by R. R. Banks
He takes a step forward and his hands curl into fists at his sides. His face is literally inches from mine, and I swear I can just about get drunk off the fumes wafting out of his mouth. I'm half-convinced that if I lit a match, he'd explode.
“Keep talkin', asshole,” Clyde growls.
“What do you want me to say?”
“You stole my sister's virtue and ruined her reputation,” he hisses. “And put it all out there for the whole fuckin' world to see.”
Even drunk, he's still quick. His fist catches me in the side of the head, but it's a glancing blow. I stagger back and shake my head. Clyde gives me a menacing look and I'm sure if he had a gun with him, he would have put about a thousand bullets in me right then and there. Thankfully, he doesn't have a gun. That's a win for me.
With an animalistic growl, he rushes me, but I'm ready for him. He's quick, but clumsy and drunk, and I'm able to easily sidestep him as he passes and deliver a shot straight to his jaw. My fist hitting him makes a loud pop – it sounds like a baseball hitting a leather mitt – and he staggers, dropping to his hands and knees.
“Stay down, Clyde,” I say. “You really don't want to do this.”
“The hell I don't,” he grumbles as he gets to his feet.
I let out a long breath and steady myself as he charges again. When he gets close enough, I drive my fist forward. The crack of my fist meeting his nose sounds like a gunshot and blood begins to roll down his face.
“You motherfucker!”
His voice is nasally with a sudden lisp, no doubt from the busted nose and subsequent mouthful of blood. The idiot rushes towards me again and I punch him square in the nose. Clyde howls in pain and clutches his nose, blood seeping out from his fingers.
I feel hands grabbing me from behind. Clyde's buddies. Their hands are like iron shackles on my arms and though I struggle fiercely, I can't quite break free.
“Hold him,” Clyde slurs.
He steps forward and drives his fist towards me. When his fist connects to my face, there is an explosion of pain in my head and a burst of bright light behind my eyes. I try to break free from my captors, but their vice-like hands hold me fast. My mouth fills with blood as Clyde lands another shot. The air is driven from my lungs a few seconds later when he lands a couple of shots to my stomach.
Even drunk, he is as strong as a damn ox. If I can't get away from the guys holding me, this is going to get ugly real fast.
I fling myself backward as hard and fast as I can. It's a move that catches the two guys by surprise, and all three of us are launched backward, landing on our butts. Their grip on me finally loosens, thankfully, and I quickly scamper to my feet. One of the guys starts to rise, so I lash out, sending a vicious kick to the side of his face. He falls to the ground, motionless.
I spin around and deliver a solid punch to the face of the second guy. He falls flat on his back, clutching his mouth as blood pours out of the wound. Clyde's fist catches me in the small of my back and I stagger forward, the breath leaving my body in a forced whoosh.
My breath ragged, I turn back around to face him. A car screeches to a stop at the curb, the red and blue lights on top pulsing and strobing. They're making my head hurt more than it already does. Sheriff Burns steps out of the car, a hard, angry look on his face. He's a no-nonsense man and definitely not someone to be trifled with. He's stern, but fair. He's always reminded me of one of those old gunslingers from the Old West. Somebody like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter or something.
“What the hell is goin' on here, boys?” Burns asks.
“Nothin' Sheriff,” Clyde grunts.
He looks from Clyde, over to me, and then to the two guys on the ground – with the first one still passed out cold. All of us have blood splattered on our faces and look like we’ve gone ten rounds with a heavyweight. Yeah, there’s nothing going on here.
“Doesn't look like nothin' to me son,” he says.
“Just a little disagreement, Sheriff,” I say.
“Three-on-one,” he says. “I'd say that's more than a little disagreement.”
“It's fine,” I say. “We're done here.”
“Like hell we are, Sheridan,” Clyde fumes. “We're just gettin' –”
“No, you're done,” Burns snaps, and we all fall silent. “All of you. Clyde, you and your buddies walk away. And I mean walk. If I see your drunk ass get behind the wheel of that truck, I'll run your asses in. You best believe that, son.”
“Sheriff –”
“I said walk away,” Burns growls, his voice low and gruff, cutting Clyde off. “Now, son.”
Clyde gives me a look that would have frozen the sun. He and his buddy help their other friend to his feet and together, the three limp off down the street. Burns turns to me, that familiar stern look on his face. I've had a few run-ins with him over the course of my life. Nothing too serious, but enough for him to label me a habitual troublemaker.
“Thanks, Sheriff –”
“Don't thank me, son,” he growls. “I didn't do it for you. Did it so the good people of this town don't have to watch a couple of idiots beat each other to death on the street.”
I deserve that. “Fair enough, Sheriff.”
He nods. “Now, let's go get a drink.”
I can't hide my surprise. “What?”
“A drink,” he says. “You and me. Let's go have one. We need to talk.”
Be it from the old man, my mother, or from a girlfriend, those four words, “we need to talk,” have never failed to fill me with dread. And yet, somehow, hearing them fall out of Sheriff Burns' mouth, it sounds ten times more ominous.
“Uh – okay,” I reply, uncertainty filling my voice.
“Relax, son,” he says. “I'm not takin' you out to shoot you. We're just gonna have a drink and a talk.”
“Good to know.”
“Not yet, anyway,” he says as a faint smile touches his lips.
I walk to my car and follow him over to the Hammer and Anvil, the oldest – and still most popular – bar in Folson Forge. The town has grown over the years as people have discovered that it's a nice, decent place to raise a family and settle down. It's grown more affluent and has attracted a number of high-end boutique shops and restaurants, as well as fancier chain stores. Classier bars have sprung up that cater to the hipsters and yuppy families who are making a home in Folson Forge, but we locals tend to prefer places like the Hammer and Anvil.
I walk into the bar and see Sheriff Burns at the end of it, a shot and a mug of beer already in front of him. A few of the old timers give me a nod as I pass by. A few of the others – Longstreet loyalists – give me a dark look of open hostility.
I flash them a smirk as I walk past and join Sheriff Burns at the bar. He motions to Leon, the owner of the Hammer as well as the bartender, who comes over and sets me up with a mug and a shot. Burns raises his shot glass to me, so I salute him in return before we down our drinks. The bourbon – my family's brand, naturally – slips down my throat and I feel that familiar warmth spreading throughout my belly.
Burns sets his glass back down and motions for Leon to give us another round. The bartender comes over and pours us another shot. Burns holds his up and looks at the amber liquid.
“I'll say this,” he says, “your family makes a fine bourbon.”
I nod. “That they do.”
We both down our second shot and set the glasses back on the bar. Burns grabs his mug of beer in one big, rugged hand, and turns to me.
“Headin' back to school?”
I nod again. “Day after tomorrow.”
“What comes next?”
I shrug. “I assume I'll take control of the company,” I say. “That's been the plan. Eldest son takes over when the father steps down.”
“Imagine your younger brothers ain't too thrilled with that.”
“Dalton and Q get it,” I reply. “But there will be roles for them all within the company when they're ready.”
“What about
Zach?”
A rueful grin touches my lips. “He's the one having the hardest time with the succession plan,” I say and chuckle. “He's a lot like our father in that way. Thinks he should be the one heading up the company. Says it's something he's passionate about – and knows I'm not.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “No, not really.”
“So, what does fire you up, son?”
I shrug. “Don't know.”
“Ain't that what college is for?” he asks. “To figure out what gets that fire burnin'?”
I let out a wry chuckle. “Yeah, you'd think,” I say. “But, between all of the business classes I'm taking to not screw up when I take over the company – I don't have much time for anything else.”
“That's a damn shame, son,” he says.
We sip our beer in silence for a moment and I let my mind wander. What is it that I'm passionate about? What fires me up? Honestly, I don’t have a clue. I've spent my whole life getting ready for the day my father hands me the keys to the company, that I haven't been able to see anything much beyond that. It's expected that I follow in my father's footsteps. Always has been.
Burns sets his beer down on the bar and looks at me, his steely eyes pinning me in place. The silence between us deepens and I start to feel uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny of his gaze. There aren't many people in this life who intimidate me, but Sheriff Burns is one of them.
“You know that stunt with the Longstreet girl was stupid, don't you?” he asks.
Great. He knows about it too. When I find out who posted it, I'm going to kill them. Though, I already have a pretty good idea of who did it.
“Yeah,” I say. “That was never supposed to get out. That was a private bet –”
“Well, it did get out,” he replies. “And the Longstreets are plenty pissed about it.”
I touch my eye and wince, feeling it start to swell up already. “Yeah, I figured that.”
“Son, I got a feeling that's just the beginnin' of your troubles with that family,” he says. “Clyde wanted to take your head off long before any of this shit. This just gives him more fuel for the fire.”
“I know,” I say.
“And poor Bree,” he replies. “You know she's best friends with my girl, Elizabeth.”
“Yeah, I know Elizabeth,” I say.
Not that I'm ever going to tell him, but she's one of the few girls in Folson Forge I haven't banged.
“That girl is distraught,” he says. “Not to mention the fact that her folks are none too happy with her. Way I hear it, that girl's life was already a living hell and now, because of that stupid shit you pulled, it's about to get a lot worse.”
I look down at the mug on the bar before me, tracing my finger through the condensation on the glass. Truth be told, I feel horrible about it. Bree doesn't deserve any of the shit raining down on her right now. Her family is religious and conservative. They're always buttoned up tight. I can imagine seeing their daughter doing that can't be sitting well with them.
But, it's not like I can do anything to fix it. I can't go over there and say: “Hey, sorry that I degraded and defiled your daughter, filmed it, and put it on the internet. Won't happen again. My bad.” I have a feeling I'd be shot dead if I set one foot on their property.
Not that it matters in the least, but the one thing I don't know is how they knew it was me. I left my mask on for a reason. How could they have possibly known I was the one in the video with her?
“It wasn't supposed to go down like this,” I say softly.
“Yeah, well, it did,” Burns replies. “Can't unring that bell, son.”
“Yeah,” I say and take a long pull of my beer. “Probably a good thing I'm heading back to school.”
“Probably,” he says. “But, have you thought about going a different way?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Doesn't seem like you're gettin' much out of that fancy education,” he says. “At least, nothin' that you find interestin'.”
I laugh softly. “I don't know what I'd find interesting, Sheriff.”
He takes a pull of his beer and sets it down on the bar. “Ever think about enlisting?”
I feel my eyes widen. “What, like in the Army?”
“I did a four-year stint in the Marine Corps,” he replied. “Best four years of my life.”
“I'm not so good at taking orders,” I say. “You, of all people, should know that.”
“True,” he says. “But, the Corps can teach you some discipline. Something you need if you're going to get anywhere in life, son.”
The idea of enlisting is intriguing and an avenue that I'd never considered before. It's an interesting concept, but also terrifying. All I've ever known is Folson Forge. People here treat me like some type of god, catering to my every whim and notion. I'm used to it. It's comfortable. The idea of leaving it all behind – I don't know if I could do it. It's interesting and a challenge – and there is nothing that I love more than a good challenge – but, there's a more practical reason it'll never happen.
“Yeah, I don't see my father ever letting that happen,” I say.
Burns nods and takes another sip of his beer. “And your how old now, son?”
“Twenty-one.”
“You're a man,” he says. “A man capable of blazin' his own trail in life and makin' his own decisions.”
A wry grin touches my lips. “If only it were that easy.”
“Now, look,” he says. “Don't take this the wrong way. I got nothin' but respect for your dad. But, the question you need to ask yourself is whether you're gonna live your life as the man you want to be? Or live your life bein' the man your father tells you to be? Which one do you want, son?”
“Easy to say, Sheriff,” I reply. “A lot more difficult to answer when you're caught up in the weeds.”
He nods. “Understand, son,” he says. “But, at some point, you have got to decide for yourself, what kinda man you're gonna be. That Clyde Longstreet? He already done decided. He's gonna be exactly like his old man and that ain't necessarily a good thing. He ain't never gonna leave Folson Forge, son.”
I take a long pull of my beer, a million different thoughts running through my head. I felt awful about what I did to Bree, and I don’t think I can continue down the path my family set for me. I need to change, and things need to change. There's part of me that always wanted to leave Folson Forge behind. To start a new life somewhere else. But it would mean leaving my family behind. Leaving the comfortable life I've grown up in. That I've grown used to.
Still, the idea of leaving it all behind isn't without its appeal. Being away at college has given me a little taste of freedom and life on my own – albeit a taste of freedom on a very short leash. The old man controls everything – which classes I take, how much money I get, where I live, everything.
I have to say though, living away from the family, being away from the old man and all the pressures and annoyances of family, and Folson Forge has been liberating. I'm enjoying every moment of it and yeah, there's a piece of me that wants more of that.
Well, more of that life away, free of the leash the old man keeps me on.
“Can I ask you something, Sheriff?”
He nods and raises his mug to me. “Shoot.”
“Don't take this the wrong way, but why do you care what I do or what happens to me?”
He gives me a rueful smile. “Because you're a smart kid, Milo,” he says. “Yeah, we've had our run-ins over the years, and you've always been a bit of a pain in the ass, but I know you're a sharp kid. Now, don't take this wrong, but of all the boys in your family, if anybody's gonna make somethin' of themselves, it's you. Nothin' against Quentin and Dalton, I don't know them too good. And I can already see Zachary is content to follow the path your dad lays out. I see somethin' different in you though. And I see somethin' different for you.”
Burns' words strike a chord within me. Something that resonates deeply. I've a
lways felt different from my brothers. Not that I'm better than them or anything, just that I'm different. I've never been content with the status quo in the family and have always questioned everything – something that's pissed the old man off to no end.
I guess there's something in me that's always wanted more. Longed for it. I'm not content to live out my life in Folson Forge, being a fucking bourbon magnate. I want to live life on my own terms.
It's odd, but until this very moment, listening to Sheriff Burns speak, I hadn't been able to articulate all of that. Not even to myself. It's always been a vague notion in the back of my mind. Like seeing a shadow from the corner of your eye. You know it's there, but when you turn to look, it's gone. Like it had never been in the first place.
This conversation with Burns though, it turned on the light and let me get a look at that notion, at that – thought – that's been running around in my head for so long. But, it inevitably leads me back to the question – now that I definitively know what it is, do I have the strength and courage to act upon it.
Burns clears his throat and looks at me, his gaze steely and intense. “I'm tellin' you all of this because somethin' bad is comin', son,” he says. “The Longstreets ain't gonna be happy with this whole video nonsense. Fact is, they're gonna be more upset about the video than the fact that you deflowered their girl –”
“I didn't deflower –”
He holds up his hand. “Don't matter. Point is, they'll be lookin' to settle the score,” he goes on. “I know the hate between your two families goes back a long way. And I know it's as powerful today as it was back then. They're gonna be lookin' to take their pound of flesh, son.”
“It's not like they can shoot me in the street, Sheriff,” I say. “Time's have changed.”
He nods. “True. But that hate hasn't,” he said. “That's the thing about blood feuds, son. They're timeless and eternal. I don't know if it'll be today, tomorrow, or two years from now, but I know that the Longstreets will come for you. And my fear is that when they do, somethin' really bad is gonna happen. Either they're gonna do something to you or force you into a position where you have to retaliate. My fear is that you're gonna end up in a prison cell or a pine box, son.”