Page 26 of Pocketful of Shame

"I'm angry," I admitted tightly, voice raspy and torn. "I'm so fucking hurt."

"I'd be worried if you weren't," Pres said with a sigh, keeping an arm looped around me. "But he's here. That has to count for something, right?"

"He's here because he thinks I can help find his brother's killer," I croaked out bitterly. "That's it."

"Bullshit," Presley argued. "You might be a broken little bird, but you're not obtuse, so don't insult my intelligence by pretending that you can't see how fucking sorry your lion is for clipping your wings."

"He's not my anything." I shivered. "Not anymore."

"Isn't he?" Presley rolled his eyes. "Don’t lie. He's always been your everything. Hell, even Chris knew that." My body stiffened, but he didn’t stop. "You're broken, but you'll mend," he continued, keeping his voice low. "As long as you have air in your lungs and blood in your veins, you're repairable. Right now, you have both. I'd call that a small victory. And the glitches in your brain? No worries. We can patch those up, too."

Not finding anything to say, I let those words sink in.

"All good?" Sketch asked when we reached the truck a few moments later. A mixture of resentment and excitement roared to life inside of me at the sound of his voice. For the first time since arriving in Texas, I found myself feeling my emotions again, feelingeverything.

I didn’t want to feel confused or conflicted. I wanted to stew in my anger for a while longer. I wanted to feeljustifiedin my bitterness, but eleven years of spending every spare second of my days with him had my heart and brain at war. Goddammit, I hated that there was abut…

"Yes," I croaked out, focusing on the present.

"All good in the hood," Presley added, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Sketch's gaze flicked to Pres and he frowned at him before rounding his side of the truck, muttering under his breath.

Chuckling softly, Pres helped me into the backseat before taking his perch in the front.

"Do you think the cops are looking for her?" Sketch asked the minute we were back on the road.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?Of coursethey're looking for her," Presley replied. "They're probably looking for you, too."

"Me?"

"Minor, remember?"

"And what about you, genius?" Sketch shot back. "Don’t forget to include yourself in the missing teenager debacle."

"Nope," Presley replied breezily. "I'm eighteen and accounted for. I'm actually visiting the University of Chicago this week, touring the grounds and planning my future." Smirking, he added, "Mom's so proud. She loved the postcard in the mail."

"Stamped in aTexaspost office?"

Presley grinned. "Never said I sent it."

"You clever bastard."

He chuckled. "Book-ups before hook-ups, brother."

"I'm not your damn brother."

A few minutes of tense silence later and Presley started to toy with the radio, barking out a laugh when Taylor Swift'sThe Way I Loved Youdrifted from the stereo. "Well, this is awks," he chuckled, before crooning out the bittersweet lyrics in his fashionably dramatic style.

"Turn the damn thing off," Sketch grumbled, his eyes locking on mine in the rearview mirror. "So, who's Catochi?"

He didn’t ask how I was feeling. No, he was all business and I appreciated it. I wasn't remotely close to being ready to go through another round ofdeep and meaningfulconversation with him.

"Smooth, dude," Pres groaned. "Real smooth."

"Never claimed to be," Sketch shot back, keeping his eyes on mine. "Well? Catochi?"

It took me a moment to register the name Catochi in my mind but once I did, a cold sweat broke out across my brow. "He was there that night –" Swallowing deeply, I pressed my fingers to my forehead and tried to ward off the nervous breakdown threatening to swallow me up. "In the alleyway."

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