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He was my foster brother.

He swore to protect me.

He failed.

They all failed.

I’m an open box of passé photographs, snapped in chaste daylight, but filtered in sepia. I’m the past that he tried to forget, and he was the future I needed. When he left four years ago, I screamed for him every night. But then it all stopped. My screams were suddenly muffled by cruelty, and further coaxed by pain.

But he has come back. He’s not the cute big brother I had a furtive crush on, or the bad-boy rich brat that I hated to love.

He’s the ruthless vice president of Wolf Pack MC, and he doesn’t answer to Royce Kane anymore.

He answers to Sicko.

Amo Jones