We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,28

hams.

My grip is so tight around the strap of my equipment bag, I’m sure my own knuckles have gone white. I try to relax, but with my fight-or-flight instincts screaming to head for the hills, zen is somewhat out of reach.

Shifty-Eyes steps forward. “You lying to us, kid?”

“No.”

“Then just tell us where you think your brother is. Or…” He pauses to glance at the living mountain beside him. “My partner here is real good at making people talk about things they don’t want to. Maybe you’d rather deal with him?”

I swallow hard. “Look, the truth is, Jaxon comes and goes as he pleases. Always has. Since he got out of Cedar-Junction two months ago, he’s only been home a handful of times — either to grab spare clothes from his room or because he knows his P.O. is coming by.”

“Any idea when that’ll happen again?”

“No. We don’t exactly keep in touch.”

“He’s your brother,” Shifty-Eyes says doubtfully. “You must know something.”

I shrug. “Last time Jax came home, he swiped all my parents’ emergency cash in the middle of the night and left without so much as a note. He might be my brother, but he isn’t exactly my favorite person in the world. So the way I see it? The less he comes around, the better.”

It’s not a lie — not really. At least, not the part about Jax getting out of jail two months ago. Or cleaning out the cookie jar of cash off the counter. Or only showing up for the benefit of his parole officer.

He’s broken my parents’ hearts so many times, I’m running out of glue to fix them. Being the best second-born in the world can’t make up for the damage inflicted by the son who came first.

“If he comes around again, we need to know about it,” Shifty-Eyes says. “Immediately.”

“Mhm. What is it you want from my brother?”

“Don’t worry about that. Be more worried about what’ll happen to you if we don’t track him down.”

My teeth grind together. “If you have problems with Jax, that’s fine. But leave me and my family out of it. We have nothing to do with this—“

Before I can finish, I find the equipment bag ripped from my hands and myself in a chokehold — courtesy of the giant. For such a big guy, he moves fast. I didn’t even see him coming in time to dodge.

So much for all those agility drills Coach is always forcing on us.

My muscles strain against his hold, but it might as well be titanium. His arm tightens around my neck, compressing my windpipe until I can’t breathe. I have no choice but to submit — a limp puppet in the arms of a sadistic master.

He peels my right arm away from my side as his partner lowers the tailgate with gleeful snigger. I don’t fully understand what’s happening until they lay my hand flat against the metal edge of the truck bed, in the space where the tailgate snaps shut.

Horror dawns all too quickly.

“Maybe you need a reminder of what you have to lose here,” the giant growls in my ear. “One slam, your baseball career is over. Is that what you want?”

I stare at my hand — my pitching hand — poised on the edge of ruin. If they snap the tailgate closed, every bone will be crushed in an instant. Pulverized beyond repair.

Goodbye baseball.

Goodbye scouts.

Goodbye scholarship.

Goodbye future.

“Please,” I croak through a half-closed throat, desperation plain in my voice. “Please, don’t—”

“We don’t want to, kid. But we need you to understand how important this is.” Shifty-Eyes comes closer, my equipment bag clutched in his hands. Held immobile, I can only watch as he reaches into the side pocket, pulls out my phone, and dials a number. A second later, his own pocket begins to ring.

“Now you have my number. Name’s Rico. You’ll get in touch if Jax comes by again. Right?”

I attempt to nod, but it’s damn-near impossible in a chokehold. His grip is unrelenting. My breaths are so shallow, I’m barely getting any air at all.

Setting my bag and phone on the truck-bed, Rico turns back to me. My mind is still reeling, but I try to focus long enough to catalogue some of his features. The compact build, a few inches shy of six feet. The pockmark scar just below his left eye. The dark hair, buzzed short against his skull. The tattoo on his neck — a king’s crown, its blue-black ink a startling contrast to his tan skin.

I