Loser || WlW

Twenty-Seven

"Let me take you to the hospital." Grace dabs at the bloody mud on my chin with a wet washcloth.

I rest my head against the wall of her tiny bathroom and continue playing with her free hand in mine. "I'm okay." I try to smile but it hurts. The gash on my lip must re-open because I can feel the blood dribble down my chin again.

She sighs and holds the washcloth against my lip. "You can't let them get away with beating you and leaving you in the forest to die." She puts Neosporin on a cotton pad and dabs it under my eye. "There are other people in the police force. We'll talk to someone else."

I cringe as I shift my weight. My ribs are so bruised it's hard to breathe. "You can't get involved."

Grace is about to respond but there's a light knock on the open bathroom door. Janet is peaking in, her bright hair puffed into a sleepy mess. She rubs at the bags under her eyes with the back of her hand. "Hey, can I use the..." Her eyes go wide. "You look like shit."

"Um, thank you?" I want to laugh.

"No, I'm just saying. I mean, shouldn't you go to the hospital?" She cringes as her eyes dart around the different bruises on my face.

Grace raises an eyebrow at me.

"Thanks for the, um, concern," I say, trying to push myself to my feet, "but I was just about to head home."

Janet shrugs as she stifles a yawn and makes her way back to her bedroom.

Grace helps me to my feet and leads me out of the apartment, practically carrying me down the stairs, and makes a joke about how cheap rent doesn't come with elevators before tucking me into her passenger seat.

"It looks better, right?" I ask, looking at my black eye in the mirror.

Grace snorts.

"Damn it." I flip the sun visor up and lean back. I tried to stall. I knew if I went home after Trevor used me as a punching bag, my brother and dad would lose it but Neosporin and ice can only do so much.

Grace pulls onto the street and flips the radio on. "So, I'm finally going to see where you live?" She smiles.

"Oh my god," I say and sink into the seat. I forgot I'd been keeping my poverty from her.

"Jordan." Grace stops at a red light. "Whatever you're afraid of showing me," she shakes her head, "it doesn't matter." As if reading my mind, she adds, "I don't care how much money your family makes."

I half-smile. "Make a left here."

It doesn't take long for the landscape to change. The apartments and townhomes shift into single-story houses with chain-link fences and dirt lawns.

My stomach turns. "Make a right. It's the third one on the left." I can't look at her.

She puts the car in park by the curb and kills the engine.

I glance at her; back out the window. "This is where I live." Defeat floods through my body.

I'm thinking about how this can't possibly get worse when Grace says, "Is that your brother?"

I jump up in my seat to find Zachary jogging toward us. "Fuck," I whisper, pulling on the door handle.

"What the hell happened to you?" He's yelling.

My dad trails behind him, still wearing his work boots.

"I..." My lip quivers. "Trevor beat me up," I admit.

Zach pulls me into a hug, but it's stiff. His bony shoulder digs into my neck. He's mad.

My dad covers his mouth with his hand; tears stream down his unshaven face. "What happened, kiddo?"

"Dad, I'm fine. I promise." I bury my face in his shoulder for a moment, inhaling the strangely comforting scent of the warehouse.

"I'm getting an alarm system put in," he mumbles.

My heart sinks at the thought of him putting in more overtime than he's already doing.

A car door closes behind me. Grace.

I pull away from my dad's hug and stand next to her. "This is Grace." I pause and swallow the lump in my throat. "My... We're... Dating?"

She raises an eyebrow at me, her cheeks flushing a light shade of pink under her olive complexion before she extends her hand toward my dad. "Hi, Mr. Taylor. Nice to meet you."

Dad smiles and pulls her into a hug. "Nice to meet you. Come on in."

Zachary is sitting on the couch, his arms draped over his knees as he stares at the TV.

The Channel Seven news is on.

Trevor and his brother are front and center. A short blonde woman is holding a mic for Trevor to speak into.

"Miss Lacy. It's so hard to describe the kind of pain that comes with losing both of your girlfriends in two years." He wipes tears from his cheeks.

"He's still drunk." I cross my arms over my chest. "You can see it in his eyes."

Kyle is staring straight into the camera, a single hand resting on Trevor's shoulder.

"And now, they're trying to frame me?" His voice is thick with fake sobs. "I mean, we all know who did it. It's not a mystery."

The blonde woman stands a little straighter, eager to get the story. "And who do you think did it, Mr. Hemmett?"

Grace puts an arm around my waist as the oxygen is sucked from the room. This is it. Everyone is about to hear Trevor accuse me of murder on national television. My mind flashes back to the still image of my mother in her hospital gown. Will they tie us together? Like we're some kind of nut case family?

Trevor takes an exaggerated gulp of air and wipes his eyes with a tissue before saying "I wouldn't drag her name through the mud like she's done mine." His eyes are hard as he stares into the camera.

"How is anyone buying this shit?" I shout.

My dad's eyes go wide but he shrugs my profanity off and walks into the kitchen.

Zachary is still staring at the television. He shakes his head and says, "I'm gonna kill him," through clenched teeth.

"Careful saying that around here." I roll my eyes.

"I'm not the one being accused of murder," Zach snaps back, swiveling his body on the couch to face me.

"Zachary!" my dad barks from the kitchen.

"Whoa. Uncalled for, asshole." I smack the back of his head, making his curls bounce.

He stands, his fists clenched into balls.

Grace's grip tightens around my waist.

"What? You're gonna fight me too?" I shrug out of Grace's hold.

Zach's features soften as his eyes flick from my black eye to my bloody lip and the road rash on my arms. "I'm sorry." he moves around the couch and pulls me into a hug. "I didn't mean to put you on blast."

"I get it." My gaze falls on the wall calendar over his shoulder. What am I forgetting about? "We're all under a lot of pressure."

"Who wants breakfast before the funeral?" My dad steps into the living room holding a frying pan full of scrambled eggs.

"Oh my god," I breathe.

I forgot about Claire's funeral.