Something snapped inside my chest. Not the pain of accusation, but the white-hot rage at being powerless—at being forced into the same role over and over, even after all these years.
I stood up, not caring how my legs wobbled or if the whole bar was watching. “You think I wanted to leave?” I said, voice low but loud enough to carry. “You think I ever wanted to walk out on my own fucking life?”
Damon scoffed. “Sure looked that way from where we were standing.”
Mason tried to step between us again, but Damon shoved him back, sending him crashing into the jukebox with a hollow thunk. Walker was on his feet now, too, but he didn’t move, just hovered, gaze flicking from me to Damon and back.
I stared down at Damon. “You want the truth? Talk to my father.” That was as close as I’d ever come to talking about that night.
“Don’t bring your dad into this,” Damon snarled. “This is about you.”
But it wasn’t. Not really.
I blinked, and the world went sideways.
The memory was jagged and bright as lightning: my father’s face inches from mine, his breath reeking of bourbon and rot. The pain in my ribs, the bloody taste in my mouth, the words burned into my ear:If you ever tell anyone what happened tonight, I’ll make sure you regret it. I’ll make sure everyone regrets it.
The smell of smoke, the flicker of orange flame. Ty screaming. Me, running through the dark, my hands slippery with blood that wasn’t mine. The sound of my own heart, hammering so loud I couldn’t hear the sirens or the shouts or anything but my father’s threats, echoing forever.
I came back to the present with a gasp, like I’d been underwater.
Damon was yelling now, face red, spit flying from his lips. “You think you can blame anyone and everyone for your disappearing act? Then stroll back into town, buying upranches, like nothing ever happened? You think money buys you forgiveness?”
I was shaking, but not from fear. From fury and grief and the utter, gutting frustration of not being able to explain myself—not to these men, not even to myself.
Walker finally moved, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” he said, gentle as a lullaby. “You don’t have to take this.”
I shrugged him off, voice raw. “Yeah. I do.”
Gray finally approached, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowed. He put a hand on Damon’s chest, making him step back without force, only his quiet power as a patriarch of sorts. He looked at me, but didn’t say anything at first, just studied my face like he was seeing more than just his old friend. He was seeing a mystery he didn’t know existed.
He spoke quietly, but his words hit like a punch. “What exactly are you saying happened that night?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. My tongue felt thick, my throat locked.
The words were right there. I could see them, taste them.
But I couldn’t say them.
All I managed was, “You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with.”
Gray held my gaze a beat longer. “Maybe not. But I’m willing to listen.”
It was more grace than I deserved.
Damon, though, wasn’t done. “Don’t bother,” he spat at Gray. “Some people never change.”
He turned on his heel and stomped out, the door slamming so hard the glass rattled.
The silence left behind was heavier than before.
Mason made his way back to us, rubbing his shoulder. Walker just kept watching me, that sad, knowing half-smile on his lips.
I took a breath. Then another.
Finally, I threw a couple twenties onto the bar, the paper sticking to the ring of my bottle.
I looked at Gray, at Mason, at Walker.
