Page 19 of Tormented

I stare out over the backyard, steal a glance at Tap, and then settle my gaze on my boots as I scuff them in arcs on the timber decking. “I’ve been getting a lot of memories haunting me lately.”

“Any reason why?”

I shrug. “Just stuff that triggers them, like the same smell, same song, same words.”

He studies my face for a second while Tap passes us to go back inside. Certain we’re out of earshot again, he continues. “Anything else settin’ you off? Anyone in particular upsettin’ you?”

“Apart from that idiot newbie in there?” I huff. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He nods slowly, stepping away to take a seat on the top step of the stairs that lead down to the lawn. His huge hand pats the wood by his side.

I obey and take a spot beside him.

“You went out on that bender a few months back, and when you got back we honestly thought you’d found somethin’ out there on the road that helped you. You were . . . different when you returned from your road trip, Abbey.”

“I know.”

“So what changed?”

“I realized that it would take more than a weeklong roadie to fix who I am.” I look to my hands where they hang between my knees. “Coming home just reminded me of everything I was trying to escape.”

“You sayin’ that it’s this place that brings you down?”

“I guess I am, a little.”

He grumbles, staring out over the moonlit grass. “You’ve got a hell of a lotta people here who care a great deal about you, kid.”

I nod, fidgeting with my nails. Wish everyone would stop calling me that.

“And I know you have trouble trustin’ and opening up to people, but girl, if we can help share that load you carry around every day, you know we will.”

“It’s not your burden, Hooch.”

“If it makes you upset, which in turn makes us feel bad, then yeah it is, love.” He leans away from me to pull a small tinderbox from his pocket. “You might think hidin’ your problems is what everyone wants you to do, but don’t you think if you actually shared some of your past with the people in there then they might not look at you so strange when you go . . . into your head?”

“The way I see it, it’ll just give them one more reason to cut me out.”

“I don’t think so,” he says on a sigh. “Half them fuckers have histories just as twisted as yours, Abbey. Like minds, and all that.”

I sigh, leaning back to rest my weight on both palms. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “Take Jo-Jo, for example. Ever wonder how he got those scars on his wrists?” He carefully places a small pile of white powder in the indent of his forefinger and thumb, sets the tinderbox down, and inhales the dust with a satisfied groan.

“I always assumed Jo-Jo’s injuries were self-inflicted.” I lean forward, eyeing my own scars.

Hooch reaches out, taking my left wrist in his hand and running his thumb over the bumps. “Nope. He got them scars when somebody he trusted turned rat on him, and the cartel in his hometown thought they’d make an example of him.”

I frown, watching Hooch’s thumb as he appears to soothe the healed flesh.

“He got crucified, full on hammer and spike deal, in his town square.”

“Jesus.”

“Wasn’t there to save him that day.”

He lets go of my arm, and repeats the process with his coke.

“That shit will be the death of you if you don’t slow down.”