For a split-second, I am pretty fucking happy to see her. I sure as fuck don’t want Jagger to lay Buck out, even if he is damn deserving. Not for Buck, but for Jagger and the man he wants to be. Then my ease is quickly squashed when I see who is walking out of my apartment hallway behind Tatiana, holding a fucking book in her hand. The fucking book. My fucking book.
“Hey, Angelo, your friend”—Tatiana pauses and smiles—“left her book here yesterday and stopped by to grab it.”
Tatum nods. “Thanks so much, Tatiana.” Then she walks toward the door as if she isn’t taking something I told her she can’t have.
“Tatum,” I say, trying to remain calm, but she has the fucking book. The book with my words in it. She doesn’t know what it contains. The piece of me that lies inside those pages. She holds it in her hands like it’s any other journal, when it’s not.
When I walk toward her, Jagger tells Buck to hit the bags, and Buck being Buck tells him to fuck himself.
“Tatiana, take a walk, babe,” Jagger growls.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tatiana says, her voice stern, which is out of character.
“Go with Kid’s friend,” he says, not looking at her.
“I’d rather go with you.” She walks between the two men with their chests puffed out.
I hear the door chime and turn just in time to see Tatum skating out. However, my attention is drawn back to Buck, who is not backing down.
“Your old man wants a piece of me,” Buck says to Tatiana.
My blood is now boiling. Buck is being an ass; Jagger is about to make a mistake that will piss his old lady, the calm to his storm, way the hell off; and Tatum has my fucking words.
As much as I would like to go after her, this place needs my attention.
“I got this, Jagger,” I tell him, gripping his shoulder. “Buck, get your ass in the cage.”
“No, fuck—”
“Now!” I yell then turn to Jagger. “Take a walk, man. Go with Tatiana.”
Once they leave, I turn to Buck and point at the chair. “Shower, then get back out here.”
He’s a mess. Dirt in his wounds, and dried blood on his face, his clothes, in his hair. He needs to get cleaned up before I put shit on his wounds. Then we need to talk, something I am not fond of, but Buck lacks control, and it’s getting worse.
“I thought you wanted me in the cage,” he hisses.
“Changed my mind. Now go.”
After his shower, he comes out clean, changed, and looking not just physically whipped, but emotionally.
“Sit.” I point at the chair.
He does, without the lip this time.
After putting liquid bandage above his left eye and on the bridge of his nose, I put antibiotic ointment on his scrapes, and then sit across from him.
“You need to stay away from whatever it is you got into last night.”
His jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow. I know that look—anger and determination.
“You need to listen to me, Buck.” I pause, not wanting to fucking talk about it, but lately, things seem to be getting at least bearable.
Christ, it’s her. She’s the lately. Fuck.
I continue, “Don’t know what’s going on, but you aren’t a kid. You aren’t, and you need to think about the consequences of your actions. You end up dead, you have people who will miss you. You end up killing someone, you won’t survive prison. You need help, someone you care about needs help, you ask for it.”
I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t.
I nod, stand, and walk away as I tell him, “Ask Buck; we’re here for you.” I can read him. There is more to the chip on his shoulder than simply his lack of maturity.
“Why?”
His question stops me dead in my track. It also makes me cringe, because the answer... the fucking answer scares the hell out of me.
“We give a shit about you.” I pause, thinking about Shaw and everything he gave me and Jagger. “Someone gave a shit about us once. Legacy is about giving that back to others. Now go home, get some sleep—”
“Can’t go home, man. There is no fucking home!”
I look back when his voice cracks. He physically shakes, and I can see the torment haunting his eyes. Buck is always either pissed or hyped up. Those are his two emotions. This is new, and it’s fucking raw.
“Go upstairs. Get some sleep.”
When he doesn’t move, I know it’s because a kid like him doesn’t want to be seen as one to take a handout.
“Now! Then we chat about you getting your shit together so you can maybe work here with Jagger, Tatiana, and I.”
He scowls. “I don’t need charity.”
“Good damn thing”—I point at the door—“because I don’t do charity. Now go get some sleep; you’ll be useless without it.” I then turn around, putting my back to him.