by Demi Vice
Marcel laughed. “Lev’s. He’s a little too in love with Halloween—”
“If it were legal, I’m pretty sure Lev would marry the shit out of the holiday.” Jay interrupted. “The house is mine too. I still live here.” There was a small pause followed by a devilish grin on Jay’s part. “We all used to live here until about a month ago when Marci decided to move in with his brother to try to dick his fiancée—”
Marcel growled, slapping Jay across the head with no mercy. It echoed through the room as did Jay’s laugh. Marcel muttered French curses under his thick breath, while Jay went back to his phone with a blissful expression.
“Don’t listen to him. The only thing that comes out of his mouth is shit,” Marcel growled, his French accent thicker with rage.
“Ain’t shit if it’s true, Marci,” Jay sang under his breath, licking his lips with pure satisfaction, staring at only his phone.
“Anyway, Lev will be here in a minute or so. Do you want some more Gory?” Marcel addressed Jack as he placed his empty glass on the table.
“Gory? Thought it was called Grim?”
“Yeah, we changed the name—” Marcel said before Jay interrupted him.
“No, no, no. We didn’t, but Lev did. We lost a bet to him, and so he dedicated the beer to his old foster brother who probably died away after he ran away.”
My body tensed up next to Jack's who turned to stone. Gravity took a hold of Jack’s face, his skin white as snow, his breaths non-existing. His whole being, paralyzed with shock and endless questions.
“Gory?” Jack sat up, stiff as a board. “Gory as in short for Igor? Gory Jack? Igor Baronski?”
Jay and Marcel looked at Jack as if they’d seen a ghost, and they might as well be.
“Wait, wait, hold-hold on a fucking second. Hold on.” Jack tried to slow down his brain. “Is Lev…is-is that some kind of nickname for Lincoln? A blond-haired kid with one blue eye and one brown eye?”
Jay and Marcel nodded in sync before Jay spoke, “You know, Link?”
Silence coated the room for a second until a man’s voice came around the corner. “Sorry, I’m late. I didn't realize what time it was.” He stepped into the world's most tense and quietest room.
It was Link.
The man dressed in tight black joggers and a black t-shirt was definitely Link. The man with ash blonde hair who had an undercut, a man-bun, and a full trimmed beard was definitely Link. The man who had split eyes, blue and brown, was definitely Link. And the man who had a wolf tattoo on his neck and a small tattoo on his bicep that read: Jacked Up.
Was.
Definitely.
Link.
Link looked at Jack’s ghost and froze in the doorway. Jack, however, was able to move. He rose slowly from the couch, his body heavy and drained until he exploded with joy.
“BANANA SPLIT!!!” Jack yelled at the top of his lungs, hurdling over me, the coffee table, and the couch, so fast a gust of wind hit my face. He tackled Link to the ground with all his strength, filling the room with a loud thump and excitement.
“WHAT THE FUCK!!!” Link yelled. “HOLY SHIT!! GORY!”
They stood up fast on their feet. Both of their brains absolutely fried from shock as their mouths tried to compose words which didn’t involve: ‘Holy shit,’ ‘What the fuck,’ and ‘Oh my God.’
Both their faces were identical from their huge smiles and glossy eyes that held unshed tears. Their embrace was brotherly and well overdue, both trying to fight back their emotions (aka, both hiding the need to bawl their eyes out from pure euphoria).
“You were dead. You fucking runaway The Baker’s. They said you most likely died since you still had that dog bite infection. You fucking idiot,” Link yelled, pushing Jack away in frustration.
Jack waddled back to Link, forcing a hug from his baby brother. But not really that baby. Link was massive and could be classified as a Viking from his height and build. Taller than Jack’s six-foot-four height and easily fifty pounds of pure muscle above him as well. Built like an NFL quarterback.
“You fucking dipshit.” Link scolded Jack. “I went back to the Baker’s a month after I left to see you. You weren’t there. You were supposed to be there. They said you most likely died.” Link’s voice cracked.
Jack held Link tighter and softly chuckled. “Come on. I can’t die.”
After their embrace, they both cleared their throats and subtly wiped away their watery eyes to look more macho.
“Shit, you haven't changed at all…but you got more tattoos. A LOT more.” Link checked out Jack.
“You piece of shit. You got a wolf tattoo.” Jack laughed, playfully slapping Link’s neck.
They hugged again and ignored the whole world while Jay, Marcel and I, watched them.
“So, what? You go by Lev now?”
“Only when I don’t know the people. It’s an acronym for my full name.”
Jack and Link had their long brotherly moment until Jay broke the silence. “There's a vacant room down the hall if you guys need more time to jerk each other off.”
Jay earn a well-deserved slap from Marcel again before they got into a heated argument. When the brothers finally realized they weren’t alone, Jack introduced me to Link who gave me the job on the spot. But he still looked through my resume.
“You went to jail for theft?” Link asked.
“Mmmm-I did. I was young, but I don’t steal anymore.” I reassured Link.
“Eh, don’t sweat it. I spent a few nights in jail myself when I was in college for taking my professor’s car for a joy ride or getting a little too drunk or high. Marcel over here, turned into a hardcore nudist when he gets plastered.”
Marcel shrugged and gestured to his body, “Can you blame me? Over twenty-five years of gymnastics right here.”
Linked rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Well, Marcel’s little show-and-tell got him arrested in two cities: New York City and Paris. As for Jay, well, he doesn’t have a record, but in high school, he was the sole distributor for grade-A weed at Van Gage High for four years. Growing and selling..”
Jay defended himself. “Tuition costed an arm and a leg. Not all of us are stupidly rich.”
“How about you, Gory?” Link punched Jack’s arm.
“Jack. Haven't been called Gory since I was fifteen. Even got it legally changed.” Jack smiled showing off his crooked fang.
Link laughed and rolled his eyes. “I should’ve guessed. Okay, then how about you, Jack?”
“Mmmm-I got breaking and entering, joyriding, pickpocketing, urinating in public, smoking weed, pissing on a cop car, stealing a taco truck.” Jack listed his vanilla crimes. “Then finally murder. Just got out of prison about a month and a half ago, which was the same time I met my ex-cellmates sister, Ahri,” Jack said nonchalantly, pulling me close.
The room went silent, but Link didn't look distressed. A small smirk found a place on his face before he questioned. “Murder?”
We spent the whole night talking about our petty crimes, and when it came to Jack’s case. We googled it. I saw Jack’s mug shot for the first time. All teeth and amber stone eyes, looking handsome as fuck.
I shouldn't think that, right?
That night, I heard the fake version of Wallace’s/Jack’s made-up story. It wasn't as good as the original. It made Jack seem like he was deeply in love with the ho Wallace was about to marry, causing him to murder the pool boy. But I listened to Jack’s lie with a smile, knowing that the truth was meant for only me.
The guys weren’t fazed by Jack and his crimes, especially not Link (they had the same dark humor). Link still saw big brother Jack. An overprotective brother who killed for love, which was true, but on a different timeline.
Around three in the morning, we parted ways. I got my job, Jack found his long-lost brother, and we got a case of Gory Jack for the road. We left Jack’s car at Link’s and ordered an Uber since Jack was too tipsy to drive.
“So, let’s see, Ahrianna. You’ve got
the dream job with your own music selection in a year, your dream place, and your dream man. Does that finally mean you’ll say, ‘yes’ to me if I ask again? Say, maybe tomorrow night after I slave over a hot stove and clean and make everything perfect?” Jack pulled on a crooked grin.
I blushed showing my true colors as I moved closer to Jack in the back of the Uber.
“No.” I lied.
“You don't strike me as a liar, Ahrianna Lore, so, watch that pretty little mouth of yours,” Jack growled, giving me a heavy kiss and lip bite. The best combo.
We got out of the car, but when it was this late in the night, we had a little tradition. We lingered at the planter near the street, where Jack told me about his secret life. Jack lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag.
“Let’s see, Jack.” My voice strained as I looked at our home. “You have the penthouse, the clothes, the car, the almost retired life, your long-lost brother, and the dream girl. What’s missing in your picture?”
“Calling my dream girl my wife and having two kids.” Jack’s voice muffled through a cloud of smoke.
I turned around, plucked the cigarette out of his mouth before I dropped it on the ground and stomped it out.
“What’d you do that for?” Jack chuckled through his sentence.
“‘Cause it's not healthy for the babies.” I cocked an eyebrow.
Jack laughed. “I fucked you so good you feel pregnant?”
“No, I am.” I confessed.
Jack responded with a scrunched face.
“Eight weeks.”
Jack’s face got smaller and tighter, “That’s not fucking funny, Ahrianna.”
“I’m not joking. Apparently, you fucked me so good the night you got out of prison that you knocked me up on the first try.” I smiled and shrugged, shattering all of Jack’s cool demeanor in an instant.
I’d found out a few days ago when I went to the doctor and asked about my unusual periods and nausea from heights. Turns out I was just pregnant, and it’s normal to have spotting, especially when you’re expecting twins. So, the babies and I were perfectly healthy.
“Surprise,” I said in a dry voice.
“And-and you let me smoke in front of you?” Jack exclaimed. “You should’ve beaten me with a metal pipe! Oh, my God! Holy shit—God! That’s not the fucking point. I’m going to be a fucking Daddy! A real Daddy! I’ve going to have babies with my baby girl. Holy shit! Baby Jacks! Little spawns!” Jack hugged me tight and spun me around.
“Yeah, your little Jacks were more persistent than you.”
“Oh, my God!” Jack let out a muffled scream in my hair. “I fucking love you so much Ahrianna. Fuck, I adore you. You’re going to give me everything I’ve ever wanted and so much more!” Jack lowered me to the ground and cupped my cheeked, embracing me with a passionate kiss. “I fucking love you so much.” He sniffed. “I’ve never been so happy.”
I wiped a single tear on Jack’s cheek, streaming down his face. This was the first time I had ever seen him cry. My heart throbbed with how much I loved this fucking man and how happy he made me.
I pulled Jack by his collar and stole a kiss. “I love you so much, Jack. Now, you can have your wife.”
JACK
THREE AND A HALF YEARS LATER
“So, Tinks still doesn’t want to have the wedding?” Fidget spoke with his palm pressed against his cheek as he propped his elbow on the metal table. He watched me play with his rock, Wilma, who he named after Fred Flintstone’s wife.
“Yeah,” I growled, my frustration aimed directly at Fidget. “It’s your damn fault, you know. ‘Oh, well, since Luke is coming out in eight-and-a-half-ish years why don’t we just hold off the wedding until then,’” I mocked my wife, loving her to death, but hating how long she was making me wait to see her in a white gown.
Legally, Ahri and I were married. I’d turned her into Ahrianna Naomi Baron a few days after she told me that we were pregnant with our two beautiful identical twin boys, Atlas and Zeke. They’re gorgeous pains in the ass, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be frustrated that we still hadn’t had a proper wedding.
“Oh, I’m sorry that my thirty-five-year sentence was cut down to fifteen years. My bad, Jack.” Fidget’s sarcasm levels were far too similar to his sister’s.
“You’re spending too much damn time with your sister.” I let out a low, threatening growl.
Looking around the visitation room, I spotted the premature dark grey-haired Latino man from across the room still staring at me. He was talking to an older man with the same grey hair as him who must’ve been his father or uncle. But honestly, I didn’t give a fuck who they were. That’s why I dubbed them Young Brazil and Old Brazil.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” I grinned, winked, and blew a kiss at Young Brazil dressed in orange. Again, he said nothing while Old Brazil’s face showed that he had a sense of humor. I shook my head, forcing my way back to Fidget. “Did I mention I fucking hate your new cellmate?” I sighed. “I miss Butterfly Guy.”
“Yeah, you miss him ‘cause you saw him a total of five times and didn’t have to spend the last few years listening to him name all the fucking butterflies in the world. Both scientific and common names. Who the fuck wants to know that? I’ll take the Brazilian mute any day over Mr. Obsessed-with-Butterflies.” Fidget rubbed his face and let out a muffled yell into his palms.
Fidget claimed that Butterfly Guy’s sole purpose in life was to annoy the shit out of him with endless and worthless butterfly facts. On some level, I think Butterfly Guy achieved his purpose.
Fidget had grown up a lot in the past few years. He still had his boyish good looks, but now, he had a body built like mine. He was no longer a slender thing, but now able to take care of himself. By the time he got out of prison, he’ll be jacked. Not Link kind of jacked (Link used to be a pro football player before he fucked up his back), but Marcel kind of jacked.
Fidget had also grown out his hair, going past his collarbone, to successfully pull off the glorious man bun. It officially made him look like a surfer with his sandy, wild beach waves. But Fidget wanted to be in the same loop as all the other twenty-four-year-old guys, regardless if the only people who saw him were Ahri or me. Atlas and Zeke were going to meet their uncle one day, but they’d just turned three a few months ago in May. We were going to wait until they turned five to see Uncle Fidgy.
Fidget rolled up his sleeves to his shoulders, showing off more of his muscular arms. He looked like a Flamin’ Hot Cheeto, but, of course, Fidget looking hot wasn’t brand new information. His permanent nickname at Tavernville was Pretty Boy for a reason. Everyone who was anyone knew Pretty Boy and his reputation which made Fidget untouchable.
Pretty Boy the Smuggler.
At this point, I would like to toot my own horn and say that I made Fidget the prince of Tavernville. I would call him a king, but that title was still mine. I got Fidget a job in the kitchen, introduced him to Blue, who then taught Fidget his smuggling ways. Unfortunately, Fidget got his low-key, high-praised secret job because Blue passed away.
Rest in peace, Blue.
If any prisoner needed a porno mag, a pack of cigarettes, or a fucking watch to tell time. Fidget was the man. He smuggled a few items each week through the groceries, but he never smuggled high-alert items that would reverse his sentence back to thirty-five years.
Fuck that shit.
Fidget was smart.
I found myself staring at Young Brazil as I dug my nail into Wilma. There was something about the man I didn’t like. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but he rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the tattoos he tried to hide with his white long sleeve shirt under his orange attire, or maybe it was because of his calm demeanor which was obviously a disguise. The guy looked unstable, filled with darkness lurking all over his exterior and interior.
“What’s Young Brazil’s name again?” I asked, clenching my jaw while still staring him down as he spoke to Old Brazil. They were on
ly an inch away from each other as Young Brazil did most of the whispering in Portuguese, I could only assume.
Old Brazil was the only person Young Brazil ever talked to. He’d been at Tavernville for a month or so and hadn’t spoken a word to Fidget or anyone else. He spoke once on accident in his sleep, muttering some girls name. Or at least that’s what Fidget told me.
I told Fidget, Young Brazil wasn’t worth it, but Fidget was determined to befriend him. Why? Because Fidget wanted to be friends with everyone like we were in Barney’s fucking world. The thing was, they were going to become friends whether Young Brazil wanted to or not. That was Fidget’s superpower. Forcing people to talk and becoming best friends with them (minus the people who pissed him off, aka, Butterfly Guy).
“Antonio Castillo.” Fidget waved at his cellmate, who ignored him like he didn’t exist and went back to Old Brazil. “I like him.”
I don’t.
“You just like the chase.” I reminded Fidget.
He shrugged. “Give me a few months, and I’ll break him like I broke you. We’ll be besties by the time he leaves.” Fidget laughed.
I didn’t argue with that fact, because it was exactly that, an inevitable fact.
“So, five years?”
“Yep, five years for not having a permit on the gun he was carrying.”
“Dumbass,” I muttered under my breath.
Young Brazil must’ve had supersonic hearing because he slowly turned his head toward me in the eeriest way possible. We held each others glare until Fidget let out an exaggerated sighed, “Are you going to eye fuck my new cellmate all day or are you going to spend time with the real reason you drove six hours to be here, Jack.” Fidget pointed to himself.
Cocky little prick.
I laughed. “Didn’t drive. I got one of Emmy’s drivers to pamper me today. I would’ve fallen asleep at the wheel and driven into a ditch if I had.” I chuckled, but it was true. I slept the whole six hours while getting here with Ahri’s special road trip playlist playing in the background.
Fidget looked at my dark circles and gave me a fake pout before he said in a baby voice, “I wove you, Jacky.”