He’s shaking his head, regret swimming in those deep, deep blues. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to. I...” His voice hitches, and he glances away, running a hand over his mouth. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“No fucking shit.”

I look down at my bare legs. I have nothing but black boxer briefs on. They’re small on me, leaving nothing to the imagination. A pair I must have left here years ago. I should be ashamed. Disgusted with myself. But all I feel is...cold. And not the shivering kind of cold that can easily be fixed with a hoodie or a blanket. But the bone-deep sort that hurts so much, you go numb.

I fear I may never be warm again.

At least not while I’m in this house.

Getting out of bed is a struggle, but at least he doesn’t try to help me. I can’t be sure I wouldn’t hurt him if he touched me right now.

My stomach feels hollow to the point of queasy, and I wonder if I look as empty as I fucking feel right now.

“Here.” A gray pair of sweatpants and a black thermal appear before me. They’re not mine, but I don’t bother asking as I take them and quickly pull them on.

I look around the room, taking it all in. All the little changes my uncle must have made in the years since he moved in after my dad’s arrest. I never understood why Reggie would want to live here. Then again, it was his family home. Maybe he thinks he can purge out the demons with his happier childhood memories. Who fucking knows?

The hardwood is the same, but the gray rug that was under the bed is gone. The dresser is new, and so is the nightstand. There’s an old desk in the corner I recognize from the spare room one door down from my room. I wonder if that’s where Reggie sleeps. I doubt he’d sleep in the monster’s den on the opposite end of the hall.

My eyes bounce around the near-empty walls. It’s not unlike when I lived here. I never saw the point in decorating it—making it mine. My dad’s favorite pastime—when he wasn’t railing on me about something I did or didn’t do—was destroying things he thought held meaning to me. It was easier to just not give a shit.

“Waylon?”

My eyes drop to my hand. My knuckles are scabbed over with dried blood.

It comes back to me then.

The last few days...

Last night.

The memories blur as they converge on me. Like a system rebooting after being logged off for days; it’s overwhelming in its intensity as my brain plays catch up.

Bootleggers.