I couldn't wait to get away from Bryant when he dropped me off at the house after our conversation about my dad. He's going to keep selling for the man, and I can't see why. There's got to be more to it than the money. Honestly, Bryant admitted to as much. Thing is, I need to know why he's doing it if I'm going to help him get out of this situation.

If he's not going to talk to me about it, I'm left with little choice than to start making an effort to find information on my own. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that after our argument, I become somewhat of a creeper. It's the twenty first century, so following the guy around isn't necessary.

What I do instead is just as creepy, but I'm losing it. I know I told Bryant I have a low opinion of him now, but the truth is, I don't know how I should be feeling because I feel like I'm missing a piece of this puzzle.

The stalker thing I do is embarrassing, but when he's showering the night after we get back from the motel, I sneak into his room, and I grab his phone off the charger in order to install a tracking app on it. I know it's creepy. I know it's wrong. I'm not without guilt over the situation, but truth be told, I feel like I'm out of options.

Ever since I installed the app on his phone, I've been keeping tabs on him. When he leaves the house, he goes to several different locations. It's impressive how quickly the guy gets around without a car to be honest. But that brings us to today. Today is Tuesday, and it's the day I've been waiting around for since our discussion. In fact, when I installed the app on his phone, at least 80% of my motivation for doing it was so I could figure out where he's going every Tuesday night.

My mind has come up with so many outlandish theories my head hurts when I think about it anymore. He left five minutes ago, and he just got on the interstate. I'm alone in the silence of my room, watching a dot move on my phone's screen, with my heart pounding in my chest. My nerves are at the same level I'd imagine they'd be at if I was sneaking into a vault trying to steal a priceless diamond, and honestly, I've feeling about ten times more guiltily about this than I would about that.

I have to know though.

I watch the screen when he exits onto a fairly empty road. There isn't much around, but when my eyes read what he's near, my heart nearly bursts out of my chest. I have to read the words five times before it finally sinks in.

I'm coming to terms with the mere possibility of him being on that road to go to that prison, and as I'm coming to grips with the possibility, Bryant is pulling into the parking lot of the prison.

"Holy shit."

So, turns out, I'm exactly the kind of guy who adds a tracking app to someone's phone without their permission. Know what else? I'm apparently also the guy who doesn't have any interest in concealing what I did from Bryant.

I'm on edge for most of the night waiting for him to come home. I watch the dot move on my phone screen during his entire drive home, so I know the moment when he pulls into the driveway. I put my phone on the bed beside me, and I wait even though everything in me is screaming at me to meet him at the door. I know he'll come into my rooms and hand off my keys to me like the things are on fire. He hates having to borrow my car, but he does it every Tuesday—apparently to visit a prison.

When I hear him coming up the stairs, just outside of the room, my heart pounds in my chest. I'm not the best at confrontations, but I have no intentions of sweeping this under the rug. He knocks on my door a couple of times, which a new respect thing he's been doing since the camping trip. The guy used to just walk in without invitation. Still, he doesn't wait for me to respond before coming inside.

When he steps into the room, I'm laying back on my bed He avoids eye contact, something he's been doing since our massive blow up on the ride home from the motel. He walks over to my bedside table, and he places the keys there wordlessly before turning and walking back towards the door. He's honestly trying to get out of my room without having to talk to me. That's probably not going to happen.

"Nice trip to the prison this week then?" I ask him, and he freezes mid-step before turning to me with wide eyes.

'What'd you just say?" he asks me, and my heart summersaults in my chest.

"Have a nice trip to the prison?" I ask.

When my words register, Bryant's concern morphs into something else.

"How do you know where I was?" he asks through clinched teeth.

"Tracked your phone," I say the words with nonchalance I'm not feeling.

I've seen what happens when Bryant's temper is let loose, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to witness it again.

"You did what?" he asks, his voice sounding angrier than the last time he spoke.

I force myself to shrug as if I don't feel like a colossal douche canoe. It was out of line, but I'm not apologizing. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't get the chance.

"I tracked your phone," I repeat as if we're talking about the weather.

He rips his phone out of his pocket, and taps on the screen a few times looking for the app to confirm my story. I'm not sure why I would lie about that. As expected, Bryant's temper makes itself known the moment he finds it. Most people might delete the app, but Bryant takes that to another level, throwing the phone against the wall in my room where it shatters to a million pieces. I sit up straighter on my bed as he walks in my direction.

"You so much as touch anything I own again, and I promise you, you'll regret it," he tells me.

"Want to tell me who you were visiting?" I ask him.

He snorts dismissively, and he narrows his eyes. His breaths are coming out heavily, and his face is heated with anger.

"You've lost your mind," he mumbles, sounding as delirious as he's accusing me of being.

I stand up so we're eye to eye. Eye contact with the fuming dragon isn't fun, but I think it's necessary. I use the gentlest voice I can possibly muster, and I give him unblinking eye contact.

"You can tell me, Bryant. I might be able to help."

He flinches, and he takes two steps backwards like I punched him. His anger slides off of his face as soon as he hears my words, and in its place is a defeated expression.

"You can't help, dude. Stop trying to be my knight. I told you, I'm not looking for that," he tells me, but the vulnerability in his expression contradicts his words.

I close the distance between us again so I'm standing directly in front of him, and I shake my head.

"I'm not trying to be your knight. I'm trying to figure out exactly what it is that my father is lording over your head," I tell him.

I don't expect him to tell me. I'm honestly having this conversation for two reasons. I want him to know beyond a shadow of a doubt he has someone in his corner, and I'm warning him I'm not backing down until I have answers. So when he does reply with information, it knocks the wind out of me.

"My father," he mumbles.

"He's holding your dad over your head?" I ask him.

Bryant shrugs, but it's not a careless shrug. It's more defeated than anything. He doesn't say anything else, but he walks over to my bed, and he sits down like he doesn't have the energy to stay standing any longer. He rubs his hands over his face in frustration once he's sitting. When he looks back up at me, I can see tension around his eyes.

"He's who I was visiting at the jail," Bryant admits.

"Your dad's in jail?"

He doesn't respond to the question. He lets out a frustrated grunt, and runs both of his hands through his hair before pulling at the ends.

"For what?" I ask even though there's a small voice in the back of my head screaming at me that this is too personal for Bryant to be willing to share with me.

"Attempted murder," Bryant admits.