Steaming cabbage rolls and mashed potatoes are on the table, a two-liter bottle of ginger ale the centerpiece. I call downstairs, the intermediary, thinking my dad should eat at the table since my mom went through all this trouble.
“Dad, come up and eat.”
“Bring it down here!” he yells.
My mom flaps her hand not to worry and fixes him a plate. “I’ll be right there,” she says. “It’ll be fun to watch the game with the three of you.” She compromises, as always.
Sean and I grab our plates and head downstairs, passing family portraits and school photos on the walls. My brother and I look wholesome in our dinosaur T-shirts, sporting Frankie Muniz haircuts from when our favorite show was Malcolm in the Middle. Jake’s crooked bottom tooth and the small gap between my top front teeth show in every photo.
“Why didn’t I get braces?” I ask my dad, setting my plate and Batman cup on a tray next to the recliner. I feel like I’m twelve again, asking why we don’t have a pool.
“You want braces? I’ll get you braces,” he says.
“No. Why didn’t I get them when I was a kid?” I scoop a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth. They’re perfect: lumpy, with a touch of garlic and overloaded with salt.
“Get what?” My mom places my dad’s plate on his lap and kisses the top of his head.
“Braces,” I say.
“You have beautiful teeth. Why do you want braces?” She sits in the chair next to me.
“I’ll get you braces if you want them,” my dad says.
“I’m not getting braces when I’m twenty-two. It was just a question.” I sound like a child, rambling about braces because I’m mad about Jake’s death. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just tired.”
My mom gives my hand a loving squeeze. “Why don’t you come over more often? Let’s do this again next Sunday. And we should go to lunch this week. I want to make sure you’re eating.”
“You’re the one who needs to eat.” I nod at her bony hand.
“Hey”—my dad spanks my leg—“don’t start.”
My mom hides her hands in her lap and changes the subject. “I heard about the poem that girl wrote you. Did you ever call her?”
I’m in no mood for a lengthy conversation about Autumn. Questions about what she looks like, or ones I can’t answer, like about her job, education, where she lives, if she was the girl my mom heard in the background over the phone, or worse—questions about her family. I’m still reeling over that surprise blow about her dad.
“Yeah, I left her a message and a text yesterday,” is all I say, which is true. I did. I wanted to know if she was setting me up. Her one-word text response was no, and that’s all I’ve heard.
“Now that we’re all here…” My dad wipes his fingers on his napkin and mutes the TV. Whatever he’s about to say is big. Muting the TV is always big.
He turns to me and points a finger.
Here it comes.
“Dylan… what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What?”
“Did you break into the Andersons’ house last weekend?”
“Shit.” I slam my fork on the TV tray. “Why’d Ed have to tell you that?”
“Because he’s my best friend.” My dad jumps down my throat. “He wants to keep you out of trouble. You’re lucky Sean had second thoughts and called him for help.”
Sean shrinks in his recliner.
“It wasn’t a break-in. I had a key.” That rationalization is a stretch. “I’m not giving up on Heather’s note. She wrote it for me, why the hell can’t I read it?”
My mom rubs my arm. “We don’t blame you for being upset, but you have to get Heather’s note in another way.”
“I’ve asked. I’ve been polite. Lona and Joel won’t budge. Ed’s read it, and he won’t budge either. He won’t even tell Dad what it said.”
“We’re talking about you, not Ed.” He smacks me upside the back of my head. “I don’t even know what to say about this. What’s your mom and I supposed to do? Either let us help you, or go talk to a shrink.”
“I don’t need a shrink. I need her note.”
“Enough!” He slams his fist on the arm of the recliner. “Never again, Dylan. Get it out of your head.”
“I can’t.” I lower my chin to my chest and stare at the floor. “How can anyone expect me to survive this?”
“Pete, Ed shouldn’t have mentioned this to us.” My mom comes to my defense. “Dylan’s an adult and can handle this on his own.”
“Wrong,” my dad says. “Ed put his job on the line for him. He was supposed to file a report. Dylan should’ve been arrested.”
Sean shrinks lower into his chair.
“The Andersons will press charges next time,” he adds.
“There won’t be a next time.” I sound defeated as I lie. “I was drunk. It won’t happen again.” The light from the TV stretches along the floor, stopping at my feet. “Sorry.”
“Me too,” Sean says, his voice muffled through the Batman cup.
I crack a smile at how young he looks with that goofy cup up to his boyish face, the top of his round cheeks and brown eyes peeping over the rim.
“Was that the first time you went in there?” my mom asks.
I pretend not to hear her, rubbing the back of my neck, stressed out, spitting venom about the Andersons. My last option to find out what Heather wrote is through Ed, and he’ll never tell me.
“What’s stuck up Ed’s ass?” I push my plate away and take out a cigarette, bouncing it up and down in my mouth. I’m impatient for answers, talking under my breath about breaking back into the Andersons’ house. I might even do it tonight.
“Dylan,” my mom takes my hand, “focus on what you do best and you’ll be fine. I promise.”
“I don’t know what that is anymore.”
“The bar,” she says. “Running the bar.”
“I can run the damn bar with my eyes closed, but Dad won’t let me.”
“Pardon?” He shifts in the recliner to look at me. “Is that what you want?”
“If I’m going to own it someday, yeah.” I bob the cigarette. “I can take over any day.”
“Fine, big shot. Let’s go. Take that cigarette outside and let’s talk this out.” He slaps my leg and picks up his plate. “Kathy, you want seconds while I’m up? Sean?”
My mom has barely touched her food. “No, but bring the ginger ale when you come back down.”
She doesn’t pass up the chance to put on the weather channel now that my dad is leaving. Sean takes the seat next to her, handing me his plate for more.
“Sean, don’t put any moves on my mom while I’m gone.”
“Can’t make any promises.” He puts his arm around her. “Have fun getting your butt kicked by your dad.”
• • •
My dad’s other side—the hard-nosed businessman who swears more in one conversation than I do in a week—is about to surface. And tactfully, he spares my mom from having to hear it. “Let’s go outside and talk this out” is what he’s been saying to me since I was a kid.
I follow him upstairs and slide into his boots next to the back door, then head outside. The sound of traffic and the smell of car exhaust are dense in the night air. I light my cigarette, making him wait until I take a couple of drags before I share.
“What the hell is wrong with you lately? What’s with the piss-poor attitude? Ed said Joel Anderson’s office was demolished like a goddamn bomb went off inside. What happened in there?”
“I got angry, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. You’re going to ruin your life.” His voice climbs. “And what’s this bullshit about running the bar with your eyes closed? Show me some respect.”
“I respect you.”
“No. No, you don’t, Dylan. You’re acting like a smart-ass, an arrogant smart-ass. We raised you better than this. Since when are you the big-shot bar owner who thinks he
can get away with murder? Seriously, you have no clue what you’re getting yourself into, running a business by yourself. No clue!”
“I went to school. I know what I’m doing.” I tap my chest.
“College.” He laughs. “My education came from listening to my dad and getting my hands dirty. You need to do the same. I’m warning you. You’d better listen to me. You hear?”
I look down at my feet, cursing a few times before I nod.
He sweeps snow off the deck railing, uncovering the spot where Jake and I carved our names into the wood. “I can’t lose you.” He touches Jake’s name. “Don’t break my heart by getting arrested and thrown in jail.”
“I won’t.”
“Stay with your mom and me. Don’t destroy your life over a note. Just call us next time you want to break into the Andersons’. One of us will help you get through the hurt.”
I offer another nod.
“I’ll take your mind off it. We can do something absurd, like go bowling.”
“Or play pool.” I smile.
“Right.” He pats my shoulder. “And Dylan, don’t be so hard on Ed. He’ll be at the bar on Tuesday. Make sure you apologize when you see him.”
My smile dies. “Apologize?”
“Yes. Apologize for being a pest, and thank him for everything he does for us, and the bar.”
“What?”
He looks back at the house, seeing if my mom is upstairs before sneaking a drag of my smoke. He’s been trying to quit for years, not carrying any on him, but never passing one up when offered.
“You’re a great son,” he says.
“Sometimes. What about the bar?”
He gives back the cigarette and puts his hands on the railing, outlining each letter of Jake’s name with his finger. “Did I ever tell you about the time my dad got arrested?”
“Grandpa Dayne? No. For what?”
“He got in a fight with a guy who broke the front windows of the bar.”
“Oh, yeah? Did the guy get booted for not paying, or what?”
“No, Grandpa Dayne was the one who wasn’t paying.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m talking about property damage and other ways gangs in the neighborhood intimidate business owners. You buy up, and your business stays intact.”
“Protection money. I’ve heard of it, but I didn’t know he went through that.”
He tilts his head back and exhales toward the night sky. “We all do.”
The wind steals my ash and swirls it through the yard. I lower my shoulders. “Are you saying we pay off gangs, so they don’t damage the bar?”
“No. I pay the cops for protection from the gangs.”
“What?”
“I pay the cops to check the business when it’s closed, to turn the other cheek when I take matters into my own hands. And if I don’t, they know it means I’m paying the gangs instead. Then they turn a blind eye when any rotten behavior takes place at the bar, like broken windows. It’s one or the other. Pay the gangs or the cops. The cost of doing business.”
“Cops have a job to protect us, whether we pay them or not.”
“No, not just any cop. Ed has a job to watch over us, and I’m grateful it’s him.”
“That’s total bullshit. I thought he was your best friend.” I flick my cig into the yard and run my hands down my face. “He has hold of everyone, doesn’t he?”
My dad grabs my hoodie sleeve and pulls me closer, putting both hands on my shoulders. “If you want more responsibility in this business, then thank him on Tuesday as I asked. Thank him for showing up at the Andersons’ house. Then you can give him the money we owe for this month, along with a bonus for not taking you down to the station. This is your next step in running the bar.”
“Ed’s not getting a dime.” I turn around, hearing the back door slide open.
“Everything all right?” my mom asks. “You’re missing the game.”
“Just having a man to man about staying out of trouble,” my dad says.
“Well … the weather channel showed sun this coming Thursday. Isn’t that great? Something to look forward to.” She claps and flashes a smile.
“That’s great, Mom. We’ll be right in.”
She slides the door shut and waits for us in the kitchen, holding up a box of sponge candy to tempt us back inside.
“Does Mom know?” I ask.
“We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“Just from me. Right?”
“Dylan, you’ve only been with me at the bar for a year. I didn’t think you were ready.”
“You can at least admit that it’s wrong.”
“It’s life. Get used to it,” he says.
“No, not if it’s Ed.”
He crosses his arms and looks out over the yard. “Are you still with me in this business, or not?”
I press my lips together and breathe through my nose, not answering him right away. Ed’s menacing shadow closing in on my family is humiliating. I’d have no guilt throwing a punch at him now.
My cell vibrates as I take this all in. I check the screen and see a text from Autumn, her message covering Heather’s photo, pushing the past out of sight.
Hey, babe. Thinking about you.
“Is something more important than this conversation?” My dad waves his hand in front of my face.
“No.” I put my cell away. “I’m not happy about this, about any of it, but I’m always with you, Dad. Always. That will never change.”
“Good. Good to hear.” He lifts me into a bear hug and pats my back. “I love you so much, Dylan.”
“Love you, too, even though you have a dipshit friend.”
He sets me down and pivots on his heel to go inside. “My dipshit friend risked his job for my dipshit son.”
“Oh, yeah?” I start to follow. “Your dipshit friend saved your dipshit son so the dad of the dipshit son would continue to pay the dipshit.”
He laughs and playfully pushes me inside. “All right, you win that one. Let’s finish watching the game. I’ll give you more details later.”
“I’ll be down in a couple of minutes. I need to talk to someone first. Make sure Sean doesn’t eat all the sponge candy.”
“You snooze, you lose.” He takes a piece from the box and kisses my mom on the cheek. “Did you say sun on Thursday, darling?”
I wait for them to head into the basement before pulling out my cell.
I could send Autumn a weak response and tell her I’m also thinking about her, or give up the sweet guy persona and tell her a few places I’d like to put my tongue. I think she needs some tongue. Definitely, she deserves a tongue response. I’ve been thinking about her nipple pasties and our kiss, walking around with a rod in my jeans for days.
I smile at her text and respond like a horny teen…
14
I untie the sash of Autumn’s knee-length robe and drop it over her slender shoulders, admiring the size of her breasts. “Don’t speak,” I request, moving in like I’m about to dish out a kiss, only to dip low and breathe down her neck in a sensuous tease. She moans as I continue across her chest, her hands on my hips, head tilting to expose her slim neck for more play.
“Please,” she begs for a kiss.
I look into her eyes, keeping my breathing steady. “Tell me again you can wait until Friday.”
She shakes her head and leans in, but I cover her mouth to block her lips from meeting mine. “Can you? Can you wait until Friday for it?” I glide her hand over the swell in my jeans. “Feel this?” I whisper, brushing my thumb on her cheek. “That’s what you do to me, Autumn. That’s all because of you.”
• • •
I’d like to believe I’m not a manwhore. Except I’d still be sitting in my truck outside Autumn’s loft, fantasizing about making out with her, if my vibrating cell hadn’t pulled me back to reality.
It’s her. Without
a doubt, she wants to know why I’m late.
“Hey,” I answer, looking up at the warm glow radiating from her second-story windows, coating the parking lot in pale yellow and orange color.
“Babe, what are you doing? I can see you sitting in your truck.” She moves closer to the window and waves. “Are you afraid to come inside?”
“Of course not.” I wave back.
“Oh. Did you forget the butter?”
“Nope.” I step out of my Silverado, raising the stick in the air.
“So what are you doing? You parked like, ten minutes ago.”
“Thinking.”
“Good grief. Stop doing that. Thinking’s bad for your brain.”
My laughter quickly breaks into a naughty snicker. “Maybe if you hadn’t stripped in my bed, I wouldn’t be ‘thinking.’ ” I throw “finger quotes” at her.
“I doubt that.”
“True. But you know, getting lost in a daydream about you isn’t bad for my brain.”
She scans the parking lot, pulling her loose hanging nightshirt up over her shoulder. “Are you positive you can control yourself tonight? I’m not ready to go all the way just yet. Like, the other night I was only fooling around. I knew you’d play nice, but now…”
I look up with an innocent smile, crossing my heart with the stick of butter. “Promise. No sex tonight.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?” she asks.
“No. Cross my heart. No dying.”
She nods. “Come to the front door. I’ll buzz you in.” The glow in the parking lot disappears when she lowers her blinds.
I lock my truck and head to the front of her building. It’s an old brick warehouse converted into lofts, smack dab in the thick of the city, with the courthouse, sheriff’s department, and FBI offices a block away, and the police commissioner’s office across the street inside city hall. A definite step up from the run-down house I bought for sixty grand, my house payment less than a rental.
I stride up to her front door, hold the handle, and wait for her to buzz me in. I listen for a minute, rolling the butter in my pocket, hearing snow crunching under someone’s feet along the sidewalk behind me. The crisp footfalls change direction and move up the walk to the building. The pace picks up as the person dashes toward the door. Before I can turn around, a knife slides against the front of my neck, and someone grips and twists my hair.
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