Page 80 of One Last Rainy Day
“Look, Dom, it’s the milk truck!” Tobias roars before we both throw our heads back, laughing hysterically.
Sighing out “imbéciles,” Delphine widens the door to let us in. Scrutinizing us briefly, she adjusts her robe before turning to retreat to her bedroom.
“Non, Tatie, join us,” Tobias calls after her, shrugging off his jacket. “I’m making breakfast for both of you.”
“Non,” Delphine protests.
“It’s time,” Tobias says, unbuttoning one of his sleeves and rolling it up as he and Delphine share a tense but silent exchange.
She nods toward me. “He is drunk.”
“Then that makes three of us,” Tobias snarks. “Put on some coffee so we can talk before the rest of the crew arrives to collect him.”
“Time for what?” I ask, taking the rattle stool beneath the counter as they start to silently work together. Anticipation builds as Tobias glances over at Delphine, and they exchange another loaded look before he palms the counter, his words for me. “It’s time you know your history. How and where it all truly began—and where it’s going.”
***
It was one of the handful of times I’ve ever been drunk, but I haven’t forgotten a second. In the hours that followed, I sobered considerably with every passing minute, sipping coffee while Delphine revealed my parents’ history—details of whom they were involved with—groups they werein—before I was born. She added specifics about her own path and what eventually led her to Triple Falls. Minute by minute, my mind became more blown by how muchthey bothhad been keeping from me. The details of Delphine’s sordid past helped me understand so much about her andwhyshe is the way she is.
Tobias laid out his plans, his own revelations taking me aback. Especially the secret that the congressman who taught him how to fasten a necktie is anoriginal ravenTobias attended prep with. An original on the fast track to becomingpresident—and still is.
That morning, Tobias trusted me with his most heavily guarded secrets and his vision for our long game. The way he is trusting menowwith the fate of the club.
He’ll never forgive you.
Guilt swallows me whole at the act of betrayal I just took part in because, as of right now, one of our originals is on a plane headed for France.
The reason? I’m having my own brother shadowed, his whereabouts reported, so I can continue to fuck our enemy’s daughter.
If Tobias spots him, he’ll immediately be tipped off that something is amok—along with knowing exactlywhoordered his tail—which will only hasten his return. On the off chance he doesn’t catch it, at least I’ll know if what he’s telling me is true. If the real reason for his long absence is to find his birth father.
If I’m caught, Tobias will suffer the worst kind of betrayal and heartbreak at my hands. Something he doesn’t fucking deserve.
Remorse consumes me whole as I shoot off a text that says it all—that I miss him. That I have regrets about the way things are between us. That I’m trying. That no matter what he’s doing or how far apart our current paths are, one thing forever remains the same.
Always brothers.
My phone instantly buzzes with his reply—a reply that has my throat burning.
B: Miss you too, little brother.
He’ll never forgive you.
“It is much more difficult to judge oneself than to judge others. If you succeed in judging yourself rightly, then you are indeed a man of true wisdom.”
—Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Chapter Thirty-Four
I’M SOMEWHERE BETWEENconsciousness and restless sleep when my phone rumbles on my nightstand, and my eyes pop open. Premonition strikes hard as I check it to confirm what I already know.
Dressed in seconds, duffle bag in hand, I pause at the foot of the stairs before backtracking to Sean’s room. Opening the cracked door, I spot Cecelia sleeping peacefully. Chest aching, I soak in the look of her where she lies on her stomach—hair fanned over her pillow, expression serene, lips slightly parted, the sheet resting just below the small of her naked back. Burning the image of her into memory, guilt threatens because the last time I saw her, I’d been in such a fucked-up state that when she popped her head into my room, I slammed the door in her face. As cruel as that act was, I refused to let her glimpse what was festering inside me. Aching with regret, I rip my eyes away and make a beeline for my Camaro.
Fifteen minutes later, I finish screwing the temporary tag onto the old Buick before taking the driver’s seat. Adrenaline pumping, I fix the rearview and pull my solid black ballcapdown. Though I’m thankful for the early morning blanket of cloud cover, I curse when rain begins to accumulate on the windshield.
Trying my luck with the wipers—the one aspect I overlooked while restoring the eighties model sedan—I send up a thank you when the rusted blades power to life. Pulling down the ancient gear shift at the steering wheel, I roll through the debris of the junkyard, following the narrow path I cleared in preparation. Narrowly maneuvering the Buick between the crushed, stacked sedans on my left and the side of the garage to the right, I’m feet from King’s parking lot when Sean steps directly in my path.
He doesn’t so much as glance up as he takes painstaking time to produce his Zippo before lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips.
