Everything for Us (The Bad Boys #3)(13)
Author: M. Leighton

Guiltily, he looks back and forth between me and Cash.

“You boys were like two halves of the same person from the day you were born. Like night and day, north and south. Up and down. I always hoped you could find a little bit of each other. It was all you ever needed, just a touch of what the other had. I would never have wished for this, though. I was proud of you both, regardless. I never wanted this for you—this pain, this hard life, this much regret and anger. I only ever wanted what was best for you. I did the best I could, with what information I had. It may not seem like it, but I always put you first. I just made a lot of bad decisions along the way.”

“We’re gettin’ ready to make at least a few wrongs right, Dad. We’ve got—”

Dad cuts off Cash, shaking his head. “Let this go, son. I’m paying for my sins. Maybe not what they think I’m paying for, but I’m paying nonetheless. I’ve lived my life. You two have so much ahead of you. Don’t let the past dictate your future. Move on. Find a job worth working, a wife worth having, and a life worth living. Don’t keep making mistakes that’ll keep boxing you in. Do the right thing. Let it go and move on.”

“And what? Forget that our father was wrongly imprisoned? That he was blamed for a heinous crime he didn’t commit?”

“I don’t expect you to forget. I’m just asking you to let it go. It’s what your mother would want. It would break her heart to see you boys giving up your present and risking your future for my mistakes. It’s like piling more casualties on top of her grave, God rest her soul.”

Guilt. I feel it, piling on top of me like the casualties he’s talking about.

Cash says nothing, which makes me feel a little better about my own silence. I don’t know what to say. I know Dad feels guilty and responsible, which he is in many ways, and that he wants us to understand. But I also feel like he’s trying to take away from me the one thing I’ve held on to all this time. My anger and my thirst for revenge have been like air to me for the last seven years. It’s the only reason I didn’t give up when I found myself in situations that were so abhorrent to me that I could barely sleep at night. I’ve done things—awful things—that would eat me alive if not for the anger that I’ve built a life inside. It’s like an impenetrable armor that shields my conscience from the damning pricks of reality. And if I listen to what he’s saying, if I give up everything that’s kept me going for seven hard, unforgiving, torturous years, what will I have?

One word rings through my head, like a ghostly echo of the emptiness I feel.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The earsplitting honking of some sort of internal alarm has us all covering our ears. All except the guard, however, who springs into action. Maybe he’s not so inept after all.

Immediately, he hauls Dad roughly out of his chair and toward the door, where he opens it and hands him off to another guard who’s waiting there. They disappear around the corner as another guard comes in, and he, along with the original one, order Cash and me to make our way to the exit.

Now.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand.

“Sir, all alarms in the prison are for the safety of prisoners as well as visitors. Keep moving.”

The two guards shuffle us quickly back the way we’d come less than thirty minutes earlier. Never once do they offer any information by way of explanation.

As we move from area to area, passing other visitors being herded to the exit just as we are, I see more than just flashing lights and hear more than just a deafening alarm. There are guards scrambling through barred doors, many of whom are dressed in black padded clothing and face shields. There are commands being shouted, something about cell blocks and lockdowns and weapons. One word stands out, though, and the fact that I hear it more than once gives me some clue as to what’s happening.

Riot. There’s a riot in the prison. And there’s a protocol that’s being followed. And our presence isn’t a desirable part of it. So they want us out. Right now.

Once Cash and I, along with a couple dozen other startled, disgruntled visitors, are back where we started at the main entrance, they push us past the last set of secured doors. I hear them click shut and lock behind us.

The guard who was sitting behind the sheet of glass near the front door is still sitting there. He still looks as old and unconcerned as he did when we arrived.

“What the hell is going on?” I repeat, not really expecting anything more from him than I’d gotten from Guard Number One.

He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Riot. Must’ve started down on D block. Those mean bastards have been a pain in the ass for almost a year now.” He chuckles like he said something funny. Which he didn’t. I expect to see more teeth than I can count on one hand. But I don’t. Looking at his frail frame and kinda-crazy eyes, it becomes clear that this is probably the only post an old fart like this guy can man. That and he’s probably related to the warden, because he’s got to be long past retirement age.

I nod to the old man and he smiles his nearly toothless grin at me. I turn back toward Cash and I hear him say, “Come back and see us.” And then he cackles.

I just shake my head as I walk past Cash toward the glass door that leads outside, out to freedom. I don’t look back to see if my brother is following me. I need air. I have to get out of here.

I step out into the sunshine and take several deep breaths. Even in the wide open space of the area in front of the prison, with only the parking lot and a long expanse of road in front of me, I feel trapped. By life.

My father’s words resonate in my head. He’s asking us to let it go, asking me to let it go. He’s asking me to forget about the people responsible for destroying my family, for destroying my life and the future I thought I had. And he’s asking it for my dead mother’s sake.

I run my fingers through my hair. I feel the tug of strands being pulled out from under the elastic band that keeps it neat at my nape, but I don’t care. I feel like pulling it all out, like screaming at the world, at the unfairness of it all.

He wants me to let it go!

I keep coming back to that. And to the fact that he’s right; it is what Mom would want. And on top of that, seeing Dad waste away in prison gives me a clear picture of the one thing that could be worse than living with the status quo—living in prison for the rest of my days.

So where does that leave me?

I pace back and forth across the short stretch of sidewalk. Curling my fingers into tight fists and relaxing them over and over, I pay no attention to the people around me, to what they think. I don’t give a shit. I haven’t given a shit about anybody or anything much in seven years, and I can’t imagine starting now.