Page 20 of Last Man Standing

My brother’s disappointed expression brands itself in a special corner of my psyche. The way he looked at me, the way he never has before, promises to revisit me in my dreams later tonight.

Right alongside the pain in Sebastion’s eyes every single time I speak to him.

Put the stick down, Scarlett.

8

SEBASTION

POKÉMON TRADE

How can a woman who trades jab for jab with a guy like me end up the victim of some pissant like Roy Daniels? How could all five-feet-nine-inches of white-collar pussy lock her out of their apartment, and she just… cry about it?

But if I offer her an avocado and mention her period, she’s ready to fight?

How can she fearlessly drive her knife into my gut, but folks like Daniels are left to weave their webs of soul-destroying words and well-placed taps on the chin?

His existence made a vibrant woman bitter. His cruelty made her hard. And his death made her mean.

Fucked if I know how those dudes operate. I suppose I’m just too damn literal to understand the intricacies of peeling a woman’s spirit back, layer by layer.

I didn’t do the crime, but I’m the unlucky motherfucker who gets to share a house with the dusty remnants of who this chick used to be. The package is still in damn good shape, but the bullshit hidden inside, the insanity swirling in her brain? Yeah, that’s for the men who give a shit enough to carry someone else’s baggage.

That ain’t me.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself every time we’re in the same room.

If she comes to the kitchen for coffee, and I’m already sitting at the counter? She ignores my existence, fills her mug, and makes me wonder why the hell I’m still here.

Nova’s not gonna cause trouble for us. And who gives a fuck about Scarlett’s letter-dropper? Richard’s dead, and my mother’s location remains, to this day, a secret.

If I’m already in the living room and Princess Scarlett wanders in with her pencils and book clutched close, she stops, swallows, and leaves again.

And still, I stay.

It’s not like I don’t have better things to do.

But do I get up and go?

No. I don’t.

Twelve days after Scarlett arrived in Mount Gaines and torpedoed a spanner through our plans to get the hell out of Dodge, Lincoln stalks through the back door, stomps across the kitchen, and slaps his phone onto the counter beside my elbow.

“Uh… you good?” With a lifted brow and not a lot of sympathy for his shitty mood, I press my finger to the phone screen and slide it away. “Or are you being noisy cause you think it turns me on?”

“Nova!” He lifts his mouth to the ceiling and shouts loud enough to be heard all the way over in fuckin’ Kentucky. “Kitchen!”

“What are y⁠—”

“Scarlett, too.”

He whips the fridge open and snatches out a can of Coke. Cracking the seal, he brings fiery eyes my way. Finally. “Family meeting.”

“Family?” I look left. Right. Then to the hallway entrance as Scarlett emerges and swaps her wary gaze for a glare of impatience. She saves that shit just for me. I tap the counter and push to my feet. “I don’t see my family in this room, so I suppose I’ll get outta your hair and leave you to it.”

“What’s going on?” Nova wanders in; curious, concerned, cautious. “What happened?”

“Stay.” Lincoln claps a hand on my shoulder to keep me where I am, then he takes a long pull of his soda and peeks toward his sister. “I just got off the phone with Detective Mills.”