Page 58 of Havoc
Havoc
Aimee and I don’tspeak about why I’m covered in blood or what else happened with Titan. We let the presence of each other replace conversation and do what we’ve always done best when nothing else makes sense: we’re simply there for each other.
The first time I saw Aimee, I had an instant crush. She embodied a girl who would never give a guy like me a shot in hell. Too smart. Too pretty. Confident and funny. I knew I didn’t have a chance, but I couldn’t help myself.
I chased her to the point of my own embarrassment. And for some unknown reason, she slowly grew into the idea of letting me hang around. We didn’t have a lot in common where our backgrounds and family lives were concerned, apart from the fact that both our moms walked out on us. But still, she understood me better than anyone else.
There’s this bond. This tie. This soul tether that keeps us together.
As Aimee stood in the shower with me, I clung to that. The security of her body against mine.
Here, when I spent so many years thinking I would never see her again.
I held her and wished it were in my power to fix what broke. It’s just not possible.
So we stood under the water until it ran clean. Until we were back in the present and the past settled alongside all our other haunted memories. Only then did we climb out of the shower.
She cleaned my split knuckles but didn’t ask what happened. Once we were dressed, I gave her a kiss and left for the kitchen to get her something to eat. It was the least I could do, even if it wasn’t enough.
Nothing feels like enough these past few days. Every time I look in her eyes, I wonder why she’s giving me a second chance.
It makes sense now—all that resentment and anger when we were first brought together again. I should have been here to protect her. Or, at the very least, known what was happening so my club could have stopped it.
I failed her.
That regret is something I live with as we coexist, and I do my best not to let her see that I hate myself when she shows me any hint of affection.
I don’t deserve it.
But I don’t pull away either. I can’t. I need her.
Thankfully, Aimee seems to feel the same way because she hasn’t asked me to sleep anywhere else but in bed with her since the night of the party. She wants me close, and I’ll give her anything if it means she’s at peace enough to sleep soundly without needing to barricade the door.
Even when I come back to the room late—which is more often than not—there’s no furniture blocking my path. She trusts me, and she trusts that she’s safe here.
Which is why I can’t slow down these past few days. Helping around Kings Auto when one of the guys got the flu. Digging through security footage with Ghost. Scanning bank statements with Legacy. Looking for any clue that gets us closer to Anderson and Titan.
Having a mission gives me clarity, and that’s all I’m clinging to right now.
Unfortunately, keeping that busy also means I don’t see Aimee as much as I’d like to. She’s asleep by the time I climb into bed, and I’m up before the sun. I can’t relax until this is settled. Only then will this be done.
I roll my bike to a stop in Dad’s driveway, cutting the engine and climbing off. Every year, he wastes more money on booze and women, while his house continues to dilapidate.
I’ve tried to help by sending contractors over to fix issues with the house as I spot them, but at this point, it’s almost impossible to keep up with the amount of work that needs to be done. Especially when he doesn’t give a shit. He’s rotting, from his liver to the walls he lives in, and he barely notices.
Sometimes, I consider cutting him off and letting him waste away. It’s clear that’s what he wants. But unlike him, I still believe in loyalty. So here I am.
I don’t bother knocking when I reach his front door. Most of the time, he’s too drunk to answer, and it’s rare that it’s locked.
As I head inside, I find him passed out in a recliner in the living room. The television is cycling through his favorite show, so he’s probably been asleep for a while.
I start my usual pattern of straightening up the house and wiping down the surfaces. By the time breakfast is cooked and cold, he wanders into the kitchen and finds me sitting at the table. Pancakes and sausage are sitting out, but he skips the food and pours himself a glass of vodka instead.
One gulp and he downs it like water.
Looking at him is like staring into some sort of fucked-up mirror. We have the same jawline and eyes. But his face is red and puffy, and there are dark circles under his eyes. The effects of drinking too much for too long are starting to wear on him.
“When the fuck did you get here?” Dad wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
