Five Brothers, page 24
“Pack an overnight bag,” I call out, loud enough for them both to hear.
Mars pulls off his headphones. “Huh?”
I take Paisleigh’s hand. “Pack a bag.”
“Why?”
“We’re going for a sleepover with the Jaegers,” I sing, looking down at my sister.
She gasps, beaming.
My brother twists up his lips, because he wants to go, but he persists in acting like everything about me is annoying.
“Let’s go!” I start running up the stairs with the kids. “Leaving in ten minutes!”
They start tossing everything they could possibly ever need into a bag as I dial Army.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Can you come and get me?”
He pauses only a moment. “Where are you?”
“I’m home. I’ll explain later.”
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m waiting,” I retort. “Hurry.”
I hang up, grab a few things myself, and hear a honk outside in less than ten minutes. They must’ve been working this side of the tracks.
“Let’s go!” I yell to the kids.
Mars and Paisleigh spill down the stairs with their gear, and I swing a duffel over my shoulder and pull out a baseball bat from the foyer closet as they pile outside.
I throw my bag and theirs into the back of the truck and open the back door, pushing them in next to Trace.
“What’s the bat for?” Army looks over the front seat to me.
“It’s a surprise.”
I open the front passenger-side front door and haul myself up, forcing Dallas over.
“Gimme a break,” he growls.
“Take Lamplight Glen,” I tell Army.
I see him staring at me out of the corner of my eye, but I crank up the radio as a song I like comes on.
Shifting into gear, he hits the gas, and I fist the bat as he speeds out of my driveway, takes a right, and jumps onto Lamplight Glen. My palms sweat, but I turn up the music more, and even Dallas just stares at me like he’s not sure I won’t kill him if he touches the dial.
“Take another right,” I order.
Army cuts a sharp turn, and I hear the tires skid as he charges onto Barony Lane.
“Stop,” I tell him.
“Wha—”
“Stop right here!” I yell.
He hits the brakes next to a silver Bentley Continental parked in front of a quaint, Spanish-style brick cottage, a beautiful little piece of heaven made for two.
I hop out.
“What are you doing?” Army shouts.
The music pumps, the night air blows through the palms overhead, and I swing the bat back, bringing it down hard onto the driver’s side window. It smashes through, the glass shattering, and I hear a bunch of swearing go off inside the truck.
“Oh, son of a bitch,” says one.
“We’re going to jail.”
“Krisjen!”
I grind my fists into the handle of the bat and throw my arms behind my head one more time before swinging hard, crashing the end through the windshield.
Whipping around, I climb back into the truck, everyone staring at me.
Trace speaks first. “Was that…?”
“Mm-hm,” I reply.
“Why did you do that?” Paisleigh asks.
I flip the visor down, forcing my breathing to even out as I check the lipstick I don’t actually have on. “A friend locked their keys inside. I was helping them get in.”
And I flip the visor back up.
“That was Dad’s car,” Mars says.
“Looked just like it, didn’t it?”
Army snorts, drives off, and I see Dallas shake his head.
Trace starts laughing, and I lean my head out the window, closing my eyes and letting the wind blow through my hair.
“Who wants ice cream?” Trace calls out.
“Me!” Paisleigh cries.
I’m not taking them to my relatives tomorrow. My father can send a cop if he wants to deal with me about his windshield, and my mother can send one, too, if she wants the kids back.
* * *
—
The next morning, I open my eyes, feeling a body next to me. Fog clouds my brain, and I roll over the other way to get room, so I can go back to sleep. It’s too damn hot in here.
But as soon as I move away, I land on another body.
“What the hell?” I breathe out.
Blinking my eyes open, I lift up off the bed and look down, seeing Clay half-underneath me.
She bats her eyelashes. “You were so good.”
The person on my other side laughs, and I turn my head over my shoulder, seeing Liv, smiling wide.
“Y’all…” I climb off Clay, and they both crack up.
I crashed in Liv’s room with Paisleigh, but I don’t see her. I grab my phone, checking the time. It’s only seven. I wipe my eyes. “Shit.”
They’d been staying at Clay’s house. I didn’t expect them here.
Liv kicks me. “Get out of our bed.”
I climb over her. “Well, I’m not taking Iron’s.”
“Why not?” She links her hands behind her head as Clay lays hers on Liv’s chest. “Dallas really is the softest guy. He just needs love.”
I shake out the wrinkles in my hoodie. “He needs a punch in the stomach.”
“God, yes,” Clay chuckles.
He still hasn’t warmed up to her, either.
I pull on the sweatshirt and sweep my hair up into a ponytail. Paisleigh better be in the house. How the hell did she get out without me hearing? Stealthy little shit.
I head for the door, doing a quick sweep of my notifications. Nothing from my father about his broken window.
Good.
“We cleaned up down there when we got in last night,” Clay tells me. “Don’t let them destroy it.”
“Yet, anyway,” Liv adds.
It’s everyone’s day off. Her brothers are definitely going to have some fun.
But I nod anyway, leaving the room.
As soon as I close the door and turn, I smell turkey. I stop, close my eyes, and inhale. Goose bumps spread up my arms. Ah, yes.
I didn’t think they’d actually cook. Not that they don’t know how. Macon and Army, especially, have taken care of their siblings for nearly a decade, but I don’t know…No one in this house seems in the mood for anything other than alcohol lately.
I check the bathroom and see that the sink has been replaced, no evidence that anything had been wrong. I pull out a new toothbrush from my toiletry bag and swipe toothpaste across the bristles.
I clean my teeth, rinse, and drop my toothbrush in the cup with the others, even though I probably shouldn’t keep my toothbrush in here. Dallas will clean the toilet with it.
I open the window before I leave to let in the sweet fall breeze and practically hop down the stairs, feeling delighted with energy. I don’t know why, and I’m not going to ask. We deserve some fun.
I look around for my sister, finally finding her in the pool with Army and Dex. She doggy-paddles, her little head bobbing side to side as she smiles.
I squint. She’s wearing her swimsuit.
I pull back, laughing. Told her to pack the necessities, and all she probably heard was “we’re going to a house that has a pool.” She hates ours because there’s no deep end and she likes to cannonball.
I check the turkey, really just to get another whiff, and start to make coffee. I pass by the second kitchen window, spotting Macon in the garage—as usual—but then I see my brother and stop. He’s sitting in one of their trucks as Macon leans in the driver’s side window, telling him something I can’t hear.
My twelve-year-old brother scoots up in the seat, fists the steering wheel in both hands, and I straighten, realizing he’s about to drive. “What?”
He shifts, the car lurches, and I hurry over to the screen door, looking down into the garage and watching him pull out.
No. I dart my gaze to Macon, but before I can shout for Mars to brake, he turns the truck, slams on the gas, and parks along the fence.
He climbs out, headphones around his neck, and looks up just enough to catch the keys Macon tosses him. Without a word, he climbs in our mom’s Rover and slowly backs it into the garage, only stopping once to pull forward again to correct himself.
I realize my mouth is hanging open, and I close it. How long have they all been up?
Macon starts to turn back toward me, and I dive back into the house before he sees me.
No one died, I guess. And Mars is doing something that’s not on his phone for a change.
I back away, leaving them to it, only sporadically checking over the next few hours to see that they’re both still in there. Mars moved on to touching up my paint, in a mask with a spray gun, with Macon watching him. Once in a while, he grabs his mug, and I see the soup container I left him in the fridge during my shift last night on the table behind him. He refills the mug with soup, and I just barely contain my smile when I see him chew. He’s eating. That’s good.
I make up some cheesy potatoes, while Clay comes down and sticks her seafood stuffing in the oven. It smells awful.
The boys come in and out, one of them sticking something on the grill outside, and Paisleigh puts on dry clothes, staying in the living room with Dex and dancing to music.
I pull on a pair of tight jean shorts and roll them up just above my knee, and then borrow a cropped white blouse from Liv, buttoning it up to my neck. I brush out my hair, put on a little makeup, but can’t stop smiling at how I could never show up to my grandmother’s looking like this on a holiday.
I walk downstairs in my bare feet, turning off all the lights before I start lighting any candle I can find. Wind blows through the windows, making the flames flicker, and everything smells like flowers and food. I almost feel like my head is floating. Or like heaven is hanging low today, and I can smell it.
“What’s this?” Army asks, looking around at the firelight as he enters the living room.
Dallas and Trace set food on the table.
“Kind of a tradition in my family,” I say. “We keep the lights off and light candles all day.” I pause, searching their faces. “Do you observe Thanksgiving?”
I saw turkey and assumed, but they’re part Seminole. I should’ve asked.
“Don’t worry,” Army says over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen. “We cook. It’s a good family day. And we are a little English.”
“And German,” Trace adds.
Followed by Dallas, “And French.”
“Definitely Spanish,” Liv chimes in, she and Clay walking past me.
There are piles of food on the table, and I look around as I set down my dish. “You guys eat pizza on Thanksgiving?” I ask, noticing one that’s half cheese and half old-world pepperoni.
“Everyone is allowed to make their favorites,” Trace tells me. “Like a giant potluck.”
“Cheese fries,” Liv holds up a plate, plucking one from the pile under melted cheddar.
There are burgers and hot dogs, black beans and rice, tamales, some kind of roast pork that I think Mariette made for them, and I know there are plantains somewhere on the table, because I can smell them. There’s also street corn, shrimp, and crab cakes. Army carries the turkey to the table.
I look toward the window, knowing Macon and Mars are still in the garage. Going to the freezer, I pull out some ice cream, grab a few toppings, and put it out for him.
The kids’ music channel that Paisleigh and Dex are listening to plays a rendition of “Shout,” and I start singing along as everyone sits and loads up their plates.
The kids laugh, Mars enters the kitchen and washes his hands, and I can’t hold back the smiles as I make Paisleigh’s plate.
“Oh,” she coos when I serve her an actual hot dog on Thanksgiving.
Army carves up the turkey, and I pause for a second, just enjoying the moment. It won’t last forever, just hopefully for today.
I grind my fingers in my fist, feeling the small cut I didn’t notice until this morning. Glass from my dad’s windshield must’ve hit me.
I’m a rabble-rouser, it seems.
No matter how Milo treated me and how I fought back, I’ve never thought of myself as a fighter. Until now.
Luckily, my dad doesn’t seem to be pressing charges. I haven’t heard anything yet.
Which means he doesn’t know it was me or…he knows it was me.
“ ‘Shout, shout, let it all out,’ ” I sing.
The music goes off, and I see Army with the remote in his hand. I fall quiet. They want to talk at the table, of course.
But then Macon strolls up. “Turn it back on,” he orders his brother.
Army looks at him but doesn’t argue. The music plays again, Macon sits, and I take the only seat left, slowly lowering myself into a chair at the foot of the table. I feel like I shouldn’t be sitting there, but I seem to get stuck with this seat a lot.
I lift my eyes over the food, to the other end, but Macon doesn’t look at me.
“To the first family of St. Carmen,” Clay calls out, holding up her glass. Everyone follows, and I take the Coke I poured myself. She looks around. “The traitors are at your disposal.”
Then our eyes meet, and I laugh. “Yeah, we are…”
“Woo-hoo!” Trace cheers.
Glasses clank, everyone tips back their glasses—Dallas and Trace with bourbon already—and we dig in, sampling everyone’s contributions to the table.
Paisleigh eats two bites of her hot dog and wastes no time in standing up in her chair, leaning over the table, and grabbing a slice of pizza.
“Paisleigh!” I chide, laughing at the same time.
But Trace holds out his plate, stuffing the insides of a tamale into his mouth with the other. “Yeah, pass me one, kid,” he mumbles over his food.
She doles him out a slice.
“Pepperoni for me,” Liv tells her, holding out her plate, too.
I shake my head and scoop some black beans and rice onto my plate. It’s amazing how quickly etiquette disappears around family. True family.
But she’ll remember this Thanksgiving.
The air outside sweeps through the house, making flames fight to cling to their wicks, and curtains blow like the trains of dresses. Music plays, Mars goes for a second ear of corn, and I find myself watching everyone more than I’m eating, because nothing lasts, no matter how tightly we hold. This table won’t look the same next year.
Just like, I’m sure, it doesn’t look the same this year with Iron gone. Maybe next year others will be, too. Liv will spend it with Clay’s family, or not come home at all, waiting until Christmas.
Maybe Trace will go for it, leave to work at some small inn somewhere that has a pub where he can learn the trade.
I raise my eyes, seeing Macon through the strands of hair blowing in my face. He dips a spoon in and out of his mug, staring at the melted ice cream dripping from its end, and I suddenly feel like my arms are made of steel, and so are his, and if he reaches around and I reach around, we’ll hold the table together.
But he doesn’t look up at me.
Liv serves me some of her cheese fries, which I dip in ranch, and Clay periodically checks my plate to see if I’m eating her stuffing, and then gives me a quick scowl when I haven’t yet touched it.
Finally, I roll my eyes, scoop up a glob, and shove it into my mouth, grabbing Trace’s shot of bourbon and washing the mouthful down with the only thing on the table that tastes worse.
Trace laughs, and I cough, swallowing about three more times to get everything down my throat.
Another bottle eventually comes out, and Trace spikes my drink—and Army’s when he goes off to put Dex down for a nap.
We talk a little, even Dallas relaxing as the liquor starts to take effect, but then Clay rises and Liv follows.
“Would rather stay, but…” She starts to clear their plates. “Mimi is expecting us for pie.”
Her grandmother. The one who doesn’t like that Clay is a lesbian, but she’s old and alone, and Clay knows she and Liv win at the end of the day. She has everything. No one can hurt them.
Within five minutes, they’re gone, Dex is asleep, Paisleigh and Mars have gone down the street to the bounce house at the Torreses’, and the tapers on the table flicker in the wind, only a few inches left to burn.
My mother hasn’t called.
My phone hasn’t rung at all.
Paisleigh hasn’t noticed.
“You gonna clean up?” Dallas asks.
It takes a minute to register that he’s talking to me. I put my phone back face down, looking up.
But Army shakes his head. “Ignore him, Krisjen.”
“We fed her and her brother and sister,” Dallas points out. “It’s the least she can do.”
Army rubs his hand over his eyes and up into his hair, looking suddenly exhausted.
He rises, taking his and Liv’s empty plates with him to the sink.
“Everything comes at a price.” Dallas eyes me. “Saints know that more than anyone.”
I pick up a black bean at the edge of my plate. We forgot dinner rolls. I love bread on Thanksgiving. “Yes, we’re always willing to pay for a kindness,” I murmur.
But I should’ve shut up. He’s looking for an invitation to continue the conversation.
“Everything you do is for money,” he spits. “You fuck the right sons—bosses even—as a way to elevate yourselves, because nothing in life is really about skill, talent, or knowledge. It’s about who’s willing to do whoever it takes to get what you want. The house, the club memberships, the board positions…”
My throat is tight. I swallow.
“And then, years later,” he goes on, “after you’re done having Jerome Watson’s children—so paternity isn’t contested, of course—you can have discreet affairs, right?
