Page 23 of Midnight Curfew

He finishes trimming, and I collect what falls away.

“You need to watch your behavior around these people,” he tells me, keeping his voice down. “Macon already has enough to worry about with Iron.”

“So Iron gets the right to have his fun?”

My favorite brother loves to fight, and if he doesn’t start picking his moments better, he’s going to get in a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, Macon can’t get through to him.

Army narrows his eyes on me. “You’ll see what that fun costs him. It always costs something.”

I’m counting on it. Getting out of trouble is more fun than getting in.

He goes on, “Macon needs you to use your head.”

“Macon needs me to pretend I don’t exist,” I spit back. “Just like she did.”

Army goes still, but he doesn’t say anything as he gives me a hard look. He knows I’m right.

“Don’t have an opinion,” I recite, “don’t talk too loudly, don’t get drunk, don’t argue, don’t fucking breathe…I get it, okay?”

I’ve heard this shit my whole life, either from Dad or from Macon.

I can only imagine what my brothers had to do to support us when our parents died seven years ago. Macon was in the Marines, out in the world, and he was called home—our father died from a heart attack, and two months later, our mother ended her life. It had been years coming, though.

And Macon has the same problems in the head that she did. My father kept talking her into having more kids, thinking it would keep her alive, and Macon was twenty-three when he inherited the burden of those decisions, which he didn’t want any more than she did.

He doesn’t want us.

But Army’s voice drops to nearly a whisper. “He was never supposed to be our father, Dallas.”

My fists tighten around the bag so hard my knuckles turn white.

“And neither am I,” he says in a stern voice.

Taking the bag from me, he walks off with his saw.

I never asked you to be my father. Not once. Trace and Liv, at least, found a way to connect with the older ones. Olivia is the only girl, so everyone speaks a little more gently and smiles a little more often with her.

And Trace makes people laugh.

If I make it another year without Macon or Army killing me, it’ll be surprising. I think that’s my plan, actually. Have fun, die young.

I cast another look up at the balcony behind me, zoning right in on the lens of the telescope. The ghost of a smile plays on my lips as I stare back at him.

He’s looking at me.

Taking the bag, I walk to the wheelbarrow, slowly. Is he following me?

I toss the bag inside and turn my head just slightly, lifting my eyes to him. What the hell is he doing?

Heading back to the hose lying on the ground, I watch him, the telescope moving with me as I walk. Leaning over, I take my time picking up the hose. Maybe he thinks he’s threatening me. Maybe he’s practicing for a sniper shot.

Maybe he wants to look.

“The house is your responsibility,” a man says.

I squat out of view of the window as I wrap the hose around my elbow and shoulder.

“And when I make a decision you don’t like I get treated like a dog,” a woman bites back.