"It's not that bad," he said, shrugging.
"Yeah, to you. Who probably blew your eardrums out during your death metal phase in middle school."
"Why does it matter?" he asked, making himself a cup of coffee in my "A wise woman once said 'Fuck this shit' and lived happily ever after" mug.
"Because I have to be careful that the mic doesn't pick it up when I'm recording, or they will copyright strike my videos."
"Record it when the music is off," he said, shrugging.
"It is never off!" Okay, so my voice came out more shrill than I'd intended at that.
"Tell them to turn it down then."
"They're bikers, Jones."
"So what?"
"So, not the weekend warrior type of bikers. The 'I will shoot you for looking at me wrong' kind of bikers."
"Ah, I see. Well, you will figure it out," he said, shrugging.
Jones was that kind of guy. The "everything will shake out" kind. I don't think the man understood the concept of anxiety.
A big part of that might have been the massive trust he'd come into when he'd turned eighteen. He never had anything to worry about.
Me, being the lowly half-sister, the unwanted step-daughter, hadn't gotten anything.
Add that to my whole host of other things to worry about in life, and you could understand why I couldn't just shrug it off and go "eh, something will work out" about my only way of making a living.
"It has to, or I will have to find a new place."
"And go through that cluster-fuck again?" he asked, making my stomach wobble.
I didn't like being reminded about how my issues made it harder on everyone around me who wanted to help.
"I won't have any other choice."
"You know what? I think you've been out here alone for too long," Jones said, throwing back the rest of his coffee in two big gulps. "Let's do something about that."
"Jones... no," I said, shaking my head, feeling the anxiety already start to rise.
"Yes. Come on. Go take a hit, calm down, and meet me at the car."
I knew this debate.
We'd both been given more than our fair share of the stubborn gene when we were born, but Jones had it ten-fold to me. It was likely due to an indulgent father who convinced him "no" was just the beginning of negotiations.
Which was fine in business. But it was hell for interpersonal relationships. Which meant I, inevitably, ended up bullied into things, even though I was six years older than he was. If I let it go that far, I would not only be caving to his plan, but I would be mentally exhausted from fighting a losing battle.
So it was easier just to give in.
Or, at least, in situations like this, to try.
So I went into my room, grabbed some of my "calm down oil," got my shoes, grabbed my purse, and tried to ignore the tightening sensation in my chest as I made my way out the front door, and toward Jones's car.
To be fair, even though he could be a bully, he tried to be nice. For instance, he was currently lowering the roof on the convertible he'd bought solely because he thought it would be better for me and my crippling car phobia.
It was sweet of him.
The only problem was, it didn't really work.
He knew it didn't work.
I knew it didn't work.
But there we were anyway.
"Come on, Harm," Jones demanded from his position in the driver's seat
Taking a deep breath, I moved to the passenger side of the car, trying to quiet the noise in my head, the flashbacks, the swirling sickness in my stomach.
I got the door open and climbed in, but as soon as my ass was in the seat, the panic gripped my system in its merciless hands, leaving me gasping for breath as I flew out of the seat.
Vision blanking out, flashing with the images of many years ago, I wasn't even aware of Jones getting out of the car, coming around it, grabbing me.
But I was aware of his hands trying to push me back into the car, trying to keep me there.
I could hear the scream over the labored sounds of my breathing, but wasn't fully aware the sound was coming from me.
"Jesus Christ, stop, Harm," Jones demanded, voice sounding a little lost. "Stop screaming. It's fine. You're fine. Just stop. What the fuc—" he started, the rest of the word trailing off into a grunt.
There was hissing and crunching sounds that I couldn't exactly place as I managed to climb out of the car, crawl a few feet away, and curl up on my side, eyes squeezed shut, trying to slow-breathe my way through the memories.
"PTSD," my therapist would insist if she heard me calling them "memories." She wanted me to accept the label the same way I accepted the treatment for it. Some days, I was strong enough for that. Others, not so much.
And, in the grips of a panic attack, there was very little strength to be found. The best I could hope for was the images to stop flashing before my eyes as the world slowly started to come back to me.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" an unfamiliar, deep, gravelly voice asked, followed by a slamming sound, and a grunt that had to have come from Jones.
"It's nothing," Jones insisted. "Mind your business, man."
"Looks a fuck of a lot like you were trying to kidnap my neighbor, so that makes it my business, kid," the other voice insisted.
"She's my sister," Jones explained. "I wasn't trying to fucking kidnap her, just take her with me. She's... she's got issues, man. Look at her," he demanded.
I was just aware enough of my situation right then, laying curled up on the ground like some wounded animal, to feel humiliation rise up through my system, mixing with the lingering traces of the panic, it was a heady cocktail of discomfort in my system.
"Yeah, well, since she doesn't look like she can confirm or deny your story right now, kid, I'm gonna need you to fuck off."
"I don't know who—" Jones started.
I'm not sure what happened then. In my mind, I knew this was one of the bikers, and if it was, that he possibly had a gun that he pulled on my little brother, making him immediately shut up. "I can't just leave her here with you. I don't know you."
"Right. Because I would save her from you only to hurt her myself. That makes a lot of fucking sense. Look, lived here since she moved in. If I wanted to do something to her, I'd have done it by now. "
"Still," Jones insisted, and I could feel his gaze on me.
I needed to pull it together.
I had to get out of my head, off this ground, step in on this situation. If for no other reason than that I needed to for Jones.
I took another couple of slow, deep breaths, feeling my vision clearing. I didn't exactly feel better, but I could see, I could hear, I could intervene.
"It's okay. I'm fine," I said, voice small. My stomach rolled as I moved to sit, pulling my knees into my chest. I didn't trust them yet to hold my weight. "He's my brother," I added, glancing at Jones before my gaze went to the other man.
He and Jones were likely about the same height, but this other guy had all the muscles to go with it, making him look bigger, stronger, a hell of a lot more intimidating than my punk brother.
He was square-jawed with hair that was somewhere between dark blonde and light brown, with light brown eyes, under stern brows.