Ruined

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Why? Why the hell had I picked up the phone?

Because I was a damn masochist, that’s why. Finally, the years of violence and torment had fried my fucking brain.

I’d already been on a bus speeding down Route 11, no more than six miles from Uncle Rick’s house, when the cell went off. I ignored it at first. Picked it up, saw the number on the caller ID, and tossed the phone back into my pocket without giving it a second thought.

Then it rang again. And again. And again.

I caved. It was either that or hum the thing out the window. Since money wasn’t something I could magically pull out of my ass, replacing the phone wasn’t an option. But listening to it scream wasn’t either. The bastard calling wouldn’t have given up anyway.

Now, instead of sticking to my vow to stay the hell away from my hometown, I was standing in the shadow of the alley next to McCarthy’s, the local diner. This was my uncle Rick’s fault. The only reason I’d agreed to come back to this pit was because he swore my twin, Chase, would be out of town.

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