Page 3 of Bruised

“I’m beat. Wanna crash right here?”

“Sure.”

We end up splayed out on the couch, half covered by blankets and half covered by snack crumbs. Oliver always sleeps like a rock, and it’s nearly impossible to wake him up without a megaphone blaring in his ear.

For me, it takes a bit longer to settle in, but after a while, I fall asleep with the tentative hope of a chill, cozy summer in front of me. A summer with my best friend, full of snacks, late-night gaming, and no worries about the world outside our little bubble, or even what future awaits us.

The sound of a car door slamming jerks me awake.

Oliver is still snoring away, but I’m wide awake, heart pounding in my chest.

I get up from the couch and pad toward the kitchen to look out the window facing the front yard. There’s an old, beat-up-looking car by the road. It drives away, and the next thing I know, someone unlocks the front door.

What the fuck? Oliver said his mom was abroad on that trip, so who else can it be?

I hurry over to the couch. “Hey, wake up.”

Oliver wipes his nose with his hand and grumbles, “What is it?”

“Someone’s here,” I hiss, panicked. When I turn around, my breath catches in my throat.

A young man stands in the hallway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks tired, with dark lines under his eyes like knife marks.

Speak of the devil; we were literally just talking about him. Oliver said he was locked up, though, so what the hell is he doing here?

He doesn’t even look at me before he turns to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and gets out a jug of milk.

“Mason?” Oliver has woken up at last, and unlike my usual experience of his slow wake-up routine, he shoots from the couch, looking surprised, a little worried, and… angry?

The intruder—Mason—keeps drinking from the milk jug, unbothered. He’s dressed in plain clothes: gray sweatpants, a dark gray sweater, and nondescript sneakers. He’s tall and broad, with sculpted shoulders and a lean, muscled torso. I bet he’s got a six-pack under those baggy clothes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Oliver all but growls. His morning mood can be pretty bad, but I’ve never seen him like this. “I thought you weren’t getting out for another six months. December, that’s what Mom said!”

Mason stops gulping down the milk at last and sends Oliver a glance. “Ever heard of early release, little brother?” he says, voice deep and rumbling.

It’s the type of voice that settles in your bones. It’s sure settling in mine. I feel shaky and a little dizzy, like the time I had three energy drinks at once and spent a sleepless night regretting my life decisions.

“Why didn’t you call?” Oliver asks.

“Mom said I could stay here.”

“Stay?” Oliver squeaks.

“Needed to report an address on my release form,” Mason says with a shrug. “I’m on parole, so my options are pretty limited.”

“What about your apartment?” Oliver asks.

“Lost it when I went in.”

I try to make sense of the conversation. From what I gather, Mason got released on parole, and when he was convicted—for what, I don’t know—he lost his apartment.

He rips into the cabinet next, grabs a spoon, and starts eating peanut butter straight from the jar.

“How long are you staying?” Oliver asks.

I stay in the awkward space between the living room and the kitchen, watching their exchange. Neither of them acknowledges my existence, and I’m not about to inject myself into a conversation where I’m not wanted. At the same time, I don’t know what else to do other than watch them.

Watch him.