Losers: Part I

Lucas’s tension was obvious as he led me up the stairs. He was practically crushing my hand in his from holding onto me so tight, and he didn’t let go until we entered his room. Only then did he drop my hand and immediately went to the window, his eyebrows drawn together as he looked out into the yard.

But the gate wasn’t visible from that vantage point.

He hissed in frustration, his arms folded and his fists clenched. “Shit.”

“Shouldn’t you go out there?” I said. My palms were sweating, nervous energy making me pace. I’d never seen any of them look like that, as if they were genuinely frightened when they saw Reagan at the gate.

“Jason and Vincent have his back,” Lucas said. He didn’t sound particularly happy about it though. “If Manson wants me to keep you safe, then I’m fucking keeping you safe. So just relax.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his legs as he bowed his head. He looked far from relaxed himself; he looked more like a grenade whose pin was slowly being pulled loose.

“How dangerous is he?” My gut twisted as I recalled Vincent telling me that Reagan was the reason he had a gun. What the hell could have happened to make them so afraid of him? I understood why Manson was — I could only imagine the trauma of having a parent like that. But they were all freaked out and it was worrying me even more.

“Don’t underestimate him.” Lucas got off the bed again, pacing in front of it like he couldn’t figure out how to settle himself. “The last time Manson saw him, Reagan threatened to kill him.”

The knot inside me grew hard as a rock. “We need to call the police. This isn’t safe.”

“Police won’t do shit, Jess.”

He paced to the window again, scoffed, and paced back. He looked around the room helplessly, his frustration palpable in the air.

“Somewhere in that police station downtown is a file for the Reed family about three inches thick,” he said. “Domestic disturbances, DUIs, public intoxication, domestic battery. No good came of it. Fucking nothing. His mom wouldn’t press charges. Reagan would sit in jail for a night and come right back in the morning. Cops around here see the last name Reed, and they think trash. Criminals.” He sighed heavily, rubbing his hand over his buzzed hair. “A kid like Manson isn’t supposed to make it this far, Jess. He should be dead, or hooked on drugs, or already in prison. The police have had him on their radar ever since he brought the knife to school. Vincent has a record. I have a record. If the people the cops are supposed to help are already behind bars in their mind, then they don’t care.”

Criminals. Just like my mom had called them. But it was wrong, it was so wrong. Their entire lives were written off because of what they’d done to survive, because of circumstances beyond their control.

“That’s not fair.” I was so frustrated that my throat swelled, but I choked down the lump. This wasn’t the time to cry, not now, not in front of Lucas. They were all worried enough. “That’s so wrong, they shouldn’t…fuck.” I was so useless just standing there, not knowing what was going on. I wanted to help, but what could I possibly do?

“Life isn’t, and never has been, fair,” Lucas said. His voice was gentler than I expected, like he was imparting a valuable life lesson that he wished he didn’t have to give. He stood in front of me, looking at me for a moment as if he couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to do.

Then he wrapped his arms around me. Slowly and stiffly at first, as if he was hugging something prickly. But when I burrowed my face against him and wrapped my arms around him in return, he softened. It was like his chest caved in and he tried to draw me into it, clinging to me as if I would slip away.

“You chose some fucked up guys to play with, Jess,” he said. His chin rested on top of my head, and I could hear his heart pounding so hard and fast it was a wonder he could stand still at all. “I’m sorry to say this shit comes with the territory. But you’re safe with us, I swear that much.”

“I’m not worried about myself,” I said, not raising my head from his chest. “I’m worried about you. About Manson, and Jason, and Vincent. I want you to be safe too.”

He exhaled softly — a half-hearted laugh. “I don’t think we’re going to find safety in Wickeston. But someday…someday we will. Somewhere else.”

Without me. The thought sprang to my mind so hard and fast that it shocked me, the lump squeezing into my throat again. But I didn’t want to think about that, not now. The more I thought about the future, the worse it would be. I needed to focus on the here and now.

And here, now, we had a bigger problem to deal with.

“Try not to worry.” Lucas finally eased his hold, giving my arms a squeeze as he did. “Manson can handle himself.”

My worry hadn’t dissipated; I could tell his hadn’t either. But I felt a little steadier at least. He went to stand in his doorway, leaning against the frame as he listened for them to come back into the house. In the meantime, I tried to occupy my nervous energy by having a look around.

The first time I’d seen his room, I’d assumed it was a guest room because it was so empty. But there were signs it was lived in; his bed was unmade and the laundry basket in the corner was overflowing. The dresser was old, covered in scratches and stains, but there were a few items on top that caught my attention.

There was a small wooden figure that looked as if it had been whittled by hand, a candle scented like chamomile and lavender, a deck of cards, and even an old GameBoy. I picked up the wooden figure, turning it over in my palm. It looked like a cat — I could see little whiskers on its face and claws on its tiny feet. The deck of cards appeared well-used, and the GameBoy had a Pokemon Red cartridge inside it.

Shoved toward the back of the dresser was a boombox, its plastic exterior cracked and scuffed. It was clearly old, equipped with a cassette player and AM/FM radio, but nothing else, not even a CD drive.

The front slot was open and a cassette was inside. I pulled out the tape, curiously reading the handwritten label on the front. Best Mixtape Ever! was scrawled with a red pen in messy, child-like letters.

The floor creaked softly as Lucas came up behind me. I turned, holding up the tape. “Did you make this?”

Something painful flickered over his expression. He took the tape, turning it over in his hands.

“My brother made it,” he said. “But I named it. It’s old, the audio is fucked up in some spots…”

He put it back into the boombox and pressed play. The volume was low, but after a moment, I recognized the tune of “Heaven’s On Fire” by KISS.

“What’s your brother’s name?” I said.

He stopped the tape. The softness of his expression was still guarded as he picked up the wooden cat and rubbed his thumb over the rough wood.

“Benji,” he said, keeping his eyes down. “He’s five years older than me.”

An older brother. It was difficult to imagine Lucas as anything other than he was now: hard as stone and just as immovable. But as he spoke, I was able to picture him differently. As someone far more innocent and gentle, a child that the world hadn’t yet broken.

“I thought he was the coolest guy in the world,” he said. “I followed him everywhere when I was a kid. Probably drove him fucking crazy. He’d sneak out with his friends and end up with his kid brother tagging along, but he was always nice about it. He’d keep me with him and make sure I was safe.”

He cleared his throat and set the cat down on the deck of cards. His face was unreadable now, wiped clean of whatever emotion I’d seen there before.

“What happened to him?” I was afraid he’d close up, that I’d ask one too many questions and destroy this fragile openness between us.

To my surprise, he answered bluntly, almost numbly, “He’s in prison. Been there for thirteen years.”

His tone was so even that it didn’t hit me right away what he’d said. Then my eyes widened, realization dawning, and I blurted out, “Thirteen years? What did he do?”

That question had required far more tact than I’d given it. I gasped the moment the words were out, grasping for an apology that I’d gone about this all wrong, but Lucas didn’t seem bothered.

His voice remained detached as he explained. “He fell in love with a girl. I guess an older kid had a thing for her too; I’m not sure. A lot of the court case was…” He paused, rubbing the back of his head. “It was a lot. I was little. I didn’t really get it. But apparently…” He frowned, as if he didn’t fully believe what he was about to say. “Apparently, Benji was really possessive of this girl, and he didn’t like this other kid being into her. So he…” His frown deepened. “He lured the kid out of his house, hit him over the head with a brick, took him out into the woods…and killed him.”

He said it so calmly, but the words washed over me with a cold chill. “Oh my God…”

“They put him away when he was fifteen,” he said. “They kept saying he was so dangerous, but he was just my brother. He liked rock music, and Pepsi, and he could create shit like no one else could. He was an artist. He was patient. I never even heard him raise his voice.” He exhaled heavily through his nose, shaking his head. “But they said he did it. Locked him up. The whole community knew, there was practically a target on my back at that point. So my dad took me with him, and we left. Mom got sicker…”

I didn’t know what to say. My little sister could be a pain in the ass, but I couldn’t imagine her being taken away. And for something so heinous, at such a young age…it was horrific. It was unimaginable.

I laid my hand on his arm. He was very pointedly looking anywhere except at me, but it was because the shield over his face was gone. I could see the sadness in his eyes, the confusion. As if he knew the story but refused to believe it was real.

“Do you miss him?” I said, and he finally looked up. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“Yeah, I miss him. Every damn day.”

The sound of the front door opening made us both jerk our heads toward the hallway, footsteps tramping heavily into the house.

“They’re back,” I said.

Lucas took my hand again. He lifted it to his lips, kissing my knuckles tenderly. “Let’s go see what happened.”

We reached the bottom of the stairs right as Vincent was closing the door behind them. Their faces were drawn, the relaxed energy from not even an hour ago now completely sapped. Little Haribo was in the living room, up on his back legs so he could look out the window with Jojo toward the gate, both of them clearly on edge. Manson’s eyes were hollow, sunken in shadow.

“What the hell did he want?” Lucas said.

Jason shook his head, going into the kitchen and grabbing a beer out of the fridge despite how early it was.

“He wants money,” Vincent said tightly. “From the sale of the house. Fifty percent.”

“Fuck that,” Lucas snarled. “We’re not giving him shit.”

“That’s what I told him,” Manson muttered. Deep lines were chiseled into his forehead, like the weight of his entire life had suddenly caught up with him and perched on top of his skull. “He didn’t like that.”

“He threatened you,” Jason said firmly, opening the beer as he leaned against the kitchen counter and spoke to us through the doorway. “All that shit about death? That was a threat, no doubt. We need better security cameras. Clearer picture, clearer audio. And electronic locks for the gates —”

Manson slammed his fist against the wall so hard I jumped. Jojo flattened her ears against her head, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Why the fuck does he get to walk back into my life like he owns it?!”

I’d never heard Manson’s volume so loud. He wasn’t looking at any of us as he yelled, his fists clenched, face reddening.

“Why the fuck does he get to come to my property and threaten my family? Fuck!” His fist slammed against the wall again, leaving behind a smear of blood as his knuckles split. Then he did it again, and again, each impact of his fist making the wall shudder. Haribo barked softly at the noise, and Vincent gently shushed him, reaching down to scratch his chest.

Manson was breathing hard. He roughly trailed his fingers through his hair to push it back, sucking in his breath as he turned. His eyes swept over me, narrowed with fury, and it was like he’d entirely forgotten I was there.

The moment he looked at me, he froze. His fury fled and in its place was an expression of utterly horrified shame.

“He doesn’t get to do shit,” Lucas said. “We’ll figure this out.”

“He can’t force you to give him anything,” Jason insisted. “Not legally or otherwise.”

But it was as if Manson didn’t hear him. His throat tensed as he gulped, shaking his head slowly as he looked at me.

“Jess…” His voice was a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to…”

Any fear I’d felt was already gone, brought on by the shock of seeing him like that rather than any worry over my safety. But Manson looked down at his hand, his knuckles split and smeared with blood.

He sucked in a stuttering breath as his hands shook.

“You’re bleeding,” I said, reaching for him. “You need to —”

He flinched away from my touch. He was shaking his head, looking between his fist and then back to me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He looked at the dogs, watching him with flattened ears. “Fuck. Shit, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay.” Vincent’s voice was calm, soothing. “You’re upset, that’s okay.”

“No.” Manson flexed his knuckles, watching the blood drip down his fingers. “No, this isn’t fucking okay. Nothing about this is okay.”

He wrenched open the front door. Lucas started forward. “Hey, Manson, come on, you don’t have to —”

“I need some air,” he said hoarsely. He looked at me again, as if there was so much more he wanted to say. But then he winced and turned away, slipping out the front door and slamming it behind him.

I immediately tried to follow him. But Vincent caught my arm before I could open the door, saying gently, “Give him time, just give him time.” He held me against him, rubbing my back and somehow slowing my pounding heart. “He’s scared. He never wanted you to see him like that.”

“Then I have to go talk to him,” I said fiercely. I didn’t know what the hell I’d say, or if it would even help at all. But I couldn’t hide in the house anymore. At least Manson had Vincent and Jason with him when he faced his dad. Whatever he was facing now, he was trying to do it alone and that didn’t feel right.

Vincent loosened his hold but kept his arm around me. From the kitchen, Jason said, “Don’t worry about it, Jess. This isn’t your issue to deal with, it’ll be fine.”

“It is my issue,” I snapped without meaning to, but it wasn’t from anger. I just needed them to understand. “I’m not some delicate little flower, okay? We made a deal. I’m yours until my debt is paid and I meant that. Yours. But if I’m yours, then you’re all mine too.” I looked between them, trying to steady the worried shake in my words. “I’m not on the outside anymore. I’m part of this, all of it — even the scary fucked-up parts. I need to talk to him. Please.”

Jason was watching me, his arms slack at his sides. For once, that icy gaze wasn’t so sharp. Vincent squeezed me closer, leaning over to kiss the side of my head. “Okay. I get it. You’re right. I guess we can’t really try to shield you from this when it’s right in front of you.”

He let me go, and I looked back at Lucas. His jaw was clenched, his posture rigid.

“We’re used to dealing with things on our own,” he said. I walked back to him, laying my hands on his tightly folded arms.

“After yesterday,” I said softly, “I think I made it clear that I consider myself a part of we.” His expression faltered, torn between accepting it or automatically denying it. “We are dealing with this on our own. I’m dealing with it too.”

He looked down at me, and his face finally cracked. He shook his head with a heavy sigh.

“You’ve got to be the most hardheaded woman I’ve ever met,” he grumbled. “And I don’t think you have much sense at all trying to be so damn involved…”

“Just tell her she earned your respect and go fucking find Manson,” Jason yelled from the kitchen.

Lucas’s lips pressed tightly together. He didn’t need to say out loud what Jason had demanded. It was clear enough to me.

“Come on.” He took my hand again. “I know where he’ll go.”