Page 80 of Lone Wolf

“You think I don’t know?” His lips were wobbling now, his face a confusion of sorrow and rage. “Your big fucking insights for me? You think I don’t know I fuck everything up? That I fucked it up with Bri?” He kept shouting at Evan through a hoarse throat. “I know, okay? I did.” He thumped his chest with a fist. “I couldn’t believe how good she was. That she loved me for me. No way, right? What’s the hustle? So I pushed to test it. To see. How ’bout now? How ’bout if I’m drunk? How ’bout if I don’t show up? How ’bout if I let you down? And again? And again? And finally she said, ‘Fuck. I give. I give up. I give up on you.’ And she was right to. And it’s not fucking fixable ever, and now and then I want a little rum. I just want a little rum and for everyone to stay the fuck out of my face.” He was cry-screaming, pathetic. “So get the fuck out of my face, Evan.”

Evan couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed anger to seep through him like this. He slammed Andre against the dumpster again, and Andre collapsed to the ground.

“Happily,” Evan said. “You piece of shit.”

He walked out of the alley, head down, boots rippling the pooled water, making the heavens wobble. He came around the corner, striding to the crosswalk. His palms were hot and he felt his heart thumping in his chest and he wondered how he could deal with lethal assassins and psychopathic CEOs while barely breaking a sweat and yet this useless drunk, a lost foster-home boy like him, could set his nerves on edge, infect him like a virus.

The Ten Commandments shielded him from letting in weakness, from drowning in shades of gray. He couldn’t open the door now. If he did, who else would come through? And how many more complications would they bring?

At a point it was too much. Joey with her needs. Sofia with her shitty little dog. Dr. Hill and Jayla. The Wolf and whoever had set her in motion. Allman plotting the digital overthrow of human civilization.

Evan had asked for help but he’d only gotten more mess, more problems, more responsibility.

He halted.

The F-150 beckoned across the street, shiny and clean, part war machine, part escape vehicle.

He pictured Andre as a husky kid back in Pride House, how he’d sit on his top bunk sketching in his notepad, drawing sexy girls and superheroes and Cadillacs, visions of a future where he wasn’t someone laid out drunk in the shadow of a dumpster behind a third-rate bar. He thought about himself groggy with vodka on the couch in the Tarzana safe house, Joey storming in with the RoamZone, throwing it at his chest. It’s not just you, you know. Jack standing amid the Virginia oaks. What if there’s no one to fix anything? Except you.

Lowering his head, he let a sigh seep through his clenched teeth. Kicked the toe of his boot twice into the pavement.

Then he turned around and walked back into the alley.

Andre hadn’t gotten up. He lay crumpled against the dumpster, arms splayed, the puddle soaking into his jeans.

Evan stood over him. Andre didn’t stir but his eyes ticked up, the whites shining in the gloom.

“Come on,” Evan said.

“Lea’ me alone.”

“Come on.”

Andre’s eyes were wet. He sounded like a little boy. “Fuck you.”

“Andre.”

“I’m not fucking perfect like you! Okay? I didn’t get a shot. Didn’t get rescued out of the home. I crawled out. And I’m still crawling, you arrogant motherfucker. I’m still…”

His hands went to his face, trembling, and he was sobbing as openly as a child.

Evan’s mouth was dry. He said, “Andre.”

Andre shoved his hands across his chest under his arms, hugging himself, eyes downcast, shuddering with grief.

“I’m sorry.” Evan’s throat was thick. “Andre.”

Nothing.

Evan put out his hand. “Brother.”

Andre looked up at him, sweat-damp hair in his eyes, face swollen.

He held out a trembling hand.

Evan lifted him up.

Brianna peered out at Evan through the two-inch slice allowed by the security door latch. She wore a bathrobe, a champagne-colored silk head wrap, and a scowl. She took Evan’s measure, undid the door, and walked away, leaving him to follow.