What Nobody Else Sees

chapter twenty eight

Sam parked his truck behind the apartment, as he had done a million times before. He had stopped crying three hundred miles ago. He had vowed to not do it again two hundred miles ago. Always good at self-discipline, he felt nothing as he got into the elevator. No ghosts, no guilt. They went hand in hand, and as long as Sam was able to fight one of them off, he needn't worry about the other.

The walls of the apartment were thin. From down the hall, he could babies crying and someone's tv blasting. His head was already aching. He stepped into his place, flipping the lights on.

Everything was just as he had left it. Newspapers and magazines were scattered on the living room table, half-read. An empty tray of takeout sat on the kitchen counter, next to a sink of unwashed dishes. He groaned, remembering the haste he had left in. Even as a kid, he had hated messes. His mother said neatness was a strange trait for someone like him.

He wiped down the brown countertops, tossing the takeout in the trash as he worked. Just as he was about to start working on the dishes, his phone rang from the living room.

"Who is it?" Sam asked, pressing the phone against face.

"Oh, you're home," Dylan said, a brightness in his voice. "How long have you been back?"

Sam grit his teeth. Dylan knew he didn't give out information like that unless it was absolutely necessary. The less everyone knew, the better.

"Not too long ago," he said, tense. "Why did you call?"

He heard the boy draw in a breath. "I like you better when you're away," he mumbled.

"Dylan," Sam warned, growing more and more agitated by the second.

"I'm sorry, it just slipped out," Dylan hurriedly said. "I'm calling because Jackson asked for you. I wanted to see if you were back before I used the other number you gave me."

The other number.

Heart pounding, Sam wrapped his hand tighter around the phone. "I won't be using that number anymore. Go ahead and get rid of it." He could hear his accent slipping through on the vowels, no longer able to keep the neutral tone.

"Oh," Dylan quietly said.

"Get rid of the number, Dylan," Sam insisted, digging his nails into the palm of his hand.

"Alright, alright, I will. Jackson wants to talk to you at the bar tonight."

Sam wanted to bang his head into a wall. Talking to Jackson was the last thing he felt like doing.

"Ok. Will anyone else be there?"

Please say no.

"I'm not really sure. He told me that I should come too, and if Jackson's inviting me, then he's probably inviting other people."

Sam threw his head back, biting back a sharp retort. Nothing against the rest of the gang. They were loud, obnoxious, and vying for Jackson's attention. Sam preferred to sit quietly, observe, and be whoever he needed to be to survive.

"Why do you think he's inviting other people? Did he say that others were coming?" Sam asked, desperately trying to get enough information to prepare himself.

Dylan scoffed. "No, but why would he let me come to a meeting between just you and him? The guy hates me."

For a split second, Sam softened. He hated hearing the kid sound so disheartened. "He doesn't hate you."

"It's fine, Sam, we all know he does. I'm young, talkative, and clumsy. The only reason he keeps me around is because I can sweet talk and steal, but he can easily replace me. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if that's why he's having me over tonight. He can take me out, and you'll be there to take of it." There was a quiver in Dylan's voice, revealing his true self, a terrified teenager.

"He's not gonna kill you, kid," Sam said, and to his surprise, it was genuine. Jackson wasn't going to kill Dylan. Not as long as Sam was there.

"You say it like you can stop it. You should watch what you say," the boy's voice dropped, the fear spiking again.

Sam bit the inside of cheek so hard that he thought it would bleed. "He's not going to kill you," he repeated. Jackson could kill someone else, just not Dylan. "I'll see you tonight."

Without giving Dylan the chance to answer, he hung up.

"I thought you didn't care about anyone when you were here," Blake said, leaning on the kitchen counter.

Sam shot a glare at him. "Go to hell."

He stormed to his bedroom, flinging his suitcase down. He threw its contents onto the bed, searching until he found what he was looking for. Slipping on a jacket, he tucked an old, rusted knife into his pocket.

It wasn't just for himself.

Eyes blazing, heart pounding, he walked back into the living room. In the center of the room, he took a deep breath. Something bad was going to happen. He could feel it from the pit of his stomach to the chill in his bones. It was the calm before the storm, the yellow sky before a hurricane. Sam had been through enough hurricanes to brace himself for the outcome.

His fingers ran over the knife that had been given to him when he was thirteen. It was intended for work purposes. This was work, just not the kind his parents had imagined when they handed him the knife on his birthday. Closing his eyes, he tried to draw himself away from the cramped kitchen, filled to the brim with family members and bright streamers and cake, and back into the dim, open, lonely apartment. It took him a few seconds to clear out the emotions attached to the memory. He wasn't supposed to have memories in Memphis. He was supposed to only remember the things that happened after he left home. Dark alleys and blood and burning buildings.

But he couldn't entirely shake it this time. There was still his father's stern but pleased eyes. There was still his mother's gentle hand on his shoulder. There was still Blake's smiling face at his side. There was still Callie gazing up at him in awe.

He pressed his hands onto the back of the couch, taking deep breaths. He was thirteen. He was nineteen. He was twenty-six. Key Creek, Alabama. Memphis, Tennessee.

He walked into the kitchen and went back to washing the dishes. When his mother said it was a strange trait for someone like him, what had she meant? Impulsive, reckless, ruthless? He had always known he would get out of Key Creek in one way or another. It wasn't what his parents had wanted, but Sam wouldn't back down. He couldn't back down.

He was never a good kid. What had they expected from him?