The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Read online

  Eyebrows raised, I wave a hand, gesturing for him to share whatever epiphany he thinks he's had.

  “At first, I thought you were scared, and that you didn't have what it takes to make it here. But now, after training with you for so many years, I've come to realize...you're just a cocky bitch.” He chuckles, licking at the trail of crimson drying on his bottom lip. “You think winning is inevitable and everyone here is beneath you. And hell, I'm not saying you're wrong, but you're kind of a dick about it. More so than Ice. Who, for the record, gets special treatment because everyone thinks he's the best...but they're wrong. You're the best, and you're waiting for the day when everyone realizes that the student has surpassed the teacher.” He grins, proud of an incorrect assumption. “I'm right, aren't I?”

  Grabbing a towel from the rack, I dab at my cheeks, hiding a shit-eating grin, and head for the door, leaving Eric and his objections behind. He, as well as many others here, have attempted to engage me in conversation, but it never works. I don't do friendship or camaraderie of any kind. Building that kind of relationship with another person requires two things—trust and loyalty—and I possess neither.

  The other women here assume Ice is my friend, but they're wrong. Friendship has nothing to do with the fact that I allow him to hit me. I let it happen because when Ice swings, he means it. As far as trainers go, Ice is as ruthless as he is heartless, which means he's my only real competition. The other trainees fear him, the Blacklighters hate him, but I respect him. I'm better because he doesn't pull punches. When we're going toe-to-toe and he lashes out, those blows aren't in the name of training; they're his fuel. Aching knuckles incite joy within him. Breathless opponents give his life purpose. Every time Ice and I engage in a fight, it's an exchange, an understanding. Give and take.

  Our arrangement works because I get him.

  Because I'm the only person here colder than a man named Ice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kessler

  “Good luck, Mr. Lawson.”

  Benny Callahan, resident cheese puff addict and my least favorite guard, offers up a shaking fist and a smile. What an ass. My eyes lower and I glare at the offending appendage for so long, he eventually drops it. I'm not fist-bumping a guard, especially one with orange fingers.

  Before my time here, I wasn't one to hold grudges, but a lot has changed. I still haven't forgotten the time he bashed me upside the head with his baton when a fight broke out that I had nothing to do with. I had a migraine for a week. Not that I can fault him for his actions. Shit goes down and the guards neutralize the big guys first. It's smart. The last thing you want a physically dangerous man to become is a threat.

  “Stay out of trouble, yeah?” Benny slides a cardboard box over the counter and I catch the slight wobble of his lips when he smiles. The man is weak. Scared. Trying to make amends in case I decide to stay behind and jump him after his shift. Lucky for Benny, I have better things to do, and I refuse to be part of the demographic that gets thrown right back inside after release. I've dumped my prison-issued jumpsuits into the laundry bin for the last time, and as of today, my one solitary goal is to keep my nose clean and construct some semblance of a life for myself. Which is why I take the high road.

  “Take it easy on these guys, Benny. I know it's easy to forget, but they're human.” I grab the box housing my meager belongings with one hand and head out the front door before he can formulate a response.

  Throughout my first year behind bars, I imagined my release would be cause for celebration. But now I'm smart enough to know that the whole damn system is rigged. I—Kessler Lawson—have a record now. Meaning the world expects nothing from me but failure and has no qualms discriminating against me for the sins of my past, making rehabilitation nearly impossible. But I'm nothing if not determined, so I set my attention on the chain link fence and coiled razor wire looming before me. Or, more precisely, to the gap allowing my escape.

  Guards nod as I pass, their faces stoic, fingers lingering next to the alarm button on their radios. A couple dozen steps out...and I'm a free man. Nothing but me, a half-deserted parking lot, and air so clean I almost choke on it. It's a shock to my lungs—no piss, no bleach, no blood—just oxygen atoms bonded with reluctance and freedom. Glorious, terrifying freedom. I'm so free, in fact, if I want to drop my shit and run from here to the Mississippi, I can. If I want to drink myself into oblivion, nothing's stopping me. If I want to steal the Mercedes in the corner of the lot and drive it off the tallest bridge in Missouri, I fucking can.

  “Kessler.”

  My name, paired with a voice I haven't heard in eight years, freezes my feet to the asphalt. Sadly, I won't be running or committing grand theft auto today. Not in the presence of an officer of the law. Considering there are six million people in the show me state, and this jackass is the first one I cross, I'm guessing Karma hasn't forgotten me.

  Griffin's boots thud lazily against the pavement as he enters my periphery. When he's only a yard away, he stops, rocks back on his heels, and waits, no doubt wondering if I'm going to hug him or strangle him.

  Jury's still out on that.

  Thick hands remain tucked securely around his duty belt as he taps a finger against the pistol holstered on his hip, but unlike the arrogant guards inside, when Griffin does this, it's not a taunt or even a warning. It's a tell—a nervous tic he's had since the very first day he strapped on a badge and vowed to protect the citizens of New Liberty, Missouri.

  “Griffin.” I turn to face a man I once idolized, nodding in stone-cold welcome.

  What I see before me serves as a reminder of how much time I've served. We've both aged significantly since the last time our paths crossed, but where Griffin has laugh lines peeking through his five-o'clock shadow, my thick beard hides a scar from a botched Glasgow smile. He's sporting a high-dollar haircut, whereas I haven't allowed anyone near me with a pair of scissors since I was shanked taking a piss on Christmas Eve two years ago. Looking at the two of us, it's clear we've led drastically different lives.

  “Long time.” Dark eyes drop down to my boots, then back up to my plain white t-shirt, narrowing as if they find me lacking. It's ironic, really. The man sent to pick me up from prison is the same man who put me behind bars in the first place, and here he is, just as arrogant as ever.

  “Eight years, four months, and three days,” I say, boasting a humorless smile. “But who's counting?”

  Shaking his head, Griffin gifts me with the same shit-eating grin I've hated since adolescence. “That your way of telling me you're holding a grudge?”

  “Didn't have much else to occupy my time.”

  “Oh, you could have found something, I'm sure.” His jovial tone irks me, reminding me he was always the one smiling, joking, taking jabs at his siblings. “You could have taken up painting. Or knitting. I hear that's pretty popular nowadays.”

  “Definitely,” I nod. “Knitted nooses were always a hot ticket item around Christmas.”

  For a moment, Griffin looks stricken, as if he can't believe I'm joking about suicide, but I couldn't care less. Years behind bars fucks with a man's head, and mine is thoroughly warped. After a few beats, however, he merely shakes it off and turns on his heel, heading across the lot at a speed that says he means business. But screw him. I hold my ground, even when the dick has the audacity to sigh, as if I'm inconveniencing him in some way. “You coming or what?”

  He wants me to trail after him like the lost cause he thinks I am. He expects his little brother to eagerly fall into step behind him after he severed all ties for the better part of a decade. No thanks.

  “I'll call a cab.”

  His head cocks to the side. “With what phone? What money?”

  Prick.

  My molars ache from the force of my anger, but he's loving this. I bet he's thinking up front page headlines for the New Liberty Gazette as we speak. 'Hometown Hero Reconciles with Estranged Brother After Release'. 'Revered Policeman Takes Pity on Delinquent Sibling'. 'Offic
er Given Key to City for Honorable Act of Forgiveness'.

  God I hate him. But I hate how I feel right now even more. This helplessness is new, but I guess I should get used to it. I assume the bitch will linger.

  “Admit it, baby brother. You need me.”

  Technically, I don't need him; I need his car. Then again, I could walk the sixty-five miles from here to the house we grew up in. I could find a shelter to take me in. I could sit my ass down right here in the middle of the godforsaken parking lot and refuse to leave. I mean...I do have options. Granted, none of them are particularly appealing.

  In the end, I don't have the energy to fight this particular battle, so I get into Griffin's squad car and we drive all sixty-five miles home in silence. To my surprise, he doesn't fill the void with meaningless drivel, which is astounding, considering how much he loves the sound of his own fucking voice.

  Griffin and I have never been close, even though he's only two years my senior. When we weren't competing for first place in cross country meets or seeking out the same new girl at school, we were blatantly ignoring the other's existence.

  After miles of terrain I barely recognize through tinted windows, we veer off the main highway and ease onto a one-lane gravel road. It's not long before a simple tan double-wide comes into view, and my chest begins to burn with an unwelcome feeling.

  Fear.

  Thick, putrid fear gurgles up from somewhere deep inside, and it's close to impossible to reign in. It's the last thing I expect, especially today of all days, but there's no denying it. Above excitement, above relief, it's there.

  Before I served my time, there wasn't much I was afraid of, but now, all my unanswered questions bring about nothing but doubt and shame and fear of the unknown. What changed? What stayed the same? Will things be different now that I can openly embrace my mother or ruffle my younger brother's hair? Will there be tears? Anger? Regret? Disappointment? Is this still my home?

  All stupid questions.

  My family is right inside—the only people on earth who accept me, flaws and all—and even though I failed them greatly, they never abandoned me. Not once.

  Not all of them at least.

  Leaving Griffin behind, I haul out of the car as soon as it's parked and jog straight up the wooden stairs. They're just as rickety as I remember, white paint in desperate need of a touch-up. The screen door creaks when I pull the metal handle, wiggling on its hinges, and I'm not at all prepared for the assault on my senses when I step inside the only place I've ever called home.

  Steam rises from a white casserole dish in the center of our scarred dining room table, it's beautifully carved legs just as sturdy as I remember them. The rich scent of cheese and tomato sauce has my mouth pooling with saliva, and I know my mother has made her famous lasagna to celebrate my return. Soft music filters out of speakers mounted on the wall above the television, and the pounding of feet and squeals of excitement have my heart beating double-time and sweat soaking my brow.

  This is it.

  This is what I've been waiting for.

  “Kess!” Paige launches herself into my arms, a fiery missile of brown hair and spindly limbs. She trusts me to catch her, and I do, gripping her hard and spinning us both in a circle, cherishing the moment, taking a snapshot of this elation, before placing her feet back on the ground. She wipes hair out of her face as she looks up and tears tumble from her dark blue eyes. “I can't believe you're here!”

  She had just celebrated her ninth birthday when I was hauled off in the back of a police cruiser, and now she's a senior about to graduate and enter into a harsh world she knows nothing about. As her big brother, it's my job to protect her, and I'm looking forward to the challenge, but I have to get my own shit together before that can happen.

  “Damn good to be home.” I kiss her forehead, feeling like there's a rubber band wound around my heart, keeping it from exploding. “Hope you got me a tub of that butter pecan ice cream you were telling me about.”

  “I did,” she squeals, bouncing on her toes. “Two, actually. Well, one's for Sid, but screw him.”

  “Hey now.” I give her shoulder a squeeze. She feels real. Strong and sturdy. Like a Lawson. “That's no way for a lady to talk.”

  “Lady, my ass. Get out of the way.” Paige's twin brother pushes her aside, and she stumbles back, anger replacing excitement as Sid's arms go around my waist in a purely unapologetic show of affection. They're the same height, but he has a good fifty pounds on her, all muscle. He's not done growing, but he's already built like a tank. Like his brother.

  “I feel like I haven't seen you in years,” Sid mumbles, squeezing me hard.

  “You saw me two weeks ago, Squirt.”

  Sid's head, pressed firmly against my chest, moves from side to side. “Not the same.”

  He's right. It's definitely not the same. Here, there are no rules regulating how many hugs you're allowed. There are no tables or panes of glass separating us. No guards watching our every move. No cameras recording our conversations. This much freedom is almost stifling.

  Far before my baby brother can let go, another set of arms wind around me from behind, and Sid chuckles, looking up as he steps away from the mass of arms we've all become. “Good luck getting her to let go.”

  I look down. Weathered fingers shake against my stomach, clutching the front of my shirt. The only piece of jewelry adorning the frail hands is a simple wedding band—the best my father could afford on his meager wages. The slim body clinging to my back is convulsing so hard, it jostles everything inside of me that I'm trying to keep bolted down. When tears soak through the back of my shirt, I know I'm about to lose my shit.

  “Ma.” My voice breaks on that one syllable, and I bow my head, covering her hands with my own. This is all I've wanted for the past eight years. This right here. To be home. To be held by those that love me. To stand in a place where I matter.

  “I'm sorry I couldn't come get you myself,” she whispers against me.

  I swing an arm up and around, forcing her free, and for the first time in ages, I properly embrace my mother, knowing nothing can rip me from this moment. Tiny hands come up to rest against my cheeks and I close my eyes, breathing her in. Cinnamon and laundry detergent—the scent of my childhood.

  “My baby,” she whispers, looking up at me through dark eyes that mirror my own. Her wrinkled face portrays pain and joy in equal measure. “My baby is home.”

  “Damn straight,” I sniff, dropping my forehead against hers.

  “Hey, I thought I was the baby.” Behind us, Sid feigns indignation.

  “Technically, that'd be me,” Paige adds.

  “Only by eleven minutes. But I'm the youngest boy. I should be mom's baby.”

  “You're all my babies!” Ma laughs, finally releasing me. I instantly hate the distance so I take hold of her hand and press it to my chest.

  “Except Griff.” Paige points to our eldest brother brooding right inside the door. “He's old and kinda sucks.”

  I love that she's making jokes at Griffin's expense.

  “Only kinda,” Ma agrees, making my smile grow so wide it hurts. She flutters her free hand in excitement, bouncing on the pads of her tiny bare feet. “C'mon. Let's eat. I made your favorite. Mama's lasagna will put some meat back on those bones.”

  Paige laughs so hard she snorts. “Ma, I think you're a little late for that. Kess looks like he's been bench pressing bunk beds.”

  “Maybe I have,” I tease, pulling her into another one-armed hug.

  I could hug everyone in this room nonstop for the next year and never get tired of it. Griffin being the only exception. “Jesus. Y'all can fawn over your favorite felon after dinner,” he grumbles. “Let's eat.”

  The look I shoot him is pure venom, but he misses it completely since he's stripping off his duty belt and herding everyone away from the door. As if this is the new norm, the five of us sit down together, leaving the tallest chair at the head of the table empty. This symbolism isn'
t lost on me. In fact, I know every time I catch sight of that chair, shame will rocket through me. As it should.

  Platters and bowls of Italian fare are passed down the line as everyone fills me in on everything I've missed—proms, science fairs, a broken leg, new jobs—but I can't keep up. Because there's a darkness sitting to my right, and although it doesn't have a voice, it's fucking loud.

  Without ever looking up, I know Griffin's eyes are boring into me as I stare at our father's chair, and I know what he's thinking. What he's remembering. For him, today isn't cause for celebration, because I'm the reason dad's not sitting here with us, ruffling our hair, making eyes at Mom across the table, cracking the lamest jokes ever written. I'm to blame for the death that splintered this family apart. In Griffin's mind, I ruined us.

  He's not wrong.

  Involuntary manslaughter. That's what they called it when I got behind the wheel and drove my father home after his graveyard shift at the sawmill. Drunk after seven shots of Absinthe. Stoned off my ass. Swerving. Blinking through the fog. Ignoring his reprimands and pleas for me to pull over.

  I'd been partying when my phone rang and should have said no. After all, Griffin was free and just down the road. But dad didn't call Griffin; he called me. And I worshiped that man. That hard-working, God-fearing family man. That man I killed with one wrong turn.

  With every beat of my heart, it haunts me. My father's last words. The moment I was forced to watch the light drain from his eyes. The way his hand fell away from mine, cold and immobile.

  Eight years was nothing. I haven't paid my penance. Not even fucking close.

  When we're all so full we can barely move, Ma ushers us to the other end of the house so she can pack lunches for tomorrow. I know she's really taking a beat to fix her mascara-streaked face and take a breather, so I oblige. There will be plenty of time for us to talk later.