Page 91 of Pack Me Up
“Fox got quiet. Never complained, just started training. He started fighting professionally before joining the company. I think it helped him channel his pain.”
“And Hunter?” she asks.
The ache in my chest sharpens. I rub at it, but it doesn’t help. “He was just a kid. For a long time, he didn’t know what he’d lost. He’d wake up in the morning and ask where Mom was, and I’d have to tell him, again and again, that she wasn’t coming back. Sometimes he’d cry, sometimes he’d just go back to sleep.” My hands tremble so bad I have to hide them in the blanket. “He’s the best of us, you know? The wild one, the funny one.But he never got a childhood. He went straight to being the pack clown, keeping the rest of us from coming apart.”
She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “He loves you. They all do.”
I didn’t believe that before she came along but our pack is whole now with her in it and these old wounds have started to heal.
I feel the heat of her body next to mine. For the first time, the memories don’t feel like they’re going to swallow me whole.
I look over at Brittney. She’s watching me, eyes bright, mouth set in a determined line.
“Saint,” she says, and the way she says it makes my chest ache. “You know you don’t have to do everything by yourself, right?”
I want to argue and tell her about all the times I did have to. Like when Hunter broke his arm jumping off the roof and I spent six hours in the ER trying not to cry in front of strangers. I want to tell her that being alone is the only way I know how to be.
But I don’t. I let her hold my hand.
She squeezes, gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to mess up,” she says. “You’re allowed to need help.”
The words land heavy, but instead of crushing me, they sink in slow and deep, like the first drink of water after a long run. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was.
She slides her other hand over mine, sandwiching my fist in both of hers. Her touch is steady, a quiet pulse of warmth that spreads up my arm and into my chest. “You’re not weak for wanting to protect them,” she says. “You just need to let them protect you sometimes, too.”
Here, now, with her hands holding mine and her scent wrapping around me, I feel something shift. The weight in my shoulders lets up. The tightness in my throat goes slack.
“I don’t want to fuck it up again,” I say, the confession ragged.
“You won’t,” she says, without a second’s hesitation. “And even if you do, we’ll fix it. That’s what a pack is for.”
I pull her in. I wrap my arms around her, bury my face in her hair, and hold her as tight as I dare. She melts against me, no hesitation, her cheek pressed to my neck, breath hot and alive.
For the first time since I was sixteen, I feel like maybe it’s okay to let someone else share the weight.
That’s what pack is supposed to mean.
Cody
PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #130
BREAKDOWN OF LOOMER PACK BACKGROUND CHECKS
May 12th
From my vantage at side-stage, the pit looks like a living thing, breathing in time with the bass.
Brittney’s out front, half-lit by a teal stage light, hair loose and wild around her face. She holds the mic like a weapon. She’s transformed since the first days on tour. Back then, she’d shrink, eyes darting to the floor, letting the space swallow her. Now she’s got the crowd by the throat, and she knows it.
Tommy’s beside her, grinning. He’s hitting the harmonies, eyes closed, hips moving with the beat in a way that’s almost obscene. The two of them make a perfect pair.
My job is to be the invisible wall. I scan every face in the first five rows, noting those who appear too wired, too glassy-eyed, or too desperate to get closer than the line allows. The security at this place is better than most, but that doesn’t mean I trust them. Some are just killing time until their next smoke break. That’s why Saint insisted we do our own coverage.
Hunter and Fox are down there, blocking the pit from the stage.
There’s a soft static in my left ear, Colton’s voice comes through, barely above a whisper. “Stage left clear. Third row, blue hair, possible jumper.” I clock the girl immediately. She’s small, wound up tight, legs flexing with each build in the chorus. I file it away and keep her in my peripheral while I let my eyes move to the other weak points: the emergency exit by the pit, the cluster of kids with their phones already out, looking for an angle.
Brittney launches into the chorus, and the crowd surges, a collective lunge toward the front. The lighting catches the sweat on her temple, making her glow. I feel my chest go tight.
