The Lies we Steal (The Hollow Boys Book 1)

Alistair

Over the course of my life, there were many things I’d never felt. Things I couldn’t care less if I ever experienced now.  

Trivial things like, peace, comfort, love. 

You see, a child needs those things to grow. It’s vital to how they turn out. However, I had accepted a long time ago that what nurtured me wasn’t something soft and sweet. 

I wasn’t raised with kindness or joy. From the moment I’d come into this world it was made very clear my role in my family. 

Nothing but a spare. A backup. 

Unless something happened to my older brother, I was nothing but a waste of perfectly good furniture space. 

But there was one feeling I knew. Not because of my blood family. Not because my father taught it to me, or my mother showed me as a young boy. 

It was something I could feel in my bones and rushed through my veins. Something I’d learned from years of experience. It was one of the only things I felt sure about. 

Loyalty. 

Knowing that there was someone out there who had my back just like I had theirs. Knowing if it came down to them or me, I’d throw myself under the bus every single time. 

And that’s how I knew this douche with a badge was full of shit. 

“Give it up, Alistair. The other boys have already told us everything, pinning everything on you. You don’t wanna go down for attempted murder and arson now would you, son?” 

My upper lip twitches, I have to physically swallow the urge to stand up and smash his face into this metal table separating us. However, I don’t move, keeping my cuffed hands in my lap. 

I’m impressed with my own self-control. 

“Yeah? Tell me, Daddy, what is it that I’ve done? You gonna tell me how I did it? Hmm?” I hum unfazed by his games. 

Aggravation eats at him. He’s probably getting the same shit from Rook and Thatcher, Silas I doubt has even muttered a word since they lugged us down to the police station. 

They would get nothing from us and soon they’d realize how pointless it was in the first place to even bring us in. 

“I ain’t your daddy, boy. If I was you’d be headed to military school quicker than you could open your smart ass mouth.” His southern accent bothers me, it’s obvious he’d moved here later in life because locals don’t sound like backwoods hicks. 

“And I’m not your son or your boy, you inbred hillbilly. And I’m not saying anything else, so you’re wasting your time.” 

Nonchalantly I throw my legs up onto the table, the mud on the bottom of my boots falling off onto the surface. Putting my hands behind my head and leaning back, shutting my eyes. I’d never been more unbothered. 

We were not hungry dogs who were ready to tear each other to pieces the moment our loyalty was tested. For years we’d been covering for each other, we didn’t even need to know the details of what one of us had done and yet we could have lied so flawlessly they would never be suspected. 

Did they think we would snitch on each other? Put us in separate rooms? Turn down the thermostat? Keep us in handcuffs and leave us in here for an hour before coming in? That they could scare us into turning on one another? 

We were not fucking dogs. 

We were wolves. Rabid, feral, and fiercely loyal to our pack and only our pack. 

“You think this is a joke? These are serious charges, you are looking at years in prison. You think that tough guy act’s gonna work in a state penitentiary?” He raises his voice, I hear his fist smash the table loudly, but I don’t bother opening my eyes. 

“If you had a shred of proof, I might, and I mean this, I might bat an eyelash. Until then I’m going to catch up on some sleep, you mind?” I crack one of my eyes open, nodding towards the light switch. 

The screech of his chair vibrates the room, heavy footsteps approach me, I feel his fingers dig into the edges of my leather jacket, jerking me up closer to his face. I can smell his morning coffee and cheap aftershave. 

“I’ll nail you for this, you little prick. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll throw your ass into prison myself.” He hisses. 

I grind my teeth, my eyes opening and I’m positive there is nothing but pure evil behind them. The bubbling of red starts to filter across my irises, the room spinning in fast circles, the cop whose name I’m not even sure of starts becoming nothing but a black silhouette. 

Something I need to obliterate. I can’t stop the shaking in my hands, or the way my hands swing up, even bonded by cuffs, knocking into the underside of his arms. He’s hands fly off me. 

“Lay hands on me again, and I’ll stick my fist so far up your white trash ass you’ll lick my fucking knuckles.” 

I stand up, my height giving me maybe an inch on him. I stare down at him, wondering if he’d have the same balls if I wasn’t in cuffs and he didn’t have a fucking gun. I doubt it. 

“Yeah, big boy? Do it. Give me a reason to throw you into the pit.” He smirks, all cocky like I won’t smash his face in. 

My restraint isn’t something I’m known for and the only thing that saves me from watching him collect his jaw off the ground is the interrogation room door swinging open with a thud. 

“Your knight in shining armor is here!” Rook sings as he waltzes into the room. 

Officer dickhead, takes a step back from me, “You can’t be in here, this is an ongoing interview.” 

“Well see the thing about that is,” Rook starts but doesn’t get to finish because I can hear his father in the hall behind him. 

“Does anyone want to tell me why my son was arrested because of something a drug dealer said?!” He booms, and I know the officer beside me is realizing that he has fucked up. 

Rook’s father, Theodore, was not an enemy people made lightly. His father was once a judge and Theodore was well on his way from Ponderosa Springs’ district attorney to your honor in just a few years. And like his father before him, he’d slowly become his own son’s worst nightmare. But letting him go to jail wasn’t going to happen. That would taint his name too much. This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

I look at Rook, something like understanding on my face for what I know he’ll have to deal with later tonight. If anyone deserved to leave this place, it was him. If anyone needed to get away from his toxic family, it was Rook. 

He shakes his head, silently telling me to drop it. 

I lift my hands up, shaking the cuffs. It’s eating him alive that he has to let me go. It’s all over him while he sticks the key in the lock, releasing my hands from the metal bracelets. 

I don’t give him another moment of my time, I have too much going on as it is. Dealing with this asshole’s bullshit isn’t something I want to add to the list of things I need to do. 

Walking towards the exit with Rook leading the way, I hear him open his mouth again. 

“Caldwell,” he says. 

I turn my head just enough to let him know I’m listening. 

“How’s it feel to know your parents are the only ones who didn’t pick up the phone? They busy? Aren’t they visiting Dorian in Boston, he win another award?” 

I hate the sound of his name. 

Dorian. 

The reason I turned out this way. The reason I was even born into my fucked-up family. I think I was the only person in the world who hated Dorian Caldwell. 

However, I stopped caring about what they did a long fucking time ago and I didn’t need to be updated on what it was they were doing with their beloved golden child. 

Everyone in this town knows I’m the shadow of him. I see them whisper and murmur about it when I walk into crowded rooms. I’m nothing but the cheap replacement that never even stood a chance. 

I know he’s trying to get underneath my skin, trying to piss me off but I don’t warrant a reaction. It’s not worth it and neither are they. 

Instead of doing anything, I just keep walking out of the police station. Silas is sitting on the bench waiting for us, standing up once he sees us. 

We were going to need to talk about this but right now wasn’t the time or place. 

Thatcher walks out of one of the interrogation rooms, with Rook’s father not far behind him. His coat draped over his shoulder and a smile on his face. 

The rain had thankfully stopped when we walked outside, Rook lighting a cigarette just for his father to snatch it out of his mouth and throw it on the ground. 

“Arrested? On the first day of school, Rook? How much longer will this rebellion last? Another year, two? Because I’m getting very tired of covering your ass! Don’t you think you’ve put this family through enough?” He raises his voice only a little, he is after all, in public. With a shake of his head and a forced smile he finishes, “You know what, we can have this conversation tonight.” 

My fist tightens, this was not the first time I’d wanted to bash Mr. Van Doren’s ratty face in. Wasn’t the first time I’d offered either. 

But for some reason, one that in our years of friendship we had never figured out, Rook wouldn’t let us lay a hand on his father. Even after everything he’d put him through. 

I had my opinions though. I knew Rook enjoyed being hurt. When he’d call me at midnight and need me to rough him up. He said it was to let out tension. I knew better. 

I knew he felt it was punishment for something he’d done in his life, something that had hurt his father at one point, but I was never sure what it was. 

He bounces down the front steps of the station, walking with angry shoulders to his Cadillac. 

“I have to catch up on all the work I missed out on because my son is an inconsiderate piece of shit, but I expect you to be at home when I get there, is that clear, Rook?” 

All he does is nod, not even looking him in the eye. 

“And you three,” He turns pointing a finger at us, “I’m this close to letting you all rot in prison, he should have never become friends with you. Everything chaotic he’s ever done is because of you three.” He accuses, like he’s in court trying us for the corruption of his sweet, innocent Rook. 

“Awful sanctimonious of you, Theodore.” Thatcher replies, staring him down. 

We don’t need to say out loud that we know about the relationship Rook and his father share. He knows that we are well aware of what happens when he loses his temper. 

There is nothing else exchanged between us until after his car pulls out of the parking lot. 

I turn to Rook, tossing my arm around his shoulder, “Can we kill him yet?” 

“I second that and speaking for the mute, he thirds it.” Thatcher adds. 

He shakes his head, looking up to the gray sky like there is some message in those clouds for him. 

“No. Death is a reward for him. I want him to suffer. Just like me.”