The Long Road Home [The Final McCassey Brothers Book] (29 page)

"You don't have to thank me. Just take good care of Georgia. I'd hate to think that she didn't have anyone looking out for her. She's a good girl, and loves you boys more than you know."

Bert let himself out, leaving the brothers standing in silence in the living room.

Finally, after several minutes, Blackie broke the silence. “Growin’ up the way we did, and then spendin’ all that time in prison, I learned not to trust many people. You two, our wives, and Frank, Jimmy, and Rose are really the only people I completely trust. I didn't believe Georgia when she told me she wasn't usin’ again. I ain't sure why ... she'd never given me a reason not to believe her before."

Looking both Judd, then Rebel, in the eye, he continued. “I shoulda listened to you boys and talked to Wade first. I never shoulda confronted Georgia; accused her of lyin’ and sneakin’ behind our backs. I fucked up bad this time, and I ain't sure how to fix it."

"She'll turn up, Blackie,” Rebel said encouragingly. “She doesn't have anywhere else to go."

"Yeah, she does.” And that's when Blackie told his brothers what he and Angel had discussed the night before. “Georgia may not have known that she could find more drugs than she'd know what to do with down on Franklin Street, but all she'd have to do is ask someone where to find heroin, and they'd tell her."

Judd began pacing. “So you think she's in one of the houses on Franklin Street?"

"Probably. You two searched everywhere else, and didn't find her. Bert was just here, so we know she didn't run to him. And since Wade ain't called, we know she ain't with him, either. Where else could she be?"

"Now would be a good time to go down there,” Rebel suggested. “It's still early. Chances are that most of Franklin Street is still asleep, and we could get in and out of the houses with no trouble."

Blackie hated the thought of Georgia hanging out in a drug-infested house with dealers, addicts, and prostitutes, and hoped to hell she'd sought shelter somewhere else. Because if she was in one of those houses, there was a good chance she was probably just as messed up this morning as the rest of the addicts. If she'd gone back to using heroin, he had no one to blame but himself.

"Let's get down there and check things out,” he told his brothers. “Between the three of us, we should be able to cover a lot of ground in a little bit of time."

Blackie decided against putting the .357 back on top of his gun cabinet, and touched the waistband of his pants to make sure the weapon was secure.

It bothered him more than he was willing to admit that he might have to use firepower in order to drag Georgia out of wherever she was.

It bothered him, too, that she might refuse to go. He'd hurt her pretty bad, and was prepared for her to put up a fight about going with him.

She'd go, though, because it would be over his cold, dead body that he let her become a junkie again.

Distracted by his thoughts, Blackie never heard the phone ring as he and his brothers were walking out the door...

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Watching Georgia as she enjoyed her first peaceful sleep in over a week, Wade rubbed his tired eyes.

Her withdrawal hadn't been quite as bad this time around, but it had been bad enough. She'd been extremely sick, crying and calling for all three of her brothers as she struggled against intense chills, uncomfortable sweats, and numerous bouts of nausea.

But each time Wade had offered to call them, she refused to let him; saying that she didn't want them to see her the way she was. “They felt worried and helpless when I was so sick the last time,” she explained, “it nearly killed them that they couldn't do anything for me, and I don't want to do that to them again."

Now that most of the symptoms had subsided and she was feeling better, he was going to call the boys whether she liked it or not. The four of them were family, and they needed each other.

Since her brother hadn't been home, Wade had never mentioned to her that he'd tried to call Blackie the morning after he'd found her on Franklin Street. Wade had been planning to call again the following day, but Georgia had been so sick that he hadn't gotten the chance.

Before he did anything, Wade needed to get some rest. He hadn't slept more than a few hours each day since he'd brought Georgia to his apartment, and was so exhausted that he was lucky he could remember his own name.

Wade eyed up the spot next to Georgia in his king-sized bed longingly, dreading having to curl up on the hard floor inside his sleeping bag again. She was sound asleep, and would probably stay that way for the next several hours. He didn't see the harm in lying down next to her and taking advantage of the comfort of his own bed.

His decision made, Wade left his jeans on, but removed his T-shirt and boots, then lay down and closed his eyes.

When Wade awoke, the entire apartment—with the exception of the area near the bathroom where he'd plugged in a nightlight so Georgia could see just in case she needed to—was dark.

After taking a moment to get his bearings, he realized that he was lying on his back in the exact same spot where he'd lay down several, probably at least twelve, hours before. With his right arm draped across his forehead, he suddenly realized that his left, which was extended out to the side, felt like there was a weight on top of it. Turning his head, Wade noticed that Georgia was still sound asleep ... lying on her stomach, using his bicep as a pillow and resting her left hand on his chest.

As a mental picture of what would happen to him if any of her bothers saw them lying in bed together crept into his mind, Wade laughed inwardly. He'd die for sure ... but he would die a happy man. He knew that the two of them—if Georgia was even interested—didn't have a chance in hell of having a relationship. That was something her brothers would put a stop to quicker than shit. But it was nice to think about.

"Georgia?” he whispered.

She stirred slightly, but remained close to him. “Yeah?"

"I just wanted to see if you were awake."

"I'm up."

"How are you feeling?” he asked, still whispering.

"Hmm ... hungry."

He yawned and, enjoying the feeling of Georgia against him, made only a slight attempt to stretch. “I'll make you something to eat in a minute. I need to wake up first."

He felt her nod against his arm, but she made no effort to move away from him. Instead, she snuggled a little closer.

"Wade?"

Warning himself to watch where his thoughts were going, he answered with a simple, “Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something personal?"

He chuckled out loud that time. “You can ask me anything, Georgia. We've been through hell together ... twice. At this point, it'd be silly to keep secrets from each other. Don't you think?"

"Yeah,” she answered, “I guess it would."

"What do you want to know?"

"The day you found me and brought me back here; what were you doing down on Franklin Street?"

Damn, anything but that.

He didn't think they'd be having that conversation so soon, but she wasn't giving him any choice. He owed her an explanation. He owed her the truth.

"I was thirteen years old the first time I shot up,” he started. “I was nervous at first; so nervous that I almost backed out. But I didn't want my buddies to think I was chicken, so I bit the bullet and let one of them stick a needle in my arm. You know what that feels like, and I was hooked immediately. I didn't get sick, either, which made the decision to get high the second time much easier."

Wade shifted his body to get more comfortable; wishing like hell that Georgia would retreat to her side of the bed. They were so close together now that each time she moved, a certain part of his body came closer and closer to betraying him. Thankfully, Georgia hadn't seemed to notice.

In fact, each time he shifted to try and put a little space between them, she just shifted right along with him, clinging to his arm as if it were a safety line.

Hell, maybe for her, it was.

"I was a full-fledged junkie by the time I was fourteen,” he continued. “My mom was devastated. My little brother, Tommy, and I were all she had."

"What about your dad?"

"He left just after Tommy was born. I was two years old at the time and don't even remember him."

"I'm sorry,” she said, squeezing his arm in a silent show of support.

He ignored her, because having her feel sorry for him as he told the story of the biggest mistake he ever made just made him feel worse.

"When we were little, Tommy followed me everywhere. I used to act like I hated it, but I really didn't. He was good company and, as older brothers do, I blamed a lot of the stuff I did on him. He took his punishments like a man, though, as if taking the fall for me was somehow going to make me like him better."

"Were you guys close when you got older?"

Wade nodded. “We were. Except during school hours, he was always with me. I hated school and never went. But Tommy loved it. And he was smart, too. So while I was hanging out with my buddies down on Franklin Street all afternoon, he was exactly were my mom wanted him to be; in school getting an education. But now he's dead,” he said bitterly, “dead because of me."

"What happened?"

"Like an idiot, I'd been shooting up heroin in front of my brother since he was eleven years old. He'd been begging me for years to let him try it, but I always said no. I knew what I was, Georgia, knew where I was headed. I wanted things to be different for Tommy ... better."

"But you let him try it, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Two days before his fifteenth birthday, we were all hanging out at a house not far from the one where I found you. Tommy had been begging me all day to let him get high. ‘Come on, Wade,’ he said, ‘it'll be my birthday present.’ At that point, I was so sick of hearing him beg that I finally gave in.

"I shot him up myself with less than half a bag. I thought it'd be okay, but he started throwing up right away. When he went into convulsions, I knew something was wrong. I picked him up and started trying to get him to walk around, but he wouldn't move. Less than five minutes later, he was dead."

"Wade—"

"I carried him all the way home, sobbing like a baby,” he continued, ignoring Georgia out of fear that he wouldn't be able to finish the story. “My mom called an ambulance, even though she knew it wouldn't do any good. The EMT's took my brother's body away, and my mom threw me out of the house with nothing more than the clothes I had on my back.

"She never spoke to me again after that; even had me banned from Tommy's funeral.

"My life pretty much went to hell after that. I got into other heavy drugs, started stealing to feed my habit, and eventually, went to prison. I've been fighting with myself to stay clean everyday since I was released."

"That still doesn't tell me what you were doing on Franklin Street the day you found me,” Georgia reminded him.

He nodded. “As you know, part of my parole was to become a trained drug counselor. At first, I did it because I had to. Then I realized that if I could help someone,
really
help them, maybe it would save the life of someone they loved. So after I fulfilled the hours required by my parole, which was only six months ago, I stayed on at the counseling center, trying like hell to save every person that walked into my office.

"It took me years to realize that deep down, I was seeing Tommy in everyone I tried to help. Eventually, I realized that no matter what I did, he wasn't coming back."

Realizing for the first time that he was shaking, Wade took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Georgia.

"I told you once that to this day, I still fight the urge to get high. Every day is a struggle for me to stay clean, Georgia, but I do it. I know that I'm to blame for my brother's death. Every day, I wake up wishing it was me that had OD'd instead of him. I was already a loser by the time he died. His life was worth more than mine."

"No!” Georgia shouted, shattering their quiet peace. “Don't say that, Wade! It's not true!"

Ignoring her, he said, “Every year since I've been clean, on the anniversary of his death, I take a walk down Franklin Street. I walk slowly, gazing at the houses and watching the people coming and going. I used to have myself believing that it was a test, a test to see if I was strong enough to say no. Now I know that it's more like self-imposed torture.

"It just about kills me to have it so close; to know that all I have to do is walk into any number of houses, and I could be numb again. I wouldn't have to feel the excruciating pain I suffer through every day for what I did to my brother ... my family."

Wade could hear Georgia, who now had an ironclad grip in his arm, sobbing quietly. He didn't want that. And definitely didn't want her feeling sorry for him.

"In all these years, I've never given into the temptation. Not even once. I've taken my walk, looked, watched, suffered, and then turned around and come back home."

"Last week,” she said, sniffing, “last week, you were going to go into one of those houses, weren't you? You were going to start using again. Why?"

She knew him well. “I thought I'd lost something ... someone ... who meant a lot to me."

"How did you find me? Did you walk into that house looking for a dealer?"

"I heard you scream. I was in front of the house and recognized your voice when you yelled for the man to get off of you. I swear, Georgia, even during the time I spent in prison, I'd never been so scared in all my life. A million things were running through my mind as I was climbing those stairs. I swore that if you were hurt, I was going to kill the person who'd done it. I never considered myself anywhere near as good a fighter as your brothers, but I can hold my own. And as angry as I was that night, I could've killed everyone in that house and still gotten you out of there safely."

He took a deep breath and decided to finish what he'd started.

"Dammit, I love you, Georgia,” he admitted. “I fell in love with you the first time I walked into the apartment above the garage and you told me to get out. You told me where to go right there in front of three intimidating men; men who could've ended your life with less energy than it took for them to light a cigarette. I admired that, I—"