

“Oh, that’s so sad.” The female host—Tanya—long ago perfected her television eyes and the way they glitter with emotion.

She brings a hand over her heart as though to drive home how falsely sympathetic she is.

“That’s devastating news. We’re so thankful you could make it, considering the circumstances.

As her agent, it’s your duty to step in during these difficult moments, right? ”

“As her agent,” Helen agrees. “And as her friend. I think you’ll find, once you read this book, you’ll understand a young woman’s journey and the amazing strength she holds within her heart.

You’ll grieve for her, just as I do. And celebrate her, the way those of us who love her do.

Alana proves, with her writing and in how she lives, just how far inner peace and perseverance can carry you. ”

“No, please.” Alana stumbles toward the back of the couch, setting her hands on the frame and searching the room, almost in a daze. Oliver and Eliza. Chris and Fox. “W-where’s Franky?”

“He’s outside with Caroline.” Chris folds his arms and glances back to the television. “She drove in after us and said he could stay out there with her and her kids for a bit.”

“Of course, we wish Alana could be here herself,” the male host murmurs.

“But we understand this is a difficult day and should absolutely be spent with her loved ones. In the meantime, Helen, we’d love to hear your take on the story so special that Elyte would not only go to auction to secure the rights, but that they would increase their offers twice more. That’s unheard of, isn’t it?”

Whimpering, Alana drops into a crouch and rests her elbows on the back of the sofa. “Please don’t do it.”