Five Brothers, page 17
I let out a breath and turn my eyes up to the ceiling. “I don’t know.”
I feel her eyes on me, and I shift, uncomfortable. Macon, Dallas, Army…we don’t go there. Iron’s gone. Talking won’t help.
Do I miss him?
“I mean, I love him and I hope he’s okay, but…” I shake my head, searching for my words. “That feeling like I’m waiting for something—or like something is incomplete—has always been there. I don’t really feel any different than I did two months ago when Liv left for college, or eight years ago when my mom and dad died.” I squeeze her arm in my hand. “It seems I’ve always been missing someone.”
I feel her slowly inch in as far as she can, molding herself to me.
I like her.
I can’t be Macon or Army. I can’t be Liv. I don’t feel like I have time to learn things. Space to stutter. Room to make mistakes. I’m stupid to them. I know I am. I know I’ll fail if I ever really try, so I just try to be funny instead. Or fun. If I can make the house brighter, maybe Macon will know I’m alive.
“I’m glad you told me your dream,” she says, her breath seeping through my T-shirt. “And you know what’s weird? I see it. Not really the ‘living in a cottage’ part. I’m still working on that.”
I chuckle to myself.
“But the forest-green leather seats on the barstools,” she goes on. “The candlelight flickering against the walls. The black chesterfield chairs at the tables, and you in a crisp blue button-down behind the bar.”
“Not a T-shirt?”
“Nope.” She tips her chin up, assertive. “You’re a gentleman now. A respectable proprietor with vast knowledge of the history of whiskey and the difference between aging it in American oak barrels versus French oak barrels.”
Do I really need to know that?
“And there’s a microbrewery on-site,” she continues. “Huge copper tanks you can see through the glass wall, and you call your signature beer—”
“It’ll be a distillery, thank you,” I fire back. “Rum.”
She smiles, tucking herself into me again. Green leather on the barstools…I was thinking black, but green sounds classier.
“It always gets better in my head,” I say. “More detailed. It’s a good dream.”
“It’s going to happen.”
I close my eyes, ready to sleep with the picture in my mind, but she does that thing where she drapes her leg over mine so the heat between her thighs is on mine, and I start to stir.
“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to have sex?” I ask. “I mean, you could be practice for someone I really love someday.”
She kicks my leg, growling, and I shake with a laugh.
9
Krisjen
Trace slept in my bed, and we didn’t have sex. I’m still smiling two days later. He was sweet. I’ve never seen him like that before.
If I’m around, I’ll help him set up that pub someday. I’d love to, actually.
I roll the dish rack back into the washer, picturing it in my head.
I’d be proud to see him have that dream. Really proud. Still not sure about the cottage part, though. It’s barely big enough for a family. Or his brothers if they visit. Not sure he’s thought that through.
I plop down in the chair next to the cook’s station, taking Santos’s flask as he rolls out dough for pies.
I take a swig, wincing when I taste whiskey. He raises his eyebrows at me, because I’m a bold little minor, aren’t I? But he doesn’t say it out loud, just goes back to his baking.
“That kind of sucked.” I twist the cap back on and set it down. “What a long day.”
“But I bet that wad of tips in your apron doesn’t suck.”
I chuckle. No, it doesn’t. Bateman returned the next day for Mars and Paisleigh, so my mom must’ve paid him somehow, but Army told me if I need to leave at any time, then I need to leave. They’d deal with it.
A few customers remain on the patio, but the restaurant inside is empty, except for Jessica mopping the floor. It’s after nine. I should get home. My mom will be on her third vodka tonic by now.
“How’s the family?” Santos asks.
“Can’t complain.” I can, but I won’t. “Yours?”
“My oldest wants to be a plumber,” he mumbles. “He got accepted to Texas A&M.”
That’s impressive. But…“Not everyone has to go to college,” I remind him.
“Easy for you to say when it’s someone else’s kid.”
I pause, thinking about that one. “Fair enough,” I tell him. “We’ll pick up this conversation again when it’s my child.”
“Deal.”
Although entirely different situations, he’s coming from the same place my mother is. They want the best opportunities for their children, but the difference is, my mother is willing to do—or force me to do—whatever it takes to ensure it.
Not sure she would’ve let me go to college, even if my dad hadn’t taken all the money.
And I’m not sure I would’ve gone either way.
I want to work, but just as a means to enjoy my life. To pay for trips to the drive-in with Mars and Paisleigh, and big meals with family and friends, and cute clothes that keep my husband’s eyes all over me.
And helping those around me who need it.
College would be a waste of money. At least right now. I have no desire for a career.
Iris bursts through the back door, breathing hard. “Can someone help me in the bar, please?” she whines, pulling bags of mixed nuts off the rack and piling them in her arms. “The Torreses are coming in with a shitload of people. I’m getting tables together now, but I’ll need help taking orders.”
Santos looks through the warmer, probably trying to see who else is still here, because I’ve already worked a double shift.
I debate for a split second, but then I say, “I can stick around for a little while longer.”
Guilt hits me, but I push it aside. The kids are fine. My mom raised the three of us so far without any deaths. I’ll only be a couple more hours.
Iris smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “Thanks. Please hurry.”
I tap out a text to Mars. Working a little longer. Text if there’s a problem.
And I stand up to follow her, but Santos pushes a brown bag into my chest. “Take this over first.”
I grab hold of Macon’s dinner, still not having told Mariette that he almost never eats it.
But yet…he continues to let her send it.
Tucking my phone in my back pocket, I push up the sleeves of my black hoodie and walk out of the restaurant, seeing the glow of the garage lights down the lane.
I haven’t seen Macon all day, and I don’t see the boys’ trucks out front, either. It’s better when Army or Trace is in the garage with him. I hate being alone with him. He doesn’t like me.
Everyone else likes me.
But when I veer right, into the garage, I see the hood of my car up, a work light hanging inside, and a Bluetooth speaker on a shelf playing an alternate rendition of Nirvana’s “Something in the Way.”
But there’s no one here.
“Hello?” I inch in, looking around the car for legs. The door to the kitchen is open, and I call out again. “Hello?”
But he’s not in earshot. I reach out, setting the bag down on his worktable, but then I hear a cry in the distance.
“Please!”
I stop, some muffled sobs pricking my ears.
“No!” the man wails again.
The voice doesn’t sound familiar.
I jerk my eyes to the back door of the garage, seeing that it hangs open just slightly.
Keeping my feet light and quiet, I head for the back of the shop.
“Please, just let me out!”
What the hell? I force my feet to keep going, slipping through the back door and looking around the pool, not seeing anyone. It’s coming from the woods. I walk across the deck, into the brush, and see a light.
“Please, Macon,” a man begs.
Macon comes into view, standing in the doorway of a container. Like the ones they put on the backs of semitrucks, with no windows and a lock on the outside. Has that always been sitting back here? I’ve never noticed.
He grips a man by the collar, the muscles in Macon’s back taut and the veins in his neck visible from here. I step, but foliage crunches under my shoe, and I dart to the left, hiding myself behind a tree.
My pulse races, and I close my mouth, because I’m breathing too hard.
After a moment, I hear Macon growl, “Where’s the food we bought your family?”
“F-Fisher had friends over, and um…” the guy gasps. “No, Macon, please!”
I peek around the tree, seeing him shove the man’s head into an oil drum I hope is filled with just water.
The man struggles, gripping the sides and pushing against Macon’s force.
But Macon doesn’t let him up until he wants to. Pulling his face out of the water, I study the guy, trying to figure out if I know him. There are a lot of people living deeper in the swamp who I haven’t met yet.
“Look at me,” Macon bites out, pulling him up again by the shirt. “Look at me!”
The man breathes hard, his legs limp underneath him.
“You’ve had your chances,” Macon tells him. “I’ve been nice, then I was firm, but this is it. You have another drink, or spend money on anything that takes food off your kids’ table, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you.”
The man sobs. “It’s not just the alcohol, man. I’m…I mean…I’ve got a problem with drugs, too.”
“Shut up.” Macon pushes him back down into the water.
The man is one of them. Not an enemy. Macon’s trying to get him straight. Would he really kill him?
He yanks the man out by the back of his collar, shoves him in the container, and I rush to the next tree and then the next, trying to get a view inside, but all I catch sight of is a futon and some light that must be coming from a lamp or something. Macon slams the door shut and locks it, the guy inside pounding against the other side.
“Please!” he begs. “Please, let me out!”
“Three days,” Macon says. “When that shit is out of your system.”
“I can’t stop.” He sobs hard. “Macon, I wasn’t always like this. You know me. Please, man. I’m scared.”
Macon’s hand rests on the metal door, his head slowly falling. His chest rises and falls in heavy breaths.
“Macon…” the guy goes on. “It hurts!”
My stomach twists in knots, and I watch Macon Jaeger stand there. His shoulders shake a couple of times, his exterior slowly crumbling as his guard comes down.
Because right now, he doesn’t know anyone is watching him.
“Please…” the guy pleads.
I blink, a tear spilling over. I quickly wipe it away.
He has to know a detox not done right can kill someone. Do the others know he’s keeping this guy back here?
The guy hollers and pounds, and Macon turns, starting to walk away. His eyebrows press together, and his mouth hangs open just slightly, like he can’t breathe.
The guy carries on, and Macon closes his eyes again like the only way he’s going to see something good is by not seeing anything at all.
Gripping the side of the barrel, he plunges a hand into the water and splashes it across his face and the back of his neck. He walks toward the house, and I slip around the tree, staying out of sight.
But he suddenly stops, and I watch him as he stares at the riding lawn mower left outside with a couple of beer cans sitting in the holders. Trace was supposed to mow the lawn a week ago. I look around at the growth of weeds and grass. If he did, I can’t tell.
And he didn’t put the mower away. Macon runs his hand through the rainwater that’s pooled in the seat.
Damn Trace.
Macon stalks for the garage, yanking the rope off the hook near the side of the door, and disappears inside.
Something doesn’t sit right. Macon’s going to strangle him.
I start after him. I peer into the shop, seeing him hit the switch, closing the garage door, and head up the three steps into the house and into the kitchen. He still carries the rope.
I hesitate.
Trace isn’t home. There weren’t any trucks in front of the house.
What is he doing?
I shoot off, heading into the house, and immediately hear footfalls upstairs. I start up slowly, listening as I go.
Their mother stares at me from photos as I climb. She hanged herself eight years ago, two months after her husband died.
But from what I understand, it wasn’t his death that drove her to finally do it. He was simply what kept her alive until then, and when he was gone, she just couldn’t stay. Trysta Jaeger.
Macon’s been drinking a lot the past few months. Not eating. Rarely ever leaves the house. I don’t care if it seems normal to everyone else. It’s not.
Why the hell couldn’t Trace finish the lawn? Or put the mower away? He’s almost twenty-one now. Macon shouldn’t have to stay on his ass over everything.
I reach the top of the landing, seeing steam seep through the crack in the bathroom door, and I hear the shower going.
But he doesn’t have the lights on. What’s he doing in the dark?
I glance one door down, at his closed bedroom door. His parents’ old room.
She did it in there. In the room where he now sleeps every night.
I approach the bathroom.
He’s okay. He’s always been moody. Kind of scary. He’s never been happy. Or smiley. Or conversational.
I lean in, trying to hear a change in the fall of water. Something signaling he’s washing or shampooing, but there’s no change.
I place my hand against the wooden door, debating if I should push it open enough to see, but just then, it swings open, and I pop up straight. Macon walks out, stalking right up to me.
I back up. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”
He stares down at me, wearing only a towel around his waist, but he’s not wet yet. The shower still runs. Shit. Does he know I was following him?
“Just making sure you’re here.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is like sandpaper. “Your food is—”
I point off somewhere as I look up at him, but I lose my train of thought at his hard gaze. He takes a step closer, and fear grips me. I’m alone in the house with him.
And he has someone he kidnapped locked in the storage container behind his house.
I drop my eyes, his glare hammering me into the ground.
But then…the pulse between my thighs thumps hard once, and I expel every ounce of breath in my lungs, nearly groaning.
Spinning around, I run, trying not to stumble down the stairs as his eyes burn my back. I get to the bottom, grab the handle, and yank open the front door, dashing out into the yard.
I take a few steps and glance behind me, relieved he’s not on my tail with that rope, ready to strangle me and drag my body back inside, because I’ve seen too much.
And then I draw in a deep breath, and after a few seconds, roll my eyes.
Jesus. Seriously, Krisjen? Way to overreact.
Rumors are rumors. I’ve never seen evidence that he’s done half the things people say, much less killed someone. And he may be doing something wrong by holding that man against his will in the backyard, but he’s doing it for the right reasons. Most people in the Bay can’t afford rehab.
It’s none of my business.
I must’ve looked like an idiot to him, though. The fear is suddenly gone, now replaced with embarrassment. I shouldn’t have gone in the house. That was stupid.
He just looked…
Incredible.
In the backyard, he looked vulnerable. Like something was squeezing his insides, and he was alone, and everything hurt him. Like things are hard for him, and why did it never occur to me that they were? No one notices his pain.
After a glance back at the house, where all the lights are off, I walk to the bar, not wanting to leave now.
But I pick up the pace, jogging faster, because Iris told me to hurry and is probably wondering where the hell I am.
As soon as I open the door to the bar, some old Avenged Sevenfold song blasts from the speakers, the party already underway. I leave my small hoodie on, the temperature well below the eighty-five I prefer, and jump behind the bar, grabbing a dish towel and shining up the glasses sitting on the rack to dry. One by one, I stack them on the shelves.
“You can leave, actually,” I hear behind me. “I’ll help.”
I look over my shoulder, seeing Aracely tying an apron around her waist. The crowd of people behind her talks loudly, and I spot Trace and Dallas in the mix. Army walks in the door, minus his kid, wearing a fresh black T-shirt. I can tell because the fold lines are still a little bit visible. His arms are tanner. They’ve had a full day.
“I’ll stick around for a bit,” I tell her.
“I don’t want to share tips.”
“You don’t have to.”
I’m not staying long enough to make a lot of tips anyway.
I face her, folding the towel and setting it down. She looks unamused that I’m not letting this turn into a fight. We should get drunk together.
“Hey,” someone calls out down the bar.
I quickly fill a glass with ice, pour a shot of Jack, and grab the soda hose, topping off the drink with Diet Coke. I stick a straw in and slide the glass across the bar to Aracely. “On me,” I tell her.
I don’t give her a chance to tell me to go fuck myself.
I head down the bar, looking up to see Trace. I start to smile, remembering his pub with the chesterfield chairs, but then I force it back down, remembering the lawn mower he left out in the rain.
