Page 3 of Pieces Into Place

“No, sir, “ I repeat.

“So next time, we will handle it differently, OK?” he says, bending over to look me directly in the eye.

“Yes,” I say, gnawing on my lower lip to keep it from trembling. I hate that I allowed them to get to me, and I hate that my parents have to deal with this situation now.

“I’m not upset with you, Kane. Neither is Mom,” he says reassuringly. “You’re a good kid. This will have some consequences, but it will be fine.”

“Can I keep taking the classes?” I ask tentatively.

“Of course,” he says with a smile. “No member of this family will ever be a victim again.”

His words ignite a fire in my belly, and the anger from before returns. I hate the man who took Theo’s life. How many lives did he ruin? How many life paths did he change for those left behind? If he were here, I’d kill him myself. Of that, I’m sure.

The secretary rushes out, frantically looking left and right. “Mr. Hudson, the headmaster is ready to see you now.”

“Ok, Son,” my dad says with a smile, “let’s go.”

Chapter one

Kane

“You look like shit, Hudson,” comes a voice from the far end of the room. I roll over and try to pry one eye open, but my skull feels like it is splitting in half. I’m unsure what time it is, but it’s already hot here, the air thick with oppressive humidity. It’s always donkey–balls hot this time of year in this part of the world.

When I was a kid, I would watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. Sometimes, the channel would go out on our television, leaving white static on the screen. I loved the cartoons so much that I’d sit and watch that static until they came back on. Even when the show returned to the screen, I could still hear the crackling noise. My brain feels like that white static on a television right now. It won’t become a clear channel without some intervention on my part—namely, water and Ibuprofen.

I reach over and find that cool, sweet spot in the bed next to me. I only had one drink last night, but my head is thick with vague memories of the bar. It was dirty and smelled like shit, but they had whiskey. You have to take what you can get in this turbulent, unstable sand dune thousands of miles away from Jack Daniel’s country home.

I don’t drink often because I can get a little out of control. Alcohol and fights almost cost me my place in the Navy when I was younger, so these days, I reign it in. This assignment, however, has been long and particularly grueling, with lots of waiting around and time to kill. That’s never been a good combination for me, as evidenced by my current state.

“Where’s Smitty?” I ask, shifting my elbows underneath me to elevate my body a bit.

“That’s a great question?” Drake responds. “Last time I saw you two assholes, you were getting hauled out of the bar for trying to take on six men. I’m willing to bet your stupid-ass has a concussion.”

Oh, I definitely have a concussion.

“No,” I say, carefully shaking my head. “It’s coming back to me. We didn’t start that.”

Drake shrugs. “I don’t care if you started it or not. Emerson heard about it and wants to see both of you at 0900.”

“Fuck,” I respond with a sigh, sitting up and throwing my legs over the bed. I push the palms of my hands into my eyes to stop the pounding. “What time is it?”

“0730. I suggest you get your shit together, Brother.”

“Copy that,” I reply, dreading what this day will bring.

I find Emerson sitting outside, puffing on a cigar and sipping coffee from a tin cup. Who smokes a cigar this early in the morning? I’m willing to bet he’s doing it to fuck with me. It’s working, as the smell from the cigar causes my stomach to roll in nauseous waves.

He doesn’t address me when I approach him; he just stares ahead with his sunglasses on, making it impossible to read his expression. Emerson is known for having a temper, and even without seeing his eyes, I know we’re on thin ice.

I hear footsteps behind me, and then Smitty appears to my right. I guess he didn’t die last night, after all. I glance at him without turning my head and see he is far worse for the wear, sporting a busted lip, a purple, swollen eye, and a bruise along his jaw that extends from his chin up to his ear.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Emerson says, waving for us to sit at the table. We promptly sit as he extinguishes his cigar, and the smoke rises like a snake being charmed out of a wicker basket. “Did you enjoy yourselves last night?”

“We did, sir,” I answer without hesitation.

“You’re an asshole, Hudson,” he remarks without emotion.

“I am sir,” I agree. It won’t do me any good to argue, and ultimately, he’s right.