I was terrified Lucky was coming, scared to death of facing him after such a long time, but for some reason seeing the four of them together across the parking lot canceled that out, and it pissed me off.
Why the fuck are they here?
None of them should be here, they shouldn’t want to be here, not after everything that happened. They should have stayed the hell away like they have the last three years. No phone calls, no texts, no unexpected visits. They should hate me for what I did to them, what I did tous,but judging solely on their surprise ambush, they fucking don’t.
I flick my cigarette in their direction and light another one.
Each of them shifts uncomfortably, unsure if they should start walking toward me or run back to the van and burn rubber. I know they know the look on my face, they’ve all been on the receiving end of it at one point or another.
They should know better.
Hitting my cigarette so hard I drag half of it into my lungs, the burn of my anger suddenly gives way and as I exhale, it becomes something else entirely.
The four men before me, my band, my family, they stand there in silent awe, watching, waiting, barely fucking breathing. They look just as scared as I am.
Why are they here?
I’m a mere few feet away from them when the first tear breaks free from my lower lid and slides down my cheek. Another rolls down my face as my legs give out, dropping to my knees, folding my body in half at the waist as the floodgates burst open, and I start sobbing.
Loud, angry, totally unflattering sobs that have me shaking violently. I can’t stop it even if I wanted to.
The rush of guilt and sadness that washes over me is not expected, but it’s not unwelcome. It’s almost cathartic. My sobs racking my body, three years of bottled-up bullshit popping the cork and exploding through my tears. I haven’t cried over any of this, not what happened and losing these men specifically, and I guess now is as good a time as any.
I’m shaking so hard it hurts when I feel arms wrap around me, strong arms that smell like clove cigarettes and Vintage Black.
I know these arms and this smell. It’s been one of my favorite scents for thirteen years.
Instead of jerking away or running back to my car or apartment or wherever I could find a place to hide, I bury my face in those arms, wrapping myself around the hard lines of Lucky’s torso and cry harder than I have in forever.
I can feel the rumble in his chest, the way it expands and contracts, and I press my forehead there right over his heart, the heart that is beating wildly against my face.
“I’m here,” Lucky soothes, holding me tighter while he rubs my back. “I’m here, we’re all here.” Then he’s pulling me to my feet and eliminating any space between us.
I feel the others closing in then, the three of them wrapping their arms around the two of us, a head resting on each of my shoulders and one on top of my own.
And I’m suddenlyhome.
“We must be a ridiculous fucking sight,” Mark says, breaking the silence after who knows how long, his voice raspy as always but more watery than usual. “Four grown-ass men covered in tattoos, hugging and crying in some random parking lot. Even if they could see Leo through all this bullshit, it still wouldn’t make a damn bit of sense.”
A couple of them chuckle but their embrace only tightens.
My boys never did mind showing their emotions and right now, I’m not sure if I’m glad for it, or still scared of it.
Then the faint smell of burning fabric hits my nose and I remember I was smoking a cigarette when the shit hit the fan.
“Fuck!” Norman shouts as he jumps back, the circle breaking so he can frantically pat himself down before stopping at the rolled cuff of his jeans. “How did that even get in there?” He pulls my Camel from the still smoldering hole then hits it with a grin before tossing it on the ground.
Everyone takes a minute to gather themselves, wiping eyes and noses as they give me a little space. All except Lucky, who makes sure to keep a protective arm around my shoulders and his chin resting on top of my head. Because they all think I’m going to run, and he’s most likely to keep me from doing it.
They’re not wrong.
I’ve finally stopped crying, but I’ll bolt faster than I ever have at the first chance I get, even if a huge part of me doesn’t want to.
That’s the part I need to hold on to.
Especially as I look around, trying desperately to get a read on what happens next, scanning each of their faces as if it’ll give me a clue because this doesn’t feel real, and I don’t know what the hell to do.
5
