I’d only just accepted that he was actually trying to pop me.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he said, his tone hard. “You’re just going to be the dutiful older brother you’ve always been, and what? Hold the target on your chest so he can aim properly when he kills you, and praise him on his aim as you fall to the ground?”
“Better that than dying slow. Don’t underestimate the importance of a clean shot.”
Chris slammed his fist on the counter. “Luc.”
I knew why he was frustrated. I got it. But if he thought I hadn’t been racking my brain nonstop over the past day and a half over what the hell to do about this whole mess, then he didn’t know me at all. It had been all I’d been thinking about.
But I didn’t know what to fucking do about it.
“I’ll fix it, damn it,” I growled.
“There’s nothing to fix. You can’t cure him from being a jackass.”
I smirked. “I dunno. With advancements in modern science, there’s gotta be a pill for it by now. Maybe I’ll ask around.”
“Whatever. Go ahead. Let him kill you. I won’t come to your funeral.” Chris pushed off the counter and strode toward the door. “Asshole.”
After he left, the cashier came up, and I paid for my items. As I walked down the sidewalk, I dialed and lifted my phone to my ear. It rang three times before he answered.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hey, Scotty.” I cleared my throat. “It’s me, Lucas.”
He laughed. It sounded fake as hell. “Yeah, I know. I can read the caller ID. What’s up, bro?”
Someone laughed, dishes clanged together, and loud music boomed in the background. He was still at the bar, more than likely. “Just checking in. We haven’t chatted much since I’ve gotten out. How are things going on your end?”
“Good.”
That was it. Just a one-word answer. I gripped the phone tighter and stopped in front of the shop. “Where you at?”
“Oh, you know.” He took a while to answer. “Just hanging at home with some of my boys from my crew. Shooting the shit.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” He paused. “That’s so.”
Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes. I knew that soft tone of voice Scotty was currently using. It was his lying voice. I’d always teased him about it as a kid. When he lied, his voice rose in pitch just the slightest bit.
I’d first noticed it when he’d eaten my last chocolate bunny from my Easter basket. He’d still had the chocolate on his face, all over his chubby cheeks, and I’d asked him what had happened to it. He’d looked me flat in the eye and said he didn’t know—with a hitch to his voice. From that point on, I’d noticed that every time he’d lied to me or Ma, his voice would change. It was doing it now, too.
And it hurt like hell.
I looked down at the snow. It was already gray and filthy. The purity hadn’t lasted long. It never did. “You want to meet up for drinks? Shoot the shit? Haven’t seen much of you since I got out.”
“I can’t. Maybe some other time.”
I nodded once. “All right, then. Hey, have you seen any of the Bitter Hill guys hanging around our territory? There’s been a rumor that they were stirring up trouble earlier, and Tate wanted me to check into it before I went home for the night.”
A long pause, and then: “Nah, man. I haven’t seen a single one. But I stayed home the past two days with that chick I hooked, so I’m not the most reliable source for that type of intel.”
I stiffened and glanced up toward the window again. Another lie. But I didn’t need my trick to know it this time. After all, I’d seen him with my own two eyes. As I turned away, something red and black caught my eye. I crept around the side of the building, my heart thudding loudly in my ears, echoing like some sick kind of ticking clock, counting down to D-day.
My shop had been tagged by Bitter Hill.
Son of a bitch. Scotty, the same boy whom I’d told fairy-tale stories to until three a.m. whenever he had nightmares as a kid, had put a price on my head. I glared up at the sky, forcing myself to keep my tone neutral. Motherfucker. Out loud I said, “Okay, good. Let me know if you see anything suspicious.”
“Sure thing.”
Scotty hung up, and I gripped my phone so tightly I’m surprised it didn’t crack under the pressure. If I’d had any doubts about his true loyalties . . .
They’d just been torn to shreds.
What the hell had happened when I’d been serving my time? What could have changed my little brother so damn much that he wanted to kill me? Scotty had always been a bit selfish and shortsighted, but fratricide? When had he become someone capable of that?
A small—okay, huge—part of me blamed myself.