Remy was quiet a moment before saying, “Well, I still think he’s following you. Keeping tabs on you.”
Of course, he did. “And I told you, I couldn’t give a shit less if he was.” Which I highly doubted he was. “As long as he stays back and I don’t have to face him, it’s all good.”
“But what if he—”
“Sticks.” I sent him a sharp glance. “I’m not worried about him. He has no reason to come after me. From the moment he realized I couldn’t help him score any drugs and I wasn’t going to give him any handouts, he probably forgot I existed. And I say good. Goodbye and good riddance.”
“Well, I’m going to stay paranoid and keep an eye out for him.”
I shook my head, even though it felt kind of nice that someone was so worried about my welfare. “Suit yourself. I hereby and from henceforth make you my official bodyguard.” When I made a sign of the cross in his direction, he snorted.
“A sign of the cross? Really? What the hell was that about?”
I snickered. “No idea. It just seemed fitting.”
He laughed back. “Man, you are so weird.”
The way he shook his head as if perplexed by my weirdness made me laugh, too. I was about to tease him and tell him he was the idiot who had the big ol’ man crush on me, but I don’t know, I decided to just roll with it.
“You think that’s weird? Well, did you know...” Remembering something I’d read online the night before when I’d been unable to sleep because I’d been stressing about my friendship with him, I asked, “that when they used to cut off a boy’s nuts to make him sing castrato, the lack of testosterone in his body would then make his—”
“Bone joints not quite as hard, ergo they grew longer and gave him more rib capacity to sing with stronger lung power. Yes, I actually did know that.”
My mouth fell open in shock. But damn, how did he know that? I blinked, not sure if I was impressed or irritated that he’d showed me up...again.
Before I could decide, my phone rang.
I tossed my controls aside to reach for it, because once again, Remy was cleaning house without my help. “It’s Pick,” I said, frowning and wondering what was wrong. Did he really need to talk about feelings and shit? I had no clue how to do that, but for Pick, I guessed I’d try.
“What’s up?” I asked in answer.
“Man.” Pick heaved out a long sigh. “Jesus, Asher. You’ll never believe this, but I just got a call from Reese. Mason’s mom died like...an hour ago.”
“What?’ I sat up straight on the couch. “That’s crazy. What happened?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t get the particulars. But she said Mason’s pretty upset. They just picked up his little sister Sarah and she’s not taking it well either. We’re headed over now.” He paused and then added, “See you there?”
“Uh...sure. Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” After I hung up, I continued to stare at the phone as I murmured, “Holy shit.”
Remy paused the game and sat up, concern on his face. “What’s going on?”
“My friend Mason...”
“From the bar? Yeah.” Nodding, he rolled out a hand, urging me to continue. “What about him? He okay?”
“No. I mean, yeah, he is. But his mom...fuck, I guess she just died.”
“Whoa.” Sticks pulled back, blinking. “What happened? Car accident?”
“No idea. Pick didn’t know and Reese didn’t say when she called him.” I pushed to my feet, feeling disoriented as I glanced blindly around the room. “I need to go. Pay my condolences and, I don’t know, shit...just be on hand if they need anything, I guess.”
I should’ve moved, then, but a wave of dizziness assailed me. All I could see were the dead eyes of my own mother, staring sightlessly at nothing. What if Mason’s little sister had seen her mother die?
“Hey. You okay?” Remy clutched my arm, grounding me back to the present.
“Yeah. Fine,” I mumbled. “Just remembering shit from back when. Pick said Mason’s sister Sarah was pretty upset. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was there. What she saw.”
Remy’s intrepid gaze dug into me. “What did you see,” he murmured softly, “when your mom died?”
I sniffed out a sound and shook my head. “Everything,” I answered without really meaning to. But Sticks had a way of prying things out of me with a mere stare.
“That must’ve been pretty shitty. Did you ever talk to anyone about it?”
I glanced at him. “Yeah. Sure. I had to repeat my account of the events about twenty times to the cops and lawyers and judges.”
“No, I mean, like a psychiatrist? Emotional help.”
With a snort, I sent him a get-real glance. “You think my uncle was willing to shell out extra cash for something like that? Yeah, think again.” Stan had thought he’d done his duty plenty by letting me live in his trailer. He hadn’t expended any more effort than that, except to occasionally ask if I needed money to buy my own things.