The Art of Trust

TOM WELLS

He's such a brat. Albeit a cute brat, but still. How was I supposed to suppress my feelings, sexual and all, if he kept looking at me like that? Glancing out the side of my eye, I watched the sun hit his skin, covering him in a warm glow. My eyes traveled down to the shirt he was still wearing, my shirt. I swallowed, and clenched my jaw as I turned my attention back towards the road. Evan and Larson were in the car behind us, a slightly newer model but nothing that would draw attention.

Sammy really made me lose my grip on reality as well as reason. But seeing him smile at the people and scenery we passed was worth it. I was having a bit of a dilemma as to where I should take him. Larson had told me that Ghost and Noah had visited the club everyday. He had informed them that Sammy was okay, but Noah had called Sammy's phone countless of times. Really, I couldn't blame him. I was the bad guy in this situation. Ghost had only asked Larson to tell me one thing, 'I trust you.'

Ghost knew nothing about this part of my life, rightfully so. But, he still trusted me. Ghost and I never really needed to keep in touch everyday. We just knew where we stood with each other. If there was a problem between us, we immediately talked about it as soon as we saw each other again. It was crazy to me that Ghost, knowing nothing about my past, trusted me when he hadn't even seen his friend in two days.

Then again, I didn't really know about his past either. We only knew what we told each other, but that was enough for us. Noah, on the other-hand, met me for one day and watched his best friend, who'd left with me, disappear.

Sammy's phone buzzed again, echoing out into the small space we shared. He looked up at me, and I shook my head. Sammy had only responded to Noah once, telling him he was okay and not to worry, nothing else. I could tell he wanted to call Noah and reassure him, but I couldn't allow that. I couldn't have the possibility of more blood on my hands.

The only reason Sammy was a target was because he was seen leaving my office and getting into my car. I never drove people in my car because it reminded me of my mother. She'd always ride shotgun with me. No matter how many cars I bought, that was always her spot. But Sammy was different.

And because I liked that he was different, people were trying to take him away from me.

"I have to tell him, Tom. You don't understand. Noah has really bad attachment issues. If I don't explain, he'll think it's his fault. He'll think I'm leaving him." Sammy said, legs bouncing uncontrollably. His entire body was moving, there wasn't anything staying still. His face twitched, his fingers tapped, and his legs never stopped shaking.

I let out a tired sigh, conflicted yet again, "You can't, Sammy. You don't understand them. The drug world is more dangerous than you think. These people aren't just druggies, they're murderers. I know you have nothing to do with this. This is my father's fault, but so many innocent people always have to pay... Please don't make that number any higher."

His face turned redder, and I knew he was getting angrier. His jaw clenched, and he narrowed his eyes at me.

"Just let me tell him that it's not his fault. I need to tell him I love him, and that it's not his fault, okay? He has to know— because it's not— fuck Tom, last time he—"

His voice was getting higher, and he was shaking violently now, almost like he was gasping for air.

Almost on autopilot, I pulled over, Larson and Evan following behind me. My phone rang, no doubt Evan wondering why I had stopped.

Sammy had tears streaming down his face now, his eyes were open but didn't seem to be focused on anything in particular. He had curled in on his self, body heaving with silent sobs.

"Is it okay if I hold you?"

Sammy blinked, eyes focused now, on me. He nodded once, and I carefully undid the belt around his waist. I rubbed his back, before picking him up and setting him on my lap, positioning him so I could hold him comfortably in the drivers seat.

If anything, he cried more, arms hooked around my neck now. I played a soft rhythm on his back, humming into the side of his neck until he stopped shaking. His tears still flowed, but he met me with tired eyes.

"Call him, Samuel. You're right. I don't know anything about your relationship with him. You know him best, and I don't want to come between your friendship. Just say what you can. I apologize."

He dropped his head back on my shoulder, and he could've chosen any emotion to let out right then, any. And he chose laughter.

"I'm eighteen tomorrow, and I still act like a fucking toddler. What's wrong with me, huh?"

"Sammy, panic attacks are not childish. Even adults can have them. Nothing is wrong with you. You were just overwhelmed. You're overthinking..." I run a hand through the curls framing his jaw.

My phone rang again, and Sammy shifted so I could answer while simultaneously holding him in my grasp still.

"Yea?"

"Tom, there's a problem." Evan's voice called out. My stomach clenched, I really didn't want anymore bad news right now.

"Go on."

"I don't know if it has anything to do with the current situation, but Larson just got a call. Angel's looking for you."

Apparently, what I wanted didn't matter, did it?