The Long Road Home [The Final McCassey Brothers Book] (6 page)

Tired, she was so damn tired.

Using what little energy she had left to wipe her face and nose with the towel Blackie had given her, she was able to relax for almost a full minute before her body was wracked with sudden, intense chills. As she shivered violently, Blackie rushed to wrap her in a blanket, then maneuvered her body and scooped her into his arms. He held her tight against him, trying to warm her as she fought—unsuccessfully—to get control of herself.

"J-j-just let me d-die, Blackie, p-p-please,” she begged through chattering teeth, wishing she had the energy to cry. “I c-c-can't do this anymore."

He tightened his hold on her and rested his chin on the top of her head. “You're doin’ fine, Georgia, everything's gonna be all right."

Georgia wasn't so sure either one of them really believed that. She was scared to death, not knowing how she was going to feel five, ten, fifteen minutes from now. Not knowing if she'd have enough willpower to fight off the cravings she knew she'd have for the heroin, even when her withdrawal symptoms subsided.

And Blackie, well, she'd heard a lot of stories about him over the past couple days—mostly from Judd—about how protective he'd always been when it came to his family. According to Judd, Blackie had started lifting weights at the age of ten just so he could protect them all from Dolan.

Judd had told her that when Blackie was only sixteen, he'd nearly killed Dolan with a single punch. “Rebel and I were only eleven and twelve, and weren't doing a damn thing to bother anyone,” Judd explained, “but Dad seemed to have it in for us that night. Without warning, he walked up and kicked me in the side hard enough to break three of my ribs. Then he started in on Rebel, and wound up throwing him up against the wall, dislocating his shoulder. It was strange,” Judd explained, “for Blackie to be home on a Friday night. But it's a good thing he was. When he saw what happened, he went crazy and nearly beat Dad to death. After that night, every time the two of them fought, it was a bloodbath."

Georgia had spent a long time thinking about that story, replaying it over and over in her mind. She'd eventually come to realize that for a man who solved most problems with fists or firearms, he must feel as lost and scared as she did right now ... for neither one of those things were going to help either one of them this time.

"Are you t-t-trying to convince
me
that I'll be f-f-fine,” she asked, “or yours-s-self?"

Even through the blankets, Georgia felt the vibration of his deep, low chuckle, and it comforted her. But when he said, “I ain't sure,” Georgia knew that she was right. Blackie was scared.

It was hard for her to imagine someone as big and tough as he was being afraid of anything. She knew he came by his nickname ‘The Devil’ honestly, and it just seemed so hard to believe that there was actually something that could get to him.

But she also knew that he was only human.

When she was no longer shivering and felt comfortable enough to talk, Georgia tilted her head up so she could see her brother's face. “Blackie?"

He looked down at her, wearing a concerned, but curious expression. “Hmm?"

"Are you scared?"

"Scared of what, little girl?"

"Of not being able to help me; scared that even with everything we've been through so far, and will likely go through in the next few days that I might walk out of here and go right back to using heroin."

Blackie looked down at her. “You're goddamn right I'm scared,” he admitted without hesitation. “For forty years, I ain't needed much more than a right hook or semi-automatic weapon—and sometimes a little fast talkin'—to take care of whatever was threatenin’ me or my family. It's how I survived growin’ up in Dolan's house, how I kept my brothers alive each time the old man went after them, and how I made it through servin’ all that time in prison.

"Ain't none of them things gonna work this time. You got a problem that can't be fixed the way I'm used to fixin’ things, and that's scary as hell for a man like me."

Unwinding herself from the blanket, Georgia sat up. Stifling a yawn, she maneuvered her body until she was sitting across from Blackie, staring at him.

Quietly watching her, he looked confused.

With trembling hands—something she knew was caused by her withdrawal—Georgia reached out and grabbed onto his hand. “My mom used to say that you could get through anything as long as you had someone by your side. I never understood the true meaning of that until I came to Hagerstown and met you guys. I know I'll be okay, Blackie, because I have you, Judd, and Rebel looking out for me."

"That ain't true. We can't do nothin’ to help you."

"Yes, you can,” she assured him. “You're doing it. Right now. Just by being here, you're helping. If you weren't around, I'd be alone."

He looked like he didn't believe her, but didn't argue, either. Instead, he changed the subject ... dramatically. “Why don't you want to call your mom?"

Before Georgia had the chance to speak, she was hit with a surprisingly sudden wave of nausea. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Blackie had just enough time to guide her toward the bucket on the floor before she got sick.

So far, vomiting had been the worst part of heroin withdrawal. Georgia could take the chills, tremors, and muscle cramps, but the vomiting had to go.

However, the instant Blackie asked the question about her mother was the first time in three days that Georgia had been grateful for the distraction of having to throw up.

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Having a relatively easy afternoon on the fourth day of her detox should've been Georgia's first clue that she was going to pay dearly for the welcomed lull in her misery.

She'd heard that no one had an easy fourth day ... that was typically the day after someone's withdrawal symptoms peaked.

Although she was very tired and lethargic, and had had several bouts of nausea, she'd only thrown up a handful of times.

She should've been much more miserable.

Instead, she'd been sitting on the bed watching a Washington Redskins game on an old black and white TV with Rebel all afternoon, half-heartedly learning the ins and outs of the NFL.

During halftime, she'd even managed to take a quick shower, dress in a pair of sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, and eat a small bowl of the homemade chicken noodle soup that Rebel's wife, Gypsy, had sent over.

"It's good, huh?” Rebel asked when she'd finished.

Georgia nodded as she handed him the empty bowl, remembering all the tasty dishes her mom used to make. “Gypsy's a great cook,” she told her brother. “You're lucky; I bet she makes stuff like this for you all the time."

"She loves cooking; makes a ton of food every Sunday during football season when the guys come over."

"Is that where they all are today—Blackie, Judd, and the rest of your cousins—at your house watching football?"

"Your cousins, too,” he reminded her.

Yeah, my cousins, too.

"As far as I know, they're all there. Originally, we were supposed to be hunting."

Georgia's heart fell.
They missed their hunting trip because of me
!

Almost as if he'd read her mind, Rebel elaborated. “You're not the reason we didn't go hunting, Georgia. Traditionally, the weekend after Thanksgiving is the one us guys spend hunting. We postponed it this year because there was so much going on then. Not only was Dusty still recovering from surgery, but she and Judd were getting ready to get married."

Georgia knew that Judd and Dusty—who'd apparently been in love with each other since they were kids—had gotten married just a week earlier. But she still wasn't convinced she hadn't been the cause of their canceled plans.

"The cabin on Ten Acres burned down six weeks ago when Dolan tried to incinerate Judd and Dusty. The boys and I cleared away the charred debris immediately, framed in a new building, and got it under roof, but the walls haven't been enclosed yet.

"The old cabin might've had a dirt floor and been well over a hundred years old, but it had a nice little set-up inside with cots, supplies, and a woodstove that used to get so hot, not even the devil himself would've been able to stand it. And I'm not talking about Blackie, either,” he said with a chuckle. “When that stove was fired up, it made the room hotter than hell."

He paused for a moment, then chuckled again and shook his head as if he was laughing at himself. “Maybe we've all gotten a little soft; none of us wanted to sleep out under the stars like we did when we were teenagers. It's just too damn cold this year."

She laughed with him then, enjoying the feeling of not only having something to laugh about, but someone to laugh with, too. “Well, I don't think you guys are soft; I think you're smart. I love the outdoors, but draw the line at sleeping outside when the possibility exists that I could wake up with my sleeping bag covered in snow."

Rebel laughed again, which made Georgia happy. None of them had had much to laugh about in the past few days. “I think that was pretty much the way everyone felt. Deer season is long enough that there'll be plenty other weekends to go hunting. It's always been sort of a guy thing, but that's just because the girls weren't interested; not because we excluded them. Maybe you can come with us sometime."

Georgia had heard a lot about Ten Acres—the ten acres of land that their great-great-great grandfather, Patrick McCassey, had won in a poker game back in 1832—over the past few days. “Ten Acres sounds like an interesting place and I'd like to see it, but I think I'll leave the hunting up to you guys. Maybe if I stay behind, Gypsy can teach me how to make that soup. I never had a chance to learn to cook many things."

Rebel reached over and tousled her hair. “I'm sure she'd like that. Gypsy's really looking forward to meeting you, Georgia; all the girls are."

All the girls.

Gypsy, Angel, and Dusty; her sisters-in-law. Georgia was looking forward to meeting them, too ... sort of. From what she'd heard from her brothers, their wives were all good women. Strong, tough women who not only stood toe to toe with their men when they felt they needed to, but stood by them, as well.

It sounded as though each of her brothers was loved unconditionally, and for that, Georgia liked the girls already.

But would they like her?

Blackie had told her that his wife, Angel, had killed her ex-husband in self-defense when she was seventeen. And that Judd's wife, Dusty, had not only ridden with an outlaw biker gang for a while, but had also shot a few men. Out of all the women, Gypsy seemed to be the only one who hadn't been involved in some kind of violence.

"That don't mean she ain't tough,” Blackie had assured her, “she just don't show it the way Angel and Dusty do."

Still, even with everything they'd all done over the years, none of them had been involved in anything close to what Georgia had experienced. Being raped by her own father, addicted to heroin, and sold to filthy men who didn't do anything more than use her body was nothing to be proud of.

Her brother's wives had all moved on. They were respectable women who had young children.

Georgia just knew she wasn't going to fit in.

The girls weren't going to like her.

How could they, when she didn't even like herself?

Somewhere around midnight—after a good three hours of feeling relatively normal—Georgia polished off another small bowl of Gypsy's soup.

"Are you sure you don't want any more?” Rebel asked. “There's plenty here."

Still in her sweats, Georgia declined the offer and crawled back into bed. “No thanks, that was perfect. I don't think I should eat too much, anyway; don't want to press my luck."

She sunk beneath the blankets and rested her head on the pillow, loving the feeling of being in such a warm, safe place. Just as she was ready to close her eyes, Rebel surprised her by leaning down and kissing her forehead. Then, he literally tucked her in.

Georgia watched in amazement as he went down the length of her legs, tucking the blanket underneath them. And even though the gesture touched her, Georgia felt a little silly. She was much too old to be tucked into bed by her big brother. “You don't have to do that, you know. I'm not a little kid."

Rebel finished what he was doing and sat down beside her. “Says who?” He winked as he pushed a loosely curled lock of her hair away from her face. “You look pretty damn little to me. And I'm thirty-five, so at nineteen, that makes you a kid. If you don't believe me, ask Blackie."

She laughed. “No thanks, I already know he'd say the same thing. Only it wouldn't come out of his mouth anywhere near as clean as it did yours."

Rebel laughed, too. “Yeah, well, speaking correctly—and cleanly, for that matter—isn't one of Blackie's strong suits. But he means well, Georgia."

"I know,” she assured him. “Sometimes, though, listening to him talk—especially when he's angry or frustrated—reminds me of..."

Georgia allowed her voice to trail off, because even though Blackie's mouth was as filthy as their father's had been, Blackie was nothing like Dolan, and she suddenly felt guilty for even suggesting such a thing.

Thankfully, Rebel let the subject drop.

"You need anything else?” he asked.

Georgia shook her head. She was fine, and she was tired. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to get a few hours sleep, something she hadn't been able to do since her withdrawal symptoms had begun.

Looking up at Rebel, she suddenly noticed how exhausted he looked. The guys had been staying with her in twelve hour shifts; none of them getting anything close to the amount of sleep they needed during the night. Right now, Georgia felt fine. She'd be okay to stay by herself until morning.

She hoped.

"You should go home,” she suggested. “Really, Rebel. It's been hours since I've been sick, and I'm really tired. I think I might actually be able to sleep for a while. I should be fine."

He looked at her skeptically, but she continued to push. “You guys have given up so much for me in the past four days. There's no need for you to hang out here and watch me sleep when you could be home sleeping with your wife in your own bed."