Page 78 of Misguided
“I do,” he argues. “I screw it up, Mel. That’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done.”
If I could wish for one thing for my brother, it would be that he stops blaming himself for everything that’s gone wrong around him. He’s not always the cause. “Mom leaving Dad wasn’t your fault.” I remind him of the very thing that set him off the rails to begin with.
“No? Then what about Dana dying? Don’t tell me that I did the right thing there by standin’ around waiting like Dad told me to.” What is he talking about? “I should have listened to this.” He thumps a closed fist to his stomach. “I should have gone in there to get her.”
“And what?” I yell as Hooch crowds me against the wall. “Got shot to hell, as well?” All I know is that both Dana and Daddy were shot at Carlos’ compound. But nobody told me any more than that. Hooch’s guilt confuses me considering from what I know he wouldn’t have had a chance at changing the outcome.
“Maybe this isn’t the time to discuss this,” Dog interjects, placing a hand to Hooch’s chest.
I turn my head to the side, staring at the wall beyond Dog.
“I’m sorry.” Hooch turns away, giving me space to breathe again. “How did you find me?”
I look to Dog, and he opens his mouth to answer, yet Hooch interrupts with another question.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday,” Dog says.
The pain in my chest puts down roots as Hooch drops to the side of the bed, pinching his brow. “What day did that tanker roll over on the I-70?”
“Monday.”
Something about that single word disturbs him. Hooch launches off the bed, and my hands tighten on the bag as I place it between him and myself. The haste in which he moves has Dog reaching for his gun. Hooch’s eyes widen, and he lifts both hands to try and calm us down.
What the hell have we walked into? Is there any part of the brother I love left?
“We gotta get the hell out of here,” he mutters, searching for what I presume is clothes.
“We’ve got time,” Dog says. “It’s”—he checks his watch—“a bit after four. We’ll hang around until it’s dark and head off then.”
I continue cleaning up; if we’re spending half the night here then no way in hell am I sitting around in this stinking mess.
“Nope,” Hooch argues as he hops on the spot, tugging his jeans on. “Gotta go before then. If you’re here, then that asshole’s probably already got eyes on the place.”
“What asshole?” I empty an overfilled ashtray into the bag, eyeing both men as I do.
“Damn it.” Hooch bites out. “I’ve got some explainin’ to do, but first we need to—” He promptly leans over and hurls what little is left in his stomach into the trash again.
“Fuck man.” Dog covers his nose as I fight back my own vomit. “I hope you ain’t gonna do this the whole way home. I’m not stoppin’ if you are.”
“Thanks,” Hooch replies sarcastically.
“Any time.”
I tie the top of the bulging bag and set it down by the door, looking for another. Hooch eyes the litter from his position, clearly still mad I threw out his drugs. They’ll be buried in the bottom of a dumpster before the day’s out, too. No way in hell is he getting his hands on that shit ever again.
“Donovan Jessup,” I whisper as I drop into the lone armchair. “That’s what you’re goin’ to explain, right?”
His eyes narrow on me. “How do you know his name?”
“Idiot stalked the clubhouse couple of weeks after you split. Crackers returned the favor and put eyes on him.”
Hooch laughs, his body language softening as he stretches out on the bed. “Sounds like him.”
“They noticed he was cycling through your usual haunts,” I explain. “So they put two and two together and dragged him in.”
His relaxed attitude doesn’t last long. “What did Jessup say?”