I stay motionless, my face blank as he drops to the carpet in front of me. “You okay?”

I shrug. It’s about the only thing that sums up my complete lack of feeling in this moment.

“The doc reckons he has a fifty-fifty chance of pullin’ through. All we can do is wait.”

“I hate waiting,” I murmur. “I’ve always been impatient.”

Bronson smiles, patting my knee. “Hungry?”

“No.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I don’t want anything, okay?” I snap, backing away to stand. “Nothing. I just want Tommy fixed.”

He hesitates, watching me as I fidget because I’m unsure if I want to be sitting or standing. Fuck. Why can’t I decide?

“Was he right?” Bronson asks, thumbing toward the bathroom. “You lot never had anyone hurt before?”

I nod, fingers drumming my bottom lip. “Yeah, he’s right. Never.”

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, turning his head to the floor. “How? I mean . . .”

“They’re show ponies,” I blurt out, throwing my hands in the air and finally fucking deciding I’d like to be seated on the bed. “They prance around, looking the part, but they’re not actually much use for anything.”

“Really?” He seems as though he still can’t believe it.

“It’s not that hard to believe, you know? They do a good job of making out they’re tough as hell, but the lot of them are fakes.” My damn tears start again. “Fucking Eddie. It’s all his fault. He dragged them into this.”

“They had a choice, Ryan. They would have been able to walk away if they didn’t want to work for him.”

I laugh, hollow and callous. “You think they had a choice? Who do you think pays the mortgage on this place? You don’t honestly think their dad can when he’s locked up?”

Bronson stares at me with some mix of pity and sympathy. “The door never closes. If after this they want to go clean, they can. Nobody’s stoppin’ them.”

“You think they would?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “At least one wouldn’t.”

“Exactly,” I say.

Bronson lifts his face, his eyes searching mine as his expression hardens. “Doesn’t mean you can’t, though.”

“I need to be here,” I whisper, shifting my gaze to check the hallway. It’s quiet, save from the odd scuff of feet on the bathroom floor, or the murmur of the doctor. “There’s something I need to do before I can go.”

Bronson moves from his position on the floor, coming to sit beside me on the bed. I take a small comfort in how close he chooses to sit; closer than two people who don’t know each other very well would. “No, you don’t need to be here,” he argues. “The only thing stopping you from walkin’ out of here is yourself. What the hell is so important that you’d rather put up with this shit?”

I sigh, ducking my head and playing with my hands in my lap. “Eddie’s the only person who knows the truth about what happened to my parents. He won’t tell me, so I’m working on a plan to blackmail it out of him.” Bronson sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, the frown he wears telling me he disapproves of the idea. “If I leave without finding out, I feel like what happened when I was a teenager will be nothing but some fucked up incident that stops me returning to the happy girl I was before it all.” The moment’s too intense, the air between us too thick. I break away and march to the set of drawers and tug out a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, throwing them at a confused looking Bronson. “Gunter’s clothes should fit you so you don’t have to walk around in that.” I swallow hard, pointing to Tommy’s blood all over Bronson’s clothes.

He tips his head to the side, frowning as he rolls the T-shirt through his hands. “What were you talkin’ about, Ryan? What happened to your parents?” His eyes lift to find mine, waiting on an answer as he reaches down and removes his boots.

I turn side on as he stands and strips his stained T-shirt off. “They died.” The clink of his buckle follows, and I peek from the corner of my eye over at the pile of blood-soaked denim at his feet.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He bends at the waist with his back to me as he steps into the sweats. I allow myself to admire how delicious he looks in nothing but a pair of fitted boxer-briefs. The muscles in his back roll as he maneuvers the fabric up his legs, contracting while he ties the drawstring. Bronson bends and picks up the T-shirt next, tugging it over his head. My emotions war within—panic and grief for Tommy battling for space with lust and desire. “You want to talk about it?” he asks as he turns around to find me staring at him so vacantly.

I kind of do. Nobody’s ever sat down and chewed through the emotions with me. My history, my parents’ death has always been nothing more than a brief comment in passing. There’s a lot of unresolved emotion surrounding the memory that needs unpacking.

I take a step toward him, wondering if I’m wise to spill it all with someone whose background I nothing about. Should I share with Bronson exactly why it is I choose to lie every night beside a man I don’t love, and why I parade myself around for the appreciation of men I fantasize of stabbing in my dreams? I’m saved the agony of deciding if I do by Gunter emerging from the bathroom.

His gaze sweeps over the two of us and settles on Bronson wearing his clothes. “What the . . .?” He thunders towards our position.

Bronson goes to move in front of me, but I plant my hand firmly on his stomach, urging him to stay put. “He was covered in Tommy’s blood, Gunter. The guy at least deserves clean clothes for what he’s done to help us. Pull your fucking head in.”

Gunter’s nostrils flare as he swallows his pride for the time being. “Doc wants to take Tommy in to his practice—reckons there’s shit he can do there that he can’t here.”

I take a step toward him. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.” Gunter looks between Bronson and I again, his teeth gritted at what he’ll say next. “You stay here. I don’t need both of us tired and worn out. Somebody will have to look after him when he gets home.”

Fair enough. I nod, stepping back to stand before the edge of the bed. A moment of silence passes before I lift my gaze to Gunter and ask, “Would you like me to call Eddie, tell him what happened?”

He shakes his head. “Already done it.”

My hand automatically goes to my mouth, the fingers of my loose fist pressing against my lips as I speak. “What did he say?” I drop to the mattress to hear him out.

Gunter scoffs. “Tore me a new asshole for letting it happen.”

“That guy’s a fuckin’ douche,” Bronson murmurs. “Needs a fuckin’ bullet.”

“Normally I’d lay you out for that, fucker,” Gunter warns, “but tonight . . . I have to agree.”

“Want me to do it?” Bronson asks.

I look between the two of them. Bronson’s stoic face tells me he’s deadly serious, that the offer is valid. Gunter scrunches his brow into the expression I know as him deep in thought.

“Lets get through tonight first, yeah? No need to act on impulse.” Gunter turns to acknowledge the doctor, who clears his throat in the hallway.

“We need to move now if this exercise is going to have any point to it,” the doc advises.

Gunter nods to the old man, turning back to me and closing the space between us. He grabs my head between his hands, and bends down to lay a kiss on the top. “Be back soon.”

Before I have a chance to respond, he’s gone, and within seconds he emerges from the bathroom with Tommy cradled in his arms. Some of the blood’s been cleaned off his neck and face, but he’s still white as a ghost and completely out to it.

My chest rises and falls jerkily with my panicked breaths. What if this is it? What if I never see him again?

I launch towards Gunter’s back as he heads for the front door and slam a hand on his arm to still him. He twists, allowing me space to lean over Tommy and give him a kiss on the cheek—his cold and lifeless cheek. “Love you, little brother.” I look up to Gunter, catching the flare of his nostrils as he breaks a weak smile and walks away.