Page 3 of Pocketful of Us

1

Sketch

Iremembered once reading somewhere about the five stages of grief.

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance.

Five words. Five stages. So many different meanings. Was that what was happening to me now?

It sure fucking felt like it.

Goddammit, the world needed to stop spinning because I needed off.

No, scratch that, Quinton Presley needed to stoptalking. The pain in my heart was his fault, dammit. He was the one lying to me, spurting the most terrible things that made zero fucking sense. He needed to stop making it hard for me to breathe.

Drowning in waves of too many tumultuous emotions, I barely blinked, keeping my eyes glued to my dead brother's lover, as he continued to blow my world apart with word after reckless word.

Every asshole in the room was looking at me, waiting for a reaction I wasn’t sure would come because Icouldn’t take this in.

Not one goddamn word.

"Stop talking." They were the only two words I could think in this moment. They were the only words my lips could form and say. "Please." Another word. This one laced with more desperation than I'd felt in my whole life. "Please stop talking."

"I'm so sorry, Sketch." Releasing a pained groan, Presley kept a death grip on his pool cue as he paced the floor. "I hate that I'm the one who had to tell you all of this."

"I thought you liked me." My throat felt like it was closing up. "I thought you were my friend, Pres."

He winced, looking genuinely pained. "I am your friend, man."

No. He wasn't. He couldn’t be. Not if… "Then why are you doing this to me?" The pain in my heart had grown to epic proportions and I couldn’t soothe the ache.

Rubbing the throbbing part of my chest that was covered in bandages, I didn’t dare look down for fear of seeing my own heart hemorrhaging through my ribcage. Because that's sure as hell what it felt like right now. My whole world had just been shot to pieces – my body included, courtesy of Cal the dick Dillon – and I was reeling.

Holy fuck, was I dying?

Was this real?

Am I still in a coma?

Fuck, I hoped so.

"You're not a Capaldi, Sketch," Presley continued to torment me with his cruel words. "You've been lied to your whole life. Chris wasn't your brother and he was killed to prevent you from finding out."

Hands balled into fists on my lap, I tried to concentrate on the words spilling from Presley's overactive lips, I really fucking tried, but it was hard to focus when I was wedged between my kidnappers. "Can y'all back the fuck up?" I bit out, trying and failing to free myself from Pinky and the goddamn Brain. "Seriously, dude, you need to learn about personal space." Wrinkling my nose up, I glared at the fat one with the yellow teeth. "And you definitely need to learn how to take a shower."

"That's what I said!" Presley chimed in enthusiastically. "It's basic human hygiene, Mr. Gonzalez, sir. Soap, water, and a wash cloth–"

Gonzalez slammed his fist on the table. "One more word and I will cut you open and feed your tiny bones to my dogs."

"Okie-dokie." Presley held his hands up and chuckled nervously. "No Christmas basket of scented soaps for you this year."

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