Justify - Trent (Kimball Brothers #2)

by Aubrey Watts

  I roll my eyes. I ain’t a particularly smart man, but I know enough to know that the kids Oedipus complex would make Freud proud. “You know,” I say, changing the subject, “you can’t go around believing every iota of information you hear bagging groceries.”

  “Ha, bullshit,” Cain bites back, narrowing his eyes at me, “everyone knows what you did. I saw your truck at the station on my way to work. I bet you didn’t mention that to my mom, huh?”

  I shrug, stretching my arms. “Nope, because it wasn’t fuckin’ relevant. I’m not in jail right now, and you know why? Because they don’t have anything on me.”

  Cain shrugs and ignores me, focusing on the TV.

  “What is this shit, anyway?” I question, waving a hand at the screen, “aren’t you a little old for cartoons?”

  “I don’t know, Trent—aren’t you a little young to be fucking my mother?”

  “Three years,” I remind him, lighting another one of Melissa’s cloves and resting my feet on the coffee table, “we went to high school together, so it ain’t like your ma’s exactly robbing the cradle.”

  Cain grunts but doesn’t say anything.

  “What are they saying, anyway?” I question, cracking my fingers, “if it ain’t too much of a hassle for you to share, that is.”

  “Oh, not much.” Cain’s tone is laced with sarcasm. “Just that you got pissfaced and raped your sister—whether or not you realized it was your sister, well, the jury is still out on that one.” He gives me a leering glare and smiles tightly.

  I’m tempted to sock the little shit in the jaw but I don’t. He’s never had any respect; a fact Melissa chalks up to him not having a father. I stand up and step out onto the front porch for some air, allowing the screen door to slam shut behind me.

  Of course, it ain’t much of a surprise that Macon is outside waiting for me; pressed against our fathers beat up Ford with his back turned away from me and his phone to his ear.

  I feel my own vibrate against my leg and I exhale a slow sigh.

  He hears it and turns around to face me—hanging up and pacing toward me like a damn bull going in for a kill.

  “Macon…” I start, holding up my hands, “look bro—”

  I’m pulled off the porch and shoved onto the ground before I can finish my sentence.

  Macon shoves a calloused finger in my face and holds me tightly by the collar. “Why?” he spits, furrowing his brows, “why did you fucking do it?”

  Sheer adrenaline pulses through me; but this isn’t a fight I want to have. I clench my jaw and force him off of me. “I didn’t,” I answer as evenly as I can manage, “you’ve got it wrong, everyone does!”

  I pull myself back up, dusting the dirt off my jeans. We’re face-to-face now. “Do you have any fuckin’ idea of the kind of hell I’ve been through this morning?”

  The vein on his forehead pulsates. He clenches his fists, contemplating his next move. Then, he chuckles—slow and stoically—catching me entirely off guard. He starts to turn toward the truck as though to leave, but he’s back on top of me in a flash.

  It’s a dirty move—one that sure as shit wouldn’t fly in a ring.

  I’m met with a sharp fist to the face that damn near rocks my teeth. I thrash beneath him, getting in a few good hits of my own, but he doesn’t relent. Blood; I can taste it, leaking from my gums. I grip my chin in one hand, hurling him up off of me with the other.

  “Do you really want to do this?” I spit, holding him at a distance. “We’re fuckin’ blood. You know me. How can you believe this shit? Jesus Christ…”

  “She said you did it!”

  “Well she’s wrong!” I yell back, “dead fuckin’ wrong!”

  I push away from him, staggering backwards toward the front steps.

  Cain is perched on the railing, smoking a clove with an amused look on his face. Big fucking surprise there.

  “Go inside,” I say, snatching it from between his fingers. He tries to take it back but I push him toward the door. “Now, or I call your ma’ and tell her.”

  Cain rolls his eyes and sulks back into the house.

  I spit a wad of blood onto the ground, rubbing it into the dirt with the heel of my boot and working a kink out of my neck.

  Macon is still seething—pacing back and fourth across the grass. “Why would she lie?” he demands, meeting eyes with me, “what kind of sense does that make? Explain it to me.”

  I pull at my hair, taking a drag of the clove. “I don’t know,” I say, keeping my distance from him. “All I know is, she’s got it wrong. I didn’t do this, man. You’ve got to believe me. I ain’t some belligerent drunk like dad. I might have been drinking that night but I remember everything I did. Alma wasn’t even talkin’ a few days ago, now she’s pointing fingers at me? Why because I’m such an easy target?”

  Macon waves a hand at me and hunches against the truck. “She described you. Gold tooth, chewing tobacco…”

  I shake my head. “Are you fuckin’ kidding?”

  “Are you saying those are the only two identifiers she has?”

  Now I’m pissed.

  “Do you know how many motherfuckers there are running around Guthrie with capped teeth? This is a fighting town; you know that just as well as I do. And the chewing tobacco? Come on, man.”

  I flick the smoke, stepping on the butt. “Look this is one sad thing that happened to Alm’s, and I’m just as pissed as you are, but I don’t like bein’ accused of something I didn’t do; especially something like this.”

  Macon crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “Seems like one hell of a coincidence,” he says flatly.

  I nod, pacing toward my truck and unlocking it. “Maybe,” I say over my shoulder, “but I don’t care how it seems. I know the truth, and you know what? I’m going to find the guy who did this, and when I do, you’re all going to eat your words.”

  Chapter 4

  Guthrie ain’t a pretty town by any stretch of the imagination. Sometimes when I’m driving around it, going in circles to nowhere in particular, I wonder why I don’t just turn onto the freeway and leave. Macon did it. I could too.

  We’re different though—maybe somewhat alike when it comes to aesthetics, but different all the same. He’s got noble blood pumping through him, always has. I’m just a piece of shit that can’t seem to stay out of trouble.

  I pull into the field and park. There’s trash everywhere—crushed beer cans, liquor bottles and condom wrappers—remnants of the bonfire from a few nights prior.

  I remember going to them in high school; long before Alma and Adam were born. Macon, Griff and I would sneak out of the house after our parents retired for the night, and we’d come here and court girls behind the brush. We were never one of the lucky shits who had cars given to us by our parents, so we made due with what we had.

  The thought of Alma here makes my blood boil; it’s hypocritical, sure, but the idea of my baby sister—barely on the edge of seventeen—getting caught up in the same hedonistic bullshit that led to my own downfall grates away at me.

  I remember seeing girls getting roofied and led into parked cars without their consent and not thinking much of it. That kind of behavior became normal it happened so often. But more than anything—I remember never doing anything about it.

  I sigh and kick my way through the grass, avoiding the trash. I’m not sure what I’m looking for here, but after driving around all morning with nothing to work with, it seemed as good a place as any to start.

  Alma was here that night; I can picture her sneaking out of the house just after midnight, long after our parents go to sleep, scantily dressed and thinking the world can do her no harm. It always seems like that at that age.

  Maybe she met up with her friends first, or maybe she walked here alone, letting the music pouring from some kids shitty sound system lead the way. I try to visualize her every move, wanting to piece it all together, but I don’t have much of anything to work with.

  If anyone sa
w me here, I know how it would look—like a perp heading back to the scene of the crime to cover his tracks. But things can’t be much worse than they already are.

  I make my way through a stretch of trees that spit out onto the dirt road Alma was said to have taken home. This is where it happened, right off on the side, in an old storm drain that you can’t quite see unless you’re looking for it. I exhale a deep breath and ease myself into it, digging my nails into the grass.

  There’s nothing in particular here that jumps out at me; just some broken glass and other pieces of trash; but if you’re going to rape an intoxicated girl stumbling her way home in the dead of night, it certainly offers a layer of isolation.

  I pat the pocket of my jacket for my chewing tobacco and pop a wad into my mouth, not considering the irony. It helps me relax; always has.

  “Shit,” I yell, jumping when a mouse runs by in my peripherals.

  I stumble slightly and that’s when I spot it—a gold chain lying in a shallow puddle of water. I pick it up and dry it off with my shirt, climbing out of the ditch to examine it in the light.

  There’s a familiar pendant attached to it; a tiny raised fist with the word ‘Triumph’ beneath it and the initials J.R. carved into the back.

  I swallow the burning coil in my throat, closing my eyes as rage simmers through my body. I’ve never been one to believe much in coincidences.

  Especially not one like this.

  * * *

  Triumph MMA is a dingy building smack dab in the middle of a desolate shopping center. It ain’t much on the outside, but inside, you’ll find a handful of the strongest men Guthrie has to offer.

  I enter the building and nod at Chuck, the owner of the place, a meaty son of a bitch with a resting jerk face and a sense of humor that can be best described as ‘highly inappropriate.’

  “Trent!” he bellows, abandoning the guy he’s helping dead lift and stomping toward me. “Holy shit! Nice to see you man, where you been? Getting lots of tail I hope…”

  I roll my eyes at him and smile, surveying the small gym for the man I came here looking for. “Not too bad,” I say, “hey, you hear anything about me around town?”

  Chuck shrugs and raises an eyebrow. “No, why? Should I have?”

  “No,” I lie, feeling for the chain in my pocket, “look, I’m looking for Joaquin. Have you seen him lately? I need to have a few words with him.”

  Chuck goes quiet and is as white as a sheet. I frown at him, nudging him in the shoulder. “What man?”

  He rubs the back of his neck and shifts on his feet, making his way behind the desk in the front of the gym. “Uh, here,” he says, handing me a piece of paper and nodding at it.

  I glance down at it, giving it a quick read. It’s a termination letter with Joaquin’s name written at the top in bright red marker.

  “We had to drop him,” Chuck says, holding up a hand to a guy calling his name from the ring. “His attitude was getting real shitty, he wasn’t winning any fights, and he was starting lots of shit with other guys…”

  I frown. “Wasn’t he one of your best fighters?”

  Chuck nods. “Well, yeah,” he says, “but that don’t mean we’re required to put up with his shit, you know? He was turning into a real diva; we had to cut him loose. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here because I wanted to talk to you about something—”

  The guy in the ring calls his name again.

  “Hold the fuck on!” Chuck yells at him, “keep warming up, I’ll be over in a second!”

  “Anyway,” he continues, turning back to me, “it’s kind of funny that you’re here because Billy and I were kind of hoping you’d come back and fill his spot. You’re just as good a fighter as he was, if not better—what do you say?”

  “Uh,” I start, taken off guard, “I don’t know, man, I’d have to think about it. I’m kind of going through some shit right now…”

  “Yeah?” Chuck says, holding up his hands, “well no pressure, I feel ya. Just think about it and get back to me. You know there’s always a place for you here.”

  He crosses the room and enters the ring before I can form a response.

  I glance at the piece of paper in my hands for a forwarding address for Joaquin, and sure enough, there’s one written on the top just below his name.

  “I’ll catch you later,” I yell at Chuck, folding the paper and sticking it in my pocket.

  Everything’s coming into focus.

  * * *

  I’m halfway to Joaquin’s when my cell vibrates against my leg. I ease it out of the pocket of my jeans and answer. “Yeah?”

  It’s Melissa.

  “Hey,” she breathes, “I’m on lunch—you got a second?”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I speak up, remembering that she can’t see me.

  “I just wanted to see if you were okay…Cain called me earlier and said your brother…”

  I sigh. Of course he did.

  The little shit is anything if not predictable.

  “I’m fine,” I interrupt, reaching forward to turn off the radio and continuing down the road, “It was just a little misunderstanding. Seems like my mornings been filled with em’.”

  I can hear Melissa chewing, eating whatever she packed herself for lunch. “Well as long as you’re alright,” she says, “you know I worry about you, T.”

  “I know. You shouldn’t though. I’m just fine.”

  There’s a brief pause, then, “you promise?”

  “Yeah…” I trail off, “I promise.”

  I pull the chain from my pocket and examine it once more, running my finger over the pendant.

  “Hey,” I say, changing the subject, “what do you know about Joaquin Rae? Anything new?”

  “Uh,” Melissa says, thinking it over, “he came in here a few nights ago, actually—why?”

  “Wait what?” I sit up straighter, pulling off onto the side of the road, “When was it? And what was wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know…” Melissa says, “I didn’t treat him. Hold on, I’ll look at the charts.”

  There’s a rustling noise on the line, then the sound of footsteps and a drawer sliding open. “Ok, here it is,” she says, “It says he came in last Friday; he was treated for a laceration to the face…just a few stitches. He said he got into a bar fight.”

  I remember the broken glass in the storm drain and swallow hard. “That’s what he said? That he got into a bar fight?”

  “Yeah,” Melissa says, “why? What’s with the fascination with Joaquin?”

  “Uh,” I start, contemplating whether or not I should tell her. “Look, I can’t get into it right now. I promise I’ll come by when your shift is over and we’ll talk…”

  I end the call and power my phone off before she can interject, stuffing it back in my pocket. Then, I continue down the road toward Joaquin’s.

  Chapter 5

  Joaquin Rae has been a thorn in my ass since secondary school.

  I pull into the dusty trailer park he calls home and park in front of the address on the paper. His shitty little firebird is parked out front, as clear an indicator as any that he’s here.

  “Joaquin,” I yell, banging on his door, “open up.”

  The window is cracked and I hear a deep groan from inside, followed by footsteps.

  I tackle him to the ground the second the door opens, shutting it with the back of my boot.

  A half naked woman with track marks up and down her emaciated arms squeals and runs into the tiny bedroom across the hall, slamming the door shut behind her. The entire place reeks of sex, pot and booze.

  “What the fuck—” Joaquin starts.

  I put him in a headlock before he can finish his sentence, forcing his mouth open with my free hand. Sure enough, a gold capped tooth stares back at me.

  “It was you,” I spit, digging my nails into his flesh as he struggles beneath me.

  His face drains of color and I ease up slightly on his throat.

  “Say it,” I demand
; I dangle the chain in front of his bulging eyes, “I want to hear you admit that it was you.”

  Joaquin coughs and phlegm flies from his mouth, making contact with my flesh. “I ain’t admitting shit,” he retorts, twisting his body beneath mine.

  It’s no use though. I haven’t trained in years and I’ve still got him beat. I deliver a well-angled uppercut to his jaw that takes him momentarily off guard. “You will,” I bite back, “because I don’t think you’ll much like the alternative.”

  Joaquin chuckles.

  I punch him again, feeling the cartilage in his nose crack beneath my knuckles. Blood starts to trickle from each one of his nostrils.

  He clenches his jaw and refuses to relent.

  “Fuckin’ say it!”

  He laughs again, slow and stoically.

  That’s all it takes; I stuff the chain back into my pocket and unleash hell on him, angling each one of my hits for the greatest impact.

  What’s left of him when I’m done is a bloody, bruised, half naked shell of a man.

  “Alright!” he yells, coughing blood. “Yeah, I did it, so what? Who’s going to believe you?”

  I pull myself to my feet and deliver a sharp kick to his gut.

  He curls into a ball and holds up his hands. “Stop! Jesus, I fuckin’ told you! You mother fucker!”

  “No,” I say, grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to look at me, “I want you to tell me why, then I want you to get in my truck and accompany me to the police station, where you’ll tell the cops.”

  Joaquin laughs. “Yeah fuckin’ right.”

  I punch him again, this time making contact with his temple. His eyes flutter shut. For a minute, I think I might have knocked him out cold, but he regains his composure.

  “Well?” I say, lifting his head from the ground.

  Joaquin’s old lady—now fully dressed—tries to tackle me, begging for me to stop, but I shake her off without effort.

  “Sweetheart,” I say, turning to look at her, “your charming boyfriend raped my little sister. If I were you, I’d hightail it the fuck out of here.”