It’s in this moment right here, of information overload, that my desperation reaches a point it hasn’t reached in years.
“Do not fucking tell me you’re in on this shit, Nick.”
“What?”
“Because I swear to fucking God, I’ll have a goddamn aneurysm right here and now if you’re in on this shit.”
“Jackie.”
“What.”
He holds me still.
“I don’t know what shit you’re specifically referring to.” He swirls his hands around the air between us. “But I can assure you the only shit I’m in on is putting away the bad guys.”
Tension builds between us, then something hits him like a ton of bricks. “And how do you even know there’s shit to be in on?”
“I just fucking know.”
Flashbacks of arguments past fill me up as Nick and I stand there, each waiting for the other to give in.
He holsters his gun.
I win.
“I’m investigating Graham Black.”
Or, maybe not.
I side eye him, and he adds, “Undercover.”
When I don’t respond, he urges me to give him something.
“So if you’ve got something that might be important to add here, you might want to bring it forward. Like now.”
I cross my arms.
I’m fucking stubborn like that.
Irritated, he huffs out through his nose, then he shakes his head and throws his arm up in surrender.
“You do this shit all the time, Jackie. You keep shit bottled up inside you because you don’t trust anyone. I don’t know where the hell that all started, but Jesus, I’m your damn brother. I’m the one person you should trust.”
“Whatever.”
Don’t judge me. It’s all I’ve got right now.
“And who the hell knows, maybe if you’d put a little bit of faith in me at some point before now, you wouldn’t be in this, whatever it is you’re in the middle of. Maybe you’d have realized, despite what that warped, paranoid brain of yours thinks half the time, we’re on the same side. Maybe this shit that you’ve gotten yourself into, wouldn’t be so fucking shitty.”
I take a deep breath and let it out.
Slow.
I reach for my cig and remember it’s lost in the Chevelle somewhere. So I start to head that way.
Nick follows.
Most of the time, when he lectures me about the ins and outs of sharing is caring and I need to be more open about the cases I’m working on with him, it’s kinda like white noise. However, the way he put it this time, it hits me hard. It’s a ton of bricks weighing on my chest, and I can’t take the pangs of guilt wailing away at me anymore.
Who am I kidding? He’s not in on anything shady.
He’s Nick motherfucking Stiles.
There isn’t a deceitful bone in his big ass body.
So I tell him. Fucking everything.
Almost everything.
I tell him the important parts.
As my brother lets it all sink in, I shoot off a text to Green to let her know I’m with Nick and that I’ve gotta follow a lead.
Then I add, Do not leave with Walker. Whatever you do.
She doesn’t need to be with the brothers Stiles when everything goes down. She’s not experienced with this kind of bad. I’d hate for yet another person to get hurt because of me.
I’d hate for her to get hurt. Period.
Before Nick can say anything, like that I need to turn everything I’ve got over to him and let the police handle this case from here on out, I clarify some things for him.
“Listen. You’re right, Nick. I’m not generally one to give a flying fuck about who’s right, who’s wrong, and who’s going to jail for something that may or may not be going on at any given second. I might not always have a working moral fucking compass, but I’m kinda in the middle of this shitstorm, and I’m not going home until that kid is safe.”
I lean up against the Chevelle and try to calm my thoughts. Because like it or not, time is ticking the fuck away while I stand here explaining shit to my brother, who’s probably about to tell me something along the lines of, sorry about your luck.
“What if you can’t do it, Jackson?”
“What?”
“What if you can’t keep him safe? Then what?”
“That’s not a fucking option, Nick.”
He nods.
He fucking gets it.
But then, something happens I wasn’t exactly expecting.
He hits the remote lock on his keychain, and I hear the beep beep of his car somewhere out in the darkness. The bright screen of his phone highlights his face. He sends a quick text of his own and waits at the passenger’s side door of my car.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He grins over at me.
“Let’s go get the kid.”
ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?
RURAL FUCKING REDEMPTION.
The last time I was out this far toward the coast was four or five years ago with Nick and the boys. It scarred me for life. Three hours at a pumpkin patch with toddlers will do wonders for your sense of belief in crowd control, AKA birth control.