The club pulsed with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music. It was a living thing—sweaty, loud, restless. David Wicker stood near the velvet ropes like he always did, arms folded across his chest, eyes trained on the usual suspects.
"Sugar daddies and sugar addicts," he muttered under his breath.
It was the same scene every night. One older man in particular—a regular, heavy set, grey at the temples, alligator shoes—was flashing his Rolex at a young girl barely out of high school. She laughed like she meant it. David knew she didn't. It was the laugh women learned in places like this: light enough to pass as flirty, empty enough not to commit.
He scanned the line. A group of college boys shifted their weight anxiously, heads swiveling too much, eyes darting like pinballs. They looked sixteen but were probably eighteen and change. Still, fake IDs or not, their nerves gave them away.
David leaned toward his coworker, Luis. "Those kids? Watch 'em. First-timers. Probably think this is what being a man looks like."
Luis nodded, already moving.
David's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, stepping a few feet away from the line. The number wasn't saved, but the area code was local.
"Wicker," he answered.
"Is this David Wicker? Brother of Matthew Wicker?"
His spine straightened.
"Yes."
"This is Grady Memorial Hospital. Your brother has been in an accident. He's in critical care. You should come as soon as you can."
For a second, the noise of the club dropped out, like someone hit mute on the world.
"I'm on my way."
Atlanta's streets were blurry in the night, lit with too much neon and not enough warmth. David kept his hands clenched on the steering wheel, jaw set tight. He didn't need this night to get worse. He already hated Thursdays. Too far from the weekend to enjoy, too close to it to relax.
He pulled into the parking lot at Grady Memorial Hospital—big, sterile, and humming with a quiet kind of desperation.
As he passed through the doors, the antiseptic smell hit him like a memory. Of course it would smell like that. Like death trying to stay clean.
He spotted Sarah in the waiting room, seated, pale, her hands wrapped around Hope like she was something that could slip away. Hope's head rested against her mother's shoulder, too tired to cry but still awake.
"David," Sarah said as she saw him, standing quickly. Her voice broke over his name.
"How is he?"
She shook her head, the gesture small. "They said the next twelve hours are critical. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. Punctured lung."
He bent down to Hope's eye level. "Hey, little star. Your dad's a tough guy, remember? He's gonna pull through."
She nodded, but her grip on her mom's hand didn't ease.
David gently put a hand on Sarah's shoulder. "You holding up?"
"I'm trying," she said, forcing a breath. "Thank you for coming."
He offered a weak smile. "Of course."
A nurse called his name and gestured for him to follow. "Only one visitor at a time," she said.
David stepped into the room.
Matthew lay still. Tubes, wires, bandages. His chest rose and fell too slowly for David's liking.
He took a seat beside the bed.
"Matty," he whispered.
It was the nickname only he used.
The silence in the room was loud in a different way than the club had been. It wasn't chaos—it was vacancy. The absence of laughter, breath, warmth.
His eyes fell on the IV bag as it slowly dripped life into his brother.
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
He hadn't spoken about it much, but jail had a way of making a man quieter. Not because he had fewer things to say—just fewer people who mattered to hear them.
Six years ago, he hadn't even been in the state. Just out of prison, carrying guilt like a backpack full of bricks. He'd killed his father, even if it was an accident. The law didn't care about the fine print.
He hadn't come back home until their mother died. Matthew had met him outside the funeral home, hands in his pockets, looking like the man of the house.
No punches were thrown. Just silence, a nod, and a handshake that turned into a hug. That was forgiveness, in their language.
Matthew had helped him find the job at the club a few weeks later. "Keep your head down, save your money, and don't punch anyone unless they really deserve it," he'd said.
David had tried to live by that.
He opened his eyes and looked at his brother again.
They weren't blood, technically. Matthew had been eight when their mom met Conrad. David had been a toddler, running around in a plastic sheriff's badge. But Matthew never treated him like a half-anything. He was a brother. Full stop.
Their dad—Conrad—had been intense. A hard man. A smart man. Taught them to tie knots, fish, pitch a tent, sharpen a knife. How to move quiet in the woods and listen to the wind.
He remembered the way they used to sleep in hammocks between trees, the stars above them like tiny burning promises.
David had joined the Marines at nineteen. Six years. Two tours. Came back with scars he didn't talk about and a sense of direction that pointed vaguely east. Toward something better.
Matthew had been his compass, though. Always was.
David leaned forward now, elbows on knees, voice low.
"Hey, Matty. You remember when we were out near Lake Allatoona and you tried to start a fire with wet wood, and I told you it'd never catch?"
He smiled faintly.
"And then you said, 'I don't need fire—I've got stubbornness.' Well, I need that stubbornness right now. 'Cause I'm not about to tell your little girl that you didn't make it back from a hospital room. I'm not doing that. So you better pull through, brother. You better wake the hell up."
The monitor beeped steadily beside him.
David reached out, took his brother's hand, and held it.
"I'm right here."