Five brothers, p.33
Five Brothers, page 33
My throat tightens. Or objects to cause himself harm. I’ve never seen deadly weapons in the house, though.
I look in his bathroom first, seeing clothes on the floor and a pile of towels. I inspect them for blood, and then I check his sink and shower, looking for anything that raises alarm.
Heading into his bedroom, I find unmarked boxes on the top shelf of his closet. I reach up to look inside one, finding it full of pictures. I smile a little, immediately recognizing the Jaegers long before I knew them. A very young Army, his arm around Macon, who’s dressed in camouflage pants and a T-shirt, his hair so short.
More pics of the family, but I force myself to put the lid back on and stack it back on the shelf. I’m only invading his privacy for his safety.
I open his dresser drawers, feeling around just enough for anything hidden, and then look under the bed and pillows. I whip open the drawer of his bedside table, spotting some money, a watch, and a…
My heart pumps hard, seeing it and knowing what it is without even pulling the drawer all the way out. I reach in and take the handgun by the grip, holding it up.
My hand shakes, looking down at it and curling my finger around the trigger but not pressing. I don’t even know how to check for bullets, much less take them out. I swallow hard.
This is the Bay. I guess I should’ve known they’d have weapons. It’s not uncalled for and no reason to worry. Especially given how many people Macon pisses off. I would probably think it odd if he didn’t have one. Careless, even.
And also, he was in the Marines. He was trained how to use it. I don’t think they’re allowed to keep their service weapons, but it’s entirely possible he’s had his own for years.
But the mess in the room…
I look around at all the clothes, the shit piled on his dresser. Macon’s not like this.
Keeping the gun in my hand, I close the drawer and turn to walk out, but I see the rafter in the corner of the room, posted between the two walls. A small, thin groove dents the wood, the color stain worn away to reveal the natural tone underneath. That’s where the rope was. From his mom.
I flex my jaw. My God, why does he sleep in here? I run from the room, scanning the hallway as I dash into Liv’s room and stash the weapon in the back of her closet.
But I pause, my hand still wrapped around the grip. What if the gun really is for self-defense? Should I be hiding it? What if he needs it?
I hide it anyway, just for now. Just a day or two until I know he’s okay.
I put the towels back where I got them and head downstairs. I don’t bother getting dressed, still in my sleep shorts and T-shirt as I enter the kitchen.
Breathing in and out, I force my heart rate to slow down, and lift the window to my left. I draw in the fresh air. The curtains blow, and I push the images from my mind, and all the questions I can’t answer, or that he won’t answer if I ask. He sleeps in that room where she did it. He sees that rafter every day.
I open all the windows downstairs, letting in the warm breeze and the smell of the trees as I put on some music. “Take the World” plays on low volume. Moving around the house, I decide to pitch in on a few things, not really because I want to but because it’ll give me an excuse to be in the house.
Like throwing out the slimy green onions in the fridge.
But then I find expired milk, green sausage (that’s not green because it contains spinach), and three opened bottles of ketchup that should be bled into one. Before I know it, I’m tearing the whole refrigerator apart and cleaning it. Then I move on to the freezer and toss out the expired food in the pantry.
I arrange an extra disposal can for recycling, which they’ve just started to take part in. I’ll break that news to them tonight. Then I vacuum out all the spilled rice from the kitchen drawers and cabinets.
I find some candles and set them around, lighting them, because candle flames are pretty, and then I start an early dinner to simmer on the stove before I finish the dishes.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I finally finish up by starting the dishwasher and hand-washing the pan from breakfast when the door to the garage swings open. Macon steps in, stopping when he sees me.
He stares, and my eyes drop momentarily to his sweaty chest and olive skin, and the way his jeans hang off his hips with no belt. He’s losing weight. I jerk my gaze back down to the pan in the sink.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “Why aren’t you at work?”
There’s a bite to his tone, but not like when he’s talking to his brothers. More like he’s just unpleasantly surprised.
“I, um…” My vision fogs as my heartbeat picks up pace again. “I just wanted a quiet day.” I meet his eyes. “Aracely’s sister is filling in for me.”
He pinches his brows together, looking down at the dishes. “You’re cleaning.”
Now his tone sounds like he’s confused.
“Well, I can do it,” I joke. “When I want to.”
He gives me a look, and I swear, there’s almost a smile there.
He’s in and out several times over the next couple of hours, getting something to drink, washing his hands, pulling his phone off the charger.
I clean the living room and get started on the floors, lifting the corner of the couch to roll up the area rug and take it outside.
I heave it up, but I’ll never get it on my shoulders. Dragging it across the floor, I stop short when I realize someone is pulling it. Looking back, I see Macon lift up one end and put it on top of his right shoulder, and I do the same with my end. “Thanks.”
We take it outside, hanging it on the fence to air out, and I go back in to sweep and mop.
He goes upstairs, and I start sweating the moment he goes into his room. He’s going to notice his gun missing.
I think every muscle in my body is tensed for ten whole minutes as I wait for my head to roll from his wrath.
But when he comes back down, his hair is wet from the shower, and he’s wearing clean jeans, not even making eye contact with me.
I exhale.
I empty the dust pan into the garbage, and he walks to the stove, lifting the lid of the pot.
He inspects it for a moment, finally asking, “What are you cooking?”
Well, if he can’t tell, that’s not a good sign.
“I found it in a box of recipes.” I set the dustpan down and grab the notecard, showing it to him. “Ropa vieja.” I try again, properly. “Ropa…vieja?”
He eyes the card, a look passing behind his eyes, and then lifts the spoon.
“Pork?” he asks, studying the ingredients.
I nod.
“My mother used beef.”
“Oh.” I read the card again as he takes a taste. “It said any meat was fine.”
“It is.”
I watch him replace the spoon and lid, telling him, “It probably needs more salt. I’ve noticed I have blander taste buds than everyone else on this side of the tracks.”
“It’s not bad,” he mumbles, turning to the fridge. “If they want more salt, they can add it themselves.”
He grabs a soda and sets it on the counter, turning to me. I jump when he takes my face in his hands, and I watch him with wide eyes as he comes in close. But then he turns my face side to side, and I realize he’s checking my bruises. “If this ever happens again, I’m going to make an assumption about who was responsible and deal with it, you understand?”
So, if I don’t tell him, he’ll guess. I don’t want them risking anything for my sake.
I pull away and grab a plate, doling out rice and stew, handing it to Macon.
But he shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”
He grabs his soda, moving for the garage door, and I sit down with the plate, grabbing a fork out of the basket to eat by myself.
The next thing I know, he slams the door and walks to the stove, making himself a plate.
I smile to myself. He sits at the head of the table, and I look down from the foot, watching him as he eats.
He takes up the whole room. The whole house. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him quiet. I’ve never seen him happy. Or in love. Or scared.
Where does he hide it?
He bleeds apathy. Dispassion. Indifference. Control. Nothing else gets out. No wonder he’s sick.
“What?”
I shift in my seat, realizing I’m still staring. He doesn’t look at me as he chews, but he knows I’m watching him.
I stick my finger in my dish and lick it, tasting the gravy. “I remember hearing about you as a kid,” I start to tell him. “A man over here hit his wife, and you forced his hand into the spinning wheel of a motorcycle. Is that true?”
He doesn’t reply. Or look at me.
The house sounds peaceful for once. Quiet.
I breathe slowly. “You and Army sold drugs in order to pay the bills after your parents died?” I repeat another story I heard.
Still, nothing.
“You keep the alligators well fed?”
His mouth twitches, and I see it. The smile as he stares at his food, taking another bite.
A shot of pride hits me.
I continue. “In the tall grass field just before the bay, overlooking Del Mia Island, you allow duels,” I press on with another rumor.
He shakes his head, amused.
I dip my fork in and out of my dish. “There’s treasure concealed in some of the graves at Santa Maria Cemetery.”
Still no comment.
“You cut yourself and make people drink your blood to prove their loyalty,” I tell him.
His chest shakes. I think it’s a laugh, but not a sound escapes. He takes another bite.
“You have a harem of wives?” I question.
He cocks a brow, and I can feel the eye roll even though he doesn’t let it out.
“And every girl,” I tell him, “on her eighteenth birthday, has to be submitted to you for first refusal.”
“Jesus fucking Christ…” he whispers to himself.
“And they also say you secretly own parts of St. Carmen.”
Finally, he looks at me. “Like real estate?”
“Like people. Some of the children are yours, they say. You have a plan to breed us out.”
He can’t stop himself. He laughs, bowing his head, still holding his fork. Then he looks at me, disbelieving. “What the fuck?” He scoops up another bite. “I sound like the devil.”
I’m glad he’s smiling. I’m sure he was aware of some of what people say about him, and he was probably never offended by it. Macon knows people are stupid. He always knows that when you make yourself rarely accessible, they’ll make up stories about you. That worked in his favor. An air of mystery feeds fear, and fear is power.
I fill my fork. “No matter what I heard, I never thought you were a monster,” I say. “It’s nice for Clay to have a father willing to pay whatever it takes to protect her, but I was always fascinated with Liv, having you willing to do anything to feed her. Without even meeting you, I knew you’d bleed for her.”
He looks at me, and a nerve shoots from my heart down to my stomach.
“And I only ever believed the first three things,” I tell him, smiling.
He grabs the salt and douses his dish with it. “Just keep your ass out of the cemetery, okay?”
I laugh, seeing his half smile and light eyes. Lighter than I’ve ever seen them.
And I know then and there that I won’t give this family up until I know that someone is loving him. Until he’s in her arms.
20
Krisjen
I brush my teeth, rubbing the steam off the mirror. The shower runs, and I’m running late. I quickly spit toothpaste into the sink, and then brush some more. A hickey colors the skin just above my collarbone, and my tank top is stretched out from Army’s hands underneath it. I smile to myself as I spit again. It’s nice to be with someone who’s kind. Affectionate in public. Gentle.
Trace stumbles through the door, his eyes half-hooded, and his dark hair sticking up in every direction. He flips up the toilet seat, his abs flexing as he fumbles with his zipper and starts pissing right in front of me.
I stop brushing mid-stroke. “Seriously?”
He opens one eye, peering over at me. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he mumbles.
Ugh. I spit. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
Dallas chuckles, walking in and grabbing his toothbrush. Squeezing on some toothpaste, he scrubs his teeth next to me, both of us alternating using the faucet and rinsing out our mouths.
I set my toothbrush in the cup. “I have to get the kids to school.”
“Already covered,” Trace says, fastening his jeans and flushing. He squeezes the back of my neck in some kind of endearing little hug without washing his damn hands.
“Are you sure?” I ask him.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He’s heading into St. Carmen anyway, I guess.
“Thank you,” I call out as he leaves, stretching his arms over his head and yawning.
“I’ll be back for dinner,” Dallas says, sticking his toothbrush in the cup. “Can you make that sandwich I like?”
“I’ll tell Mariette.” I twist off the cap of the mouthwash. “I’ll be out.”
“Where are you going?”
But I take a swig right out of the bottle before I can answer.
The shower shuts off as I swish, and the curtain flies open. Macon fastens a towel around his waist.
I glance over, only long enough for the mouthwash to dribble out of my mouth a little. The cuts of the muscles in his arms and shoulders glide in smooth lines, and his long torso, narrow waist, and tawny skin are a couple of shades darker than mine. His dark wet hair drapes to a point between his eyes and down his nose, and his eyebrows make him look amazing when he’s angry. I kind of want to piss him off right now.
I’m not sure why he’s not using his own shower, but I’m not complaining.
“Get out,” he says, stepping out of the tub.
Dallas wipes off his mouth and throws down the towel as he goes. I whip around to spit out the mouthwash and follow him, but Macon takes my arm and pulls me back before I have a chance. “Not you.”
He takes my face in his hands, inspecting the cuts and bruises as I stand there wide-eyed, my mouth ballooning with mouthwash that’s starting to burn my tongue.
He turns me side to side. “It’s healing.”
I nod.
But then he says, “You didn’t put ointment on last night.”
Like he instructed me to…
How the hell can he tell?
Spinning around, I dive down and spit out the mouthwash, wiping off my mouth. “Do you want a smoothie?” I ask him.
I see the shape of him through the steam on the mirror as he hovers at my back. “No,” he says.
I don’t move, watching him as he stands there, nearly a head taller. He doesn’t tell me to move—or leave—and I go still as he cocks his head, the heat of his body so close it warms me.
Something vibrates under my skin, and I want to feel something that’s not gentle or kind, and all of it hidden away in a dark room.
“Where’s Army?” Macon whispers.
His breath sends tingles across my neck. He knows Army is still asleep.
“Get his fucking ass up,” he tells me.
And then he leaves.
These goddamn men…
* * *
—
I never realized how my school skirt chafed my thighs until I left high school. I run my hands over the pleats and tuck in the black Polo shirt of my old school uniform as I hike up the driveway of Fox Hill.
Kent Sharpe, the security guard, steps out of his guardhouse.
“Hey,” I chirp.
“Hi, hon.” He pulls the toothpick out of his mouth. “All your classmates already left for the day.”
He doesn’t know I already graduated.
“Oh, I know.” I pass him, turning to maintain eye contact as I walk backward. “I forgot my phone on the patio.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Exactly,” I state. “Do you mind if I…”
“Of course not.” He waves me off. “Talk to the host, and he’ll take you back.”
“Thanks.”
Spinning around, I keep walking, super glad he didn’t ask why I’m not driving. I left my car parked along the highway. I don’t want it seen up here.
Crickets buzz beyond the green, in the trees, and a few frogs croak at a nearby pond. I love my town at night. So many nocturnal creatures, and they’re loud. A reminder that a whole other party starts after the sun sets.
I glance to my right, seeing my father’s Bentley Continental, the windshield all repaired, and face forward again. I smile at Rafe as he opens the door to the clubhouse for me. His eyes take in my uniform. He doesn’t ask questions.
Stepping inside, I keep my eyes forward and head straight for the stairs. I try to look like I know where I’m going and what I’m doing, but not so fast that I look like I’m trying to hide it.
I swing around the newel post and head behind the stairs, not up them.
“Still here?” someone calls out.
I look over my shoulder, seeing Louis Fine, the host who works the restaurant, as he crosses the foyer into the bar.
I turn back around and keep going. “A few of us, yeah!”
“Good kids,” he coos. “Working hard.”
I keep going, rounding a corner and disappearing from view as I walk down a long hallway. Marymount Academy, my alma mater, schedules three service days a year as part of our civic credit requirement for graduation. We pick up a little trash off the streets, or mow an elderly person’s lawn, or walk some sick people’s dogs, so our parents and teachers can take pictures and say, “Look what good humans we’re putting into the world.”
