Release Me by Ann Marie Walker, Amy K. Rogers Page B

going to happen.
    What was behind him was a coin perpetually being tossed in the air with disaster on one side and shit out of luck on the other. The trouble was, he’d been trying to bury it there and had no plans of resurrecting it. And that little family group therapy session made him anxious as fuck to get the hell away from all the Kumbaya shit.
    He must have checked his watch every ten minutes. All that sharing had his heart doing jumping jacks and his palms sweating, and the closer it came to his turn for a one-on-one with his brother, the worse it got. But even once they were out of there, away from all the other people visiting their loved ones, the things said in that room still crowded between them as they headed down the cobblestone sidewalk in silence.
    When they hit the damp grass, the leaves that had fallen from the trees crunched under their feet and teardrops formed on the tops of their shoes. Nick stopped in front of a wooden bench and took a seat. He pulled the collar of his black pea coat tighter as Hudson shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray wool pants.
    More silence.
    But the noise couldn’t get any louder for Hudson. He pinched the bridge of his nose and debated what to say to his brother other than that he was proud of him for sticking with rehab.
    In the end it was Nick who finally spoke. “The whole reason for this family stuff is to talk. You didn’t say but two words in there, Hudson. You’ve put up with a fuck-ton of my crap for, like, ever, man. This is our chance to work that out so we can toss our shit hand over our shoulders.”
    Hudson rubbed the back of his neck and took in a deep breath, smelling the dried leaves. “That session is for you to . . .” He wanted to say unload, dump on, play the blame game. “Tell me what I can do to help you stay clean, not for me to pontificate to a room full of strangers.”
    “It’s supposed to educate you, bro, on all this rehab stuff. The counselor is there to keep my ass from justifying why I feel the need to choke down a handful of drugs with a beer chaser.”
    “I’m aware of that session’s intent,” Hudson said tightly.
    “It only works if you work it.”
    Sweet hell, his brother was talking in goddamn bumper stickers.
    The truth was, that little family group session brought up everything from their past that was straight-up out of a horror flick. Hudson wasn’t interested in some peace-is-love-let’s-hug-it-out asshole holding him accountable for his failures. He knew he was responsible for Nick’s joyride that read like a scene from
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
.
    God, he sounded like a bastard. The program was saving his little brother’s life, better than any attempt he had made. For that, Hudson thanked his lucky-fucking-stars.
    But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it.
    “We went through a lot of the same shit. You’ve been cleaning up my messes for too long.” Nick looked up at Hudson, his boyish face grimly set. “Hear anything about, you know?”
    “The body was found. And as I predicted, there have been no questions with regards to another junkie taking a dirt nap in an alley. Case closed.”
    “You sure?”
    “You’re off the hook, Nicky. Focus on . . .”
    “My skill building? Making that arts and crafts shit out of twigs and feathers?”
    “Yeah, what the fuck is this?” Hudson picked up the willow loop he’d set on the bench between them. On top of it a loose network of thread was woven into a web.
    “Yo, bro, there is deep meaning to all that.”
    “By all means, enlighten me.”
    Hudson’s grin broadened as Nick cleared his throat, preparing to give some thorough lecture on Native American art.
    “The design is to allow only the good dreams to filter through. It catches the bad dreams like a badass, and they disappear in the day. The kick-ass dreams, maybe even some sex dreams—not that you need those—slide down these feathers.” Nick ticked the tendrils with his