Page 38 of Violent Skies

“God,” Bowie sighs, thinking about it as her eyes drift around the bar. “She was so sad that day.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. It was worse than the accident,” I admit, throwing back the warm liquor.

2023

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask Cress. She’s huddled in the corner with Koa’s leather jacket pulled around her shoulders as her wet, red eyes scan the room. She’s waiting for something, maybe for Riggs? But she hasn’t spoken to anyone in over an hour.

I nod, trying not to let her silence hurt my feelings. Running my hand through my hair, I turn and wander toward the bar where Bowie sits with Rafe, feeding him endless drinks. He sets his cheek on the bar and looks up at me with sad eyes.

“I know.” I swallow tightly, looking around.

“Do you think he’s going to come?” Rafe asks me, his voice tight.

“No.” I slide against his side and he wraps his arms around me. His hair smells like sage and week old booze. “You smell terrible,” I tease and feel his laughter against my body. It’s cathartic because I start to laugh with him, and then suddenly there are tears pouring down my face and I’m holding onto Rafe for dear life just trying to stay standing. I smell Murphy’s sweet cologne before I feel his arms wrap around me. It’s been the longest week of our lives.

Logically, we all knew a day like today would come. Our lifestyle leans into the dangers, the risks of one of us not making it out alive but…

Not Koa, the risk never touched Koa.

“I should go check on him.” I say quietly and both the boys nod, releasing me from the hug. “Bring Cress some water and keep your eye on her,” I tell Murphy who just listens without a fight.

“Do you want me to come?” Rafe asks.

“I want you to shower,” I tease instead and he rolls his eyes but his expression stays pensive as he waits for me to make up my mind. I’m not used to them looking to me for answers. I’m the baby, they should be taking care of me. But Murphy and Rafe are lost puppies without their older brothers. One dead. The other a murderer. My breath hitches in my throat and I feel like I’m going to puke.

“No, I'll be okay,” I choke out and pull back.

“Bring him this,” Bowie says. An avid Riggs antagonist—even she’s worried—she hands me a plate piled with food. I nod, taking it with a shaky hand.

Rafe lets me go without any more resistance and I wander out into the afternoon air, across the road back to the garage. I know he’s not in the house. He hasn’t gone inside in days. So I beeline for the door, pushing it on the squeaky wheels until I can slip inside.

“Riggs?” I call out when I don’t see him. The garage is clean, the cushions to the ratty couch all in place, the floor swept. There’s no trace that four men—three men and rat pack—work inside. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed a cup of nails as I kick off my heels and pad across the cement in my socks. I slide the plate of food he won’t eat onto one of the benches and keep moving. The light, loose fabric of my wide-leg dress pants kicks around my ankles as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

Their office.

“Riggs?” I say again, my voice feeling so small in the large space and yet it still echoes off the walls into the silence.

I take the stairs quietly, slowly almost wishing he’d pop his head out and tell me to fuck off. At least then I wouldn’t have to find something else. He’s been silent on everything. The boys ask him questions and he ignores them, I try to get him to eat and he tells me to go away. Nothing gets him out of this stupid fucking garage.

I close my eyes and turn the knob, praying that he’s either asleep or not in there at all. But it’s worse than I could have imagined. The office is destroyed, none of the furniture is where it’s supposed to be, there’s broken glass from frames and beer bottles. It smells like straight kerosene inside and Riggs is…

“Hey.” I close the door behind me, wiggling past the overturned couch, avoiding the glass that I can but hissing when a few pieces cut into the bottom of my feet. He’s in the corner in a ball, his head between his legs, and his body heaving like he can’t catch his breath but the sound… the sobbing. It cracks something down deep inside of my soul that I know I’ll never be able to repair.

Men like Riggs should never sound that broken.

He’s in agony.

“Birdie, get out,” he sobs, pushing my hands away as I sink to the floor beside him. His hands are covered in blood, newly dried to the palms of his hands and his wrists. He keeps his head tucked down away from me but I know the state of it. Swollen cheeks and eyes from crying. I don’t let him push me away though, I tuck into him, swatting his hands away as he fights me and curl into his side.

“I need you,” I cry out, hitting his chest hard enough to make him growl at me as I dig into his warmth and bury my head there. “Don’t,” my voice snaps, muffled by his dirty sweater. It’s not a lie, or a trick. I’m in just as much pain but I have to be tough for everyone else because he can’t be. At least not right now.

“I’m sorry, Birdie,” he whispers after what feels like the longest silence of my life. The room goes so still and fills with the worst kind of sadness. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats over and over again. It doesn’t stop. It never has.

“Do you smell that?” Murphy is the first out of the car as we pull up to the garage.

“There’s no way!” Rafe is gone, tripping over his feet to get inside and it’s like they haven’t eaten in weeks the way they're acting, but I know why the second the smell hits my nose.

We all know it’s not Birdie, which means Cress made dinner.