Page 46 of Forgiving Utah

My chest constricts, taking the breath from my lungs. “I can’t…” Shaking my head, I stumble back a step. “I can’t be here right now.”

“Devon—” Joel moves toward me, but I throw a hand out to stop him.

“Don’t fucking touch me. You're just like him.”

His face falls, and for a split second, I feel guilty—but it’s too late.

“I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”

“Please, wait⁠—”

I’m already gone, feet carrying me out of the dining room, past the living room, beyond the front door. Cold night air chills my skin as I climb onto my bike. I speed away, the briskness stinging my skin—much like the aftermath of the bomb they just dropped on me.

Years. They left me for years, knowing full well what would happen to me. How could they not? How could Joel not? The same man raised him, after all. Or was it just me? Am I so fucked up that those nights spent in the dirt with my knees bleeding were reserved for me alone? Am I as evil as he says I am?

The needle on the speedometer climbs higher. Wind slams into my face when I tuck forward, gripping the handlebars so tight my knuckles ache. The pavement blurs beneath me, streetlights streaking into long white lines. Up above, the night sky watches, ever judging.

My stomach turns at the memories of summer camp as a teen, and bile creeps up my throat. I gun the throttle harder, searching for anything to drown out the rising pressure in my chest.

They could have saved me.

They could have pulled me out of scouts, out of that house, but instead, they gave me away. And then built a brand new family with Logan. Even at birth, I was too fucked up to love.

The bike wobbles, tire skimming the painted lines too closely. I jerk it back into position, heart slamming against my ribs. A broken sound crawls out of my throat as I close my eyes for a second too long.

When I open them again, headlights glare back at me from the opposite lane, coming fast. I yank the handlebars, tires screeching against the asphalt. Adrenaline spikes so fast, stars dance in my vision. Never escaping.

I should pull over and catch my breath. Call someone. But I have no one.

I twist the throttle again, chasing a numbness that'll never seem to erase this feeling from my bones.

Not good enough to keep.

Not good enough to love.

“Dev, mijo,” Juanita calls from behind the bar, jolting me out of the memory. “You don’t need to carry dishes by hand. Just bring the tub.”

Fuck. How long have I been standing here staring at the wall? Jesus Christ.

Shaking my head to clear it, I flash her a tired grin and accept the plastic bin she offers me. “You got it, boss.”

She tuts her tongue. “Just because Christian's grumpy ass isn't here to suck up today doesn't mean it's your turn.”

She's not wrong. He's been on one ever since I sucked him off the other night. Almost emotionless. We have separate days off, but he still drove me to work this morning, jaw clenched and his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Didn't say shit when I got out of his Bronco, either, just drove away without a word.

Though, to be fair, I did raid his underwear drawer. Not my fucking fault, though. Guy's been keeping all my tips, and he won't let me borrow from Logan. So, unless I steal some threads from the department store or something, his clothes are mine.

As I’m wiping down another table, a drink someone didn’t finish catches my eye—some kind of fancy mixed cocktail. My lips instantly go dry. I haven’t gotten drunk since before the cops picked me up.

Sleep's been pretty much non-existent these last few nights, all of my thoughts growing louder the minute everyone goes to bed. All I want is a fucking distraction to keep me from walking out the door. I tried jacking off in the shower to relieve some tension, but it seems my cock is on strike yet again. It's fucking embarrassing.

Maybe a little bit of liquor is exactly what I need…

Swallowing hard, I shove the half-empty drink into my bus tub. As much as I'd love to get wasted tonight, I don't have any money for liquor, and I doubt Christian or Logan would buy me some. Maybe Owen, if I could get him alone. He's been at his parents' house, though, while Logan spends some time with Salem. The fact that those two are getting along will never not be weird to me.

Scoffing, I lift my tub and turn, intent on taking the dishes to the kitchen, when a tall figure blocks my path. I nearly ram the bin straight into his chest.

“Devon Peterson?”