Page 18 of Cheap Shot
The door squeaks open, and I spin around, finding a new target for my rage. A much better target. He’s not phased, never is. Walking in with an ease to his stride that only fuels my anger even more. “I don’t think Momma will appreciate you knocking out walls in the house. If you want to redecorate, the least you can do is not take a sledgehammer to the walls.”
That voice. It’s just likehis. Different, but the same. Both want the same. He knew. He helped. I know he did. He wants to make it worse. To help him control everything. Again. Always back to what he wants. Never me. Never. Me.
I don’t say a word. I just lunge in his general direction, needing to lash out.
But there is someone in the way. Not him. I can’t. Not her. She’stoo close.
I manage to jerk my hand back just in time—almost didn’t. Almostdidn’t. Not her. She is the only one who cares, who sees me anymore. And I almost hurt her.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, Momma.” I reach toward her, but he steps between us. He shakes his head, motioning for me to take a step back.
My usually calm, easy-going big brother’s eyes are full of concern and something else I can’t place. His eyes remain locked on mine, opening his mouth to speak. “Momma, I forgot to grab the garlic bread you asked me for.”
“Is he—” A gut-wrenching sob bubbles up her throat, but she uses her hand to silence it.
I want to go to her. To let her know that I’m fine. It’s the…the…the… I don’t know what the hell that was, but it won’t happen again. I won’t let it. Not to her. Never with her. I’ve been angry before, but that was different. It was uncontrollable, but a part of me didn’t want to control it either. And that scares the hell out of me. The fear cracks through the fury flowing through me like a lightning strike.
“He’s gonna be fine, Momma.”
She leans around him, her eyes locking with mine for a moment before I drop them to the floor. Shame and embarrassment overwhelm me, but it goes beyond that. So much deeper than anything I’ve ever felt since Dad died. Since I lost my biggest champion. But the rage is still there, burning under the surface, waiting for its chance to strike.
What if Ihadn’tstopped? What if I’d never recognized Momma? Tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes widened in pure horror as my fist came inches from—No. No, no?—
“Cole.” The coldness in Beau’s voice is foreign to me, but deserved. I want to run and hide away from the consequences, but I won’t. I deserve the tongue lashing I’m sure he’s about to give me.
I don’t even raise my head to respond to him before—crack. His fist slams into my jaw, causing my head to recoil back from the impact. Sharp. Solid. Real. Everything snaps back, sudden and brutal.
I stumble back slightly, barely remaining on my feet as my vision reels. I want to clench my eyes shut, to stop the world from spinning around me, but I don’t. I deserve this, deserve the pain for what I almost did. Of what could have happened if I hadn’t been able to stop myself.
“What thefuckis going on with you, Cole?” Beau growls, stalking closer to me.
I brace myself for another hit, but it never comes. I look up, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. I don’t say a word, just stare at him, waiting for him to dole out his punishment.
Beau stares at me, eyes wide as he examines my face. Every muscle in his body is shaking, chest heaving, trying to decide if he wants to hit me again or not. His hands remain curled into fists, staring at me like he doesn’t know who I am anymore. And if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t know if I do either.
The ringing sound in my ears lessens but doesn’t disappear completely, a constant reminder of what Beau prevented.Fuck.I was worried about getting another concussion on the ice, not from being punched by my brother. Either way, I deserve it.
“Answer me, Cole. What the fuck is going on?”
I stagger back, my knees hitting the bed and buckling. My body drops onto the bed like my legs weren’t able to hold me up any longer. The rage is still there, burning under the surface, like a slow poison infecting my entire system, rotting me from the inside out.
My head drops to my head, and I inhale deeply. Once. Twice. My body trembles as the increased adrenaline leaves my system. I look down at my hands—shaking, red, raw from putting them through the wall. But all I can think about is what could have happened if Beau hadn’t been here. The fear in Momma’s eyes will haunt me for the rest of my life. Not fear for herself about what was happening, but fear for me. Fear that I had reached a point I can’t come back from.
I wipe a hand down my face to remove the dripping sweat, but it can’t remove the shame of what I almost did. Nothing can remove the shame or scrub away the heat crawling up my spine as bile rises, burning its way up my throat. I can’t decide if I want to puke, scream, or claw my way out of my skin.
“Shit,” I whisper, my voice cracking, completely wrecked from all the screaming I’d done, but I don’t dare speak anything louder. “I wasn’t gonna?—”
I choke on my words, knowing damn well I don’t know that. I have no idea if I would’ve stopped if Beau wasn’t standing there. If my mother had come into the room first instead of Beau, would I have been able to stop? Would I have noticed she wasn’t either of my brothers if she hadn’t made those small gasps, allowing my mind to focus for a moment? At that moment, I wasn’t her son. I wasn’t their brother. I don’t even know if I was myself.
I don’t have to look up to know that Beau is still in the room, waiting for me to answer. I can feel him; his anger and concern for whatever is going on with me is coming off him in waves. I should tell him everything that has been happening to me. Not just in the last few weeks, but years. The alcohol, the drugs, everything I’ve done to stay relevant. To be needed. To be wanted. But I don't. Instead, I remain silent. This has never happened before, and it won’t happen again. I’ve always been a hothead, but never anything this out of control. It’s probably because of the stress, the exhaustion I’ve felt since leaving the hospital two months ago. I just need to get back on track. To get back to my routine, and everything will be all right. Just like it's always been.
“Hey,” Beau whispers as he inches closer slowly, the floor of my bedroom creaking under the weight of his careful footsteps before coming to a stop in front of me. I can see his beat-up sneakers, covered in grass and dirt from outside. He must have walked across the lawn instead of on the path leading to the front door. Momma had someone come cut the grass yesterday, although this will be my job once my shoulder is healed more, so there are still clippings scattered around the lawn.
“I’m not a bomb about to explode, Beau.” My voice is barely above a whisper, but I know he heard me. I don’t look up. I can’t. I’m not ready to feel the weight of his judgmental stare. Clenching my eyes shut, I focus on my breathing. The feel of my elbows on my knees. The weight of my head in my hands. My hands tremble on either side of my face, my body still shaking from the adrenaline dump.
“You could’ve fooled me.” His voice remains calm and low, offering me a lifeline. A way out of the rage that once consumed me, but I don’t take it. It’s as if he’s tossing a rope to someone drowning, without asking if they wanted to be saved.
“Touché.” I chuckle darkly, waiting for the rage to consume me a second time. Thankfully, it doesn’t, but it’s still there. It’s always there. Simmering below the surface.
