Ten

'The hell you doing sitting out here? I'm only five minutes late.' My brother calls, as he ambles up the drive towards me. 'So where you headed?'

Somehow it's dark already, cold too, my hands and feet numb, legs stiff from sitting slumped on the porch for God knows how long, my muscles aching from the beating.

'Just go home, Curly.' My voice is hoarse.

'But—'

I drag myself up onto my feet and back into the shadows, lurching away from him into my unlit house. 'But nothing. I said go home.'

'Tim, what's going on? Where's Leigh? And the kids?' He quickens his pace to catch up to me, grabbing my arm so I have no choice but to stop and face him as he flicks on the hall light. 'Holy fuck, what's happened?'

I shrug his hand away and shuffle towards the kitchen, but he ignores me, follows close on my heels.

'Tim, come on,' Curly persists, his tone softer this time, as he leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest. 'You know I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on, so you might as get it over with.'

Curly stands silent, waiting, like the stubborn kid he always has been, watching me stumble about the room until I find what I'm looking for.

My hands still numb and my knuckles swollen and split, I struggle to get the cap off of the half bottle of bourbon, swallow down a large mouthful, the heat sinking through my chest to the pit of my stomach as I take a second gulp and wash down a handful of pain pills. 'Leigh's gone, Curly. Don't blame her either, not with the mess I've made of everything.'

'Come on, Tim. So she's mad at you. But whatever it is, can't be that bad can it? Give her some time and she'll forgive you.'

'Not this time.' I pick at the congealing blood on the back of my hand, reopening the wound.

'One thing I don't get, Tim. Why is this Mitch Brannigan so dead set on coming after you?' Curly asks, his hands working overtime, turning his lighter round and round, fingertips tracing across the smooth metal, betraying the increasing anxiety that he's somehow managed to keep out of his voice.

'Long story, Curly.' I slump back in my chair, and take another mouthful of bourbon straight from the bottle I'm cradling. The alcohol burns into my throat, but it still does nothing to numb the pain in my heart.

'But you weren't running the job. You were only working for Lewis. So why is Brannigan pissed with you? Why not target Chris and his family?'

'Like I said, long—'

'Yeah, yeah.' Curly talks over me. 'It's a long story. So you keep saying. But I don't have no place else to be.' He snatches the bourbon out of my hand, pours himself shot and sets the bottle down on the counter behind him, out of my reach. 'And neither do you. So why don't you get started?'

I stare down at the back of my hands, the cracks of my knuckles lined a dark reddish-brown. 'I had some dealings with Brannigan, back in the day.'

'When exactly? I don't remember him. And we never did business with anyone outside of Tulsa, did we?' Impatient for a response, Curly nudges my foot with the tip of his boot. 'Tim? Come on, man, whatever it is, it can't be that bad.'

'When I was in McAlester...' I shrug, falling silent because I'm not sure where to go, how exactly to say this. Not when I never really told him anything about the truth of that place. How bad it actually was.

'What, so you knew him there?' Curly leans forward, still fiddling with that damn lighter, his knee bouncing as he waits for me to continue.

The tick of the clock slices through the heavy quiet. My stomach churns. Might as well tell him, I guess. Ain't like him knowing can leave him thinking any less of me than he does already.

'I...One of the guys I ran with, Walt. He couldn't handle it, being in there, got caught up in shit, drugs, ended up owing Brannigan, big time.' So much shouting, scuffling, voices echoing against the high ceiling of the mess hall, crowds pushing, jostling to see a fight... 'So when he couldn't pay...Brannigan sent one of his hoods to make an example out of Walt. I tried to stop it, to save him.' Blood pooling on the floor, staining my hands, my clothes, on my face, air knocked out of my lungs by the guard's baton as Walt lies there, unmoving. The other guy, slumped beside him, his last breath gurgling and wheezing through his lungs. 'Instead I ended up making everything a hundred times worse. Same as I always do.'

'Leigh know that you...' Curly's voice cracks.

'That I killed a guy?' I finish the sentence he can't bring himself to say then lean over him and swipe back the bottle, take a swig straight from it. ' Yeah.'

'Well, no wonder she freaked out, must've been a hell of a shock hearing that.'

'No. She ain't pissed at me over that, she's angry I put the kids in danger.' I down another shot. 'Told her that summer I came home from McAlester, back in sixty-seven. She's the only person out here I ever admitted it to. Until now, anyway.' I set down the bottle, fumble to light a cigarette. 'Thought her knowing would make her see me for what I am, scare her off. Instead I let her convince me I was worth saving, that we could have a normal life, be happy together. I wanted that so fucking bad, that I pushed it all down, buried it in the back of my mind and pretended it never fucking happened. Should've known it was too damn good to last.'

'Well she's right, isn't she? What you did in there, it was just a fight that got out of hand.' Curly gulps at his drink, drags a hand through his hair, his voice more high pitched as he continues to gabble at me. 'I mean, it ain't like you set out to finish him off, is it, Tim? You might have done some shit back then, we both did, but you're not a murderer.'

'Yeah, right. What about that guy's mother? His girl? Bet they'd say I was.' Palms on the table, I push myself up onto my feet. I'm done with talking. 'Lend me your car.'

'You think you're in any fit state to drive?'

'I haven't drunk that much. Gimme your keys.'

'No. Going to see Leigh right now, looking like that, isn't gonna help.' He gestures towards my filthy, blood-encrusted shirt as he slides his other hand out to pick his keys up from the table. 'Clean yourself up, get some sleep. Leave it to the morning and maybe she'll have calmed down enough you can at least talk to her, see the kids. Don't go storming over there making things worse than they already are.'

'Give me some credit. I'm not planning on doing that.' I shove his shoulder then hold out my hand expectantly, waiting for him to give me his keys. 'I can't lose her, Curly, so I need to put a stop to all this shit. Tonight. And the only way that's happening is if I confront Brannigan, face to face.'

'Then you definitely ain't borrowing my car. Think it through, Tim. Walking in there, on your own, with no plan, it's suicide.'

'Now Curly.' I take another step closer to him. 'I'm not in the mood for your bullshit.'

'No, Tim, You're making a mistake.' Curly stands up a little straighter, as he glares at me. 'And in case you forgot, I'm not a member of your gang or some punk kid no more, so you don't get to push me around and tell me what to do.'

'Oh yeah?' I sneer, shoving him backwards, his head clattering against the refrigerator door, my arm across his throat pinning him in place. Drawing back my other fist, I sucker punch him in the gut, and twist the keys from his grip as he struggles to catch his breath again. 'I'm doing this, tonight.'

I slow the car to a stop a hundred yards or so down the street, behind the derelict warehouse, and kill the engine.

It's late, gone midnight, but the dull thud of music still vibrates out of the roadhouse through the night air, a row of cars and bikes out front.

Picking my way through the shadows, I pause, watching the back door for a few minutes before edging closer.

My mouth is suddenly dry. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should turn the car around. Go pick up Leigh, our babies, and get the fuck away from here. Head west. She always says she wants to go to California and see the ocean one day, farthest either of us have ever been is Dallas. We could start again. Somewhere no one knows us, where no one knows me...

... and spend every waking moment waiting, wondering when my past mistakes will catch up with me again.

I put my shoulder against the heavy wooden door and turn the handle, slip inside.

'Well, you got balls, I'll give you that.' Brannigan mutters, as he enters his office to find me sat behind the desk, waiting for him. He pulls out the other chair, sits opposite me. If he's surprised to find me here, his expression doesn't hint at it. 'But you tell me, after the state you left my boys in earlier, why in hell you think you've any chance of walking back out that door alive.'

'This shit, is between you and me. You need to leave my wife and kids out of it.'

'I dunno about that, Shepard.' He smirks as he reaches across the desk, pours himself a large scotch into a heavy cut-glass tumbler and sips at it. 'Now what is it the bible says? An eye for an eye. So you gotta pay.'

The door behind him creaks open an inch or two and a tattooed face peers in at us. 'You need anything, boss?'

Brannigan shakes his head, waves the guy away. 'Nah. We're good. Just having a friendly chat with an old acquaintance, is all.'

Eventually, the door clicks shut.

'Why d'you even care so much about what happened to some cell block thug, especially after all this time?'

'Can't say that I do,' Brannigan replies with a slow shrug, 'But I don't like being made a fool of. You and Castelli, spinning that yarn back in McAlester about him being responsible. You might have got out of there before I knew the truth of it, strolling out the gate to enjoy your parole. But Castelli paid double. You know he never made it back out the infirmary, right? Never walked again? And so everyone believed it had been dealt with, knew not to fuck with me. But then you turn up here, after all these years? There has to be consequences. Everybody has to pay.'

He sets the glass down with a heavy thud against the polished wood of the desk, his eyes darting to the drawers beside my right knee, before he focuses back on me.

I shudder, my blood ice in my veins. Curly was right. I'm an idiot for coming here, thinking I can somehow talk my way out of this, no plan, no real way to protect myself.

'So do it then, end it now.' I lean forwards, pull open the the narrow drawer in front of me, and lift the revolver, setting it on the desk between us, just out of his reach. 'If you want rid of me that bad, why not pull the trigger and finish this.'

Brannigan lets out a loud, braying laugh. 'Don't think so. Me screwing up your life, taking your family is gonna be so much more effective than killing you would be, don't you think? I mean, sure, she'd be upset for a little while. Can picture it now, the beautiful, grieving widow, sobbing over your grave. For a week or two, anyway. Then after a while she'll move on, settle down with someone new. Someone better. Someone else your kids will grow up calling daddy.'

'No.' I lean forwards, fighting to keep calm, but I can't manage it, can't keep the hint of desperation at bay. 'There has to be some other way I can make amends. It was a fucking accident, alright? You know I was only trying to protect my buddy, and you knew the risks when you sent your man in there with a shiv. So there has to be some agreement we can come to. I'll do anything, whatever you ask, so long as you leave them alone.'

Brannigan leans back in his chair, slowly sipping from his glass, the corners of his mouth twisting up into an unfriendly smile. 'Anything?'

A/N: Thank you so much for reading :)