Series: Peach State Stepbros Series by Riley Hart
Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I can’t help you with that,” I say, speaking the words like slicing a blade into my arm.
“What?”
Fuck, I want to just Venmo him the money. I want to give him every penny in my checking account. I can earn it all back. But I remember what it felt like after I gave him money before. The guilt. The shame of knowing what I gave him was just going to hurt him even more. I can’t do that to either of us again.
I have to force the words out, but I finally manage, “I’m not giving you any more money, Brandon.”
“Any more? This about that money you loaned me a few years ago? I can pay that back once I get going. I need this to get my life started. I don’t have anything. We’re sleeping on an air mattress in my friend’s place.”
Firm boundaries, I remind myself, before saying, “I can’t help you.”
He stares at me in disbelief. His jaw tightens up. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this. We’re brothers. I would help you if you needed anything.”
I bite my tongue, wishing I could say, When have you been there for me the past seven years of my life?
But his disbelief turns quickly, his chin quivering. Even as tears stir in his eyes, they don’t feel sincere. “Troy, please. I really need your help right now. Things aren’t good, and I’m really struggling.”
I turn away from him. Even when his tears feel like a sick manipulation, it’s too hard. I have to be fucking strong. I have to get this right. I take a measured breath. “How about you let Mom and me get you some help, then. There are programs now with this drug called buprenorphine. It helps make withdrawals easier. There’s a lot of science behind its effectiveness, and Glen’s got plenty of contacts, so I’m sure he could get you into one of those.”
“No, no, no,” Brandon says, raising his arms like he’s about to cover his ears. His tone is sharp, hostile. “I’m getting the help I need, and I don’t want to talk about this. I need a little money. And I thought I could count on you, but are you saying you refuse to help me?”
“I want to help you, but not in the way you want me to.”
“What the hell, Troy?” Considering the waterworks show just moments earlier, now his face is red, his expression twisted up. He’s fucking livid. He shouts, “You’ve been living in a fucking McMansion with that guy who’s loaded for all these years. I’ve been living in an apartment with five people and no fucking AC or heat. Why won’t you do this for me?”
I wish I could say I never heard him yell at me like this before, but it reminds me of those final years. The shouting, not just at me, but at Mom.
It’s tearing my heart apart, but I force myself to say, “I love you, Brandon. But I’m not giving you any money.”
His chin quivers again, and now we’re back to tears. “Come on, Troy. Just this one time. I promise it’ll be the last.”
And I fear it might be, but not for the reason he’s suggesting.
“Don’t you care about me?” he asks. “Your big bro?”
I don’t know what he thought those words would elicit, but it’s rage. Rage at a world that lets this happen to people like him. Rage at his addiction for destroying the man I remember. Rage at Brandon for trying to use me. I’m so mad that it surprises me when a tear escapes my eye and runs down my cheek. His betrayal sears through me, stirring all my pain, anger, and resentment. It’s an ache over a broken promise, and it pushes words out like a weapon: “It’s just you and me, right?” I choke on the words as they escape my mouth; angry as I am, I can’t mask the pain of the kid who believed him.
I look him directly in the eyes, and his expression relaxes. For the first time since we started talking, the shifting tears in his eyes appear sincere.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I see something shift in him a moment before his hands cover his ears and he howls, not like a man, but like a fucking animal. It’s as if I hadn’t just said words, but doused him in scalding hot water. I know like I know my own heart that my comment was a mirror, granting him a glimpse of a reflection he couldn’t bear—the part that knows he did to me what Dad did to us.
He reaches for the door handle.
No, no, no! Don’t let him leave!
I lunge across the console and snatch the handle before he gets it. “Brandon, just wait. I’m sorry.”