Double Edge | WATTYS 2023 SHORTLIST + AMBYS 2023 WINNER

Chapter 07

Ruben's pain stayed with me. As I walked up the street and turned down sidewalks, I thought back to his eyes. Kimi was right. I couldn't see his fear for more than what it was.

I was enthralled by the fact that he was terrified. I wanted him to be, and I needed him to feel the horror of knowing he probably wouldn't live another day. It was how I lived for days, months, years; prison took the soul out of a man. I thought Paxton's experiments gave it back to me. With revenge in my hands, I was ready and embraced it. But once I saw Ruben doubled over and cradling his broken hand, his soul spoke to me; I should've heard him and listened.

This hurt and wasn't the image of a man I wanted my daughter to see. What would Paxton do if I became this? Griff, what did I agree to? Funny how this shit haunts you when things go wrong.

A dog barked two houses in front of me. I focused on the small pomeranian yipping and jumping in the front yard. As I got closer, it twirled, kicked its back legs, and howled—if that's what the yips were.

I smiled and approached the front gate, pulling the latch. When it opened, the dog hurried and ran to me, jumping into my leg. I laughed. "It's good to see you, too, Bruno."

My mom had Bruno for ten years. For an older dog, he sure had a lot of spunk. I had to thank my mom; her love kept everyone alive. Especially me. "Come on, boy." I patted my leg to get him to follow me up the walkway of my mom's house. "Mama left you outside, huh?"

She probably hadn't left him. For as long as she had Bruno, he was a devilish, sneaky little bastard. If I knew my mom, she would've called him ten times, and he just kept by the porch, ignoring her. Now I'd be the hero bringing him home.

"Ma!" Up the porch and through the front door, I cupped one hand over my mouth and called for my mother. With too much furniture, there wasn't an echo. But the pale blue and floral greys decorating the room warmed me and reminded me that I was home. As did the family photos on the wall. Most of them were of me—her baby boy.

The door shut behind me. Bruno barked five more times before running to the kitchen. Before I followed him, I politely took off my shoes and left them on the doormat. Then I walked into the delicious scent of chuletas frying on the stove. The sizzle called to me. I leaned against the doorway with a smirk. "Hey, ma."

My mom turned and looked at me. She was always a tiny woman; her big brown eyes and wavy, dark hair reminded me of those sweet moms in old sitcoms. But that humble, kind, motherly gaze changed when her sight slid over my appearance—dirty shoes, jeans, and a tank with no shirt. She frowned and shook one long, red-painted nail at me. "Why do you look like that?" she asked, hand on her hip. "What happened? Are you getting into trouble again? Giovanni Antonio Mario Solís, if I get a phone call—"

I crossed the kitchen and grabbed my mom in the tightest hug. Most kids would've probably loved the hello, a kiss on the cheek, and a little hair ruffle. But my mom was a whole foot shorter than me, so trying to mess with my hair was out of the question, not to mention it was a short fade.

I loved the whole name-call-out. It meant I was in trouble, in need of an ass whooping, and probably a prayer to Jesus. But it also meant, somewhere deep inside her hard exterior, she cared. I kissed the top of her head. "Love you too, ma."

She grabbed me for a minute. Her hands held me tightly, her head pressed against my chest. She hummed and prayed to herself, thankful her son walked into her kitchen. Then she turned back to the stove and flipped the pork chop. "Whatever it is, I don't want to know." She shook one hand beside her head.

Good, because I hadn't planned on telling her. At least not in detail. "Okay, ma," I said, my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

She glanced at me, cocked a brow, then pointed at a chair at the table. "You're hungry?" When I nodded, so did she. "Sientate. I'll make you a plate."