by Teagan Kade
He must have thought about it many times, just like me, but we never made a move. We never took that next step.
Sometimes I would lie in bed with my ear cupped to the wall and listen for him, sure I could hear him jerking off. I’d close my eyes and picture him, quietly sliding a hand into my panties and running a finger into my slit. I’d come with my face buried in my pillow and my hand sticky, cheeks hot with the knowledge he was probably doing the same, that all that separated us was this one thin wall.
So I watch him now and it all comes flooding back—the good times. There were a lot of good times now I think about it, but then came that night, the following disappearances, the new friends. We spent less and less time together until one day he was just gone, no word, no nothing.
I look around the room once more. It used to be mine. He’s sleeping in the very bed I used to. His room was always bigger, the one I coveted more. He was gone less than a week before I moved in.
I stand at the door and watch him lying there. I watch him and wonder where it all went so wrong.
*
The captain’s nodding. “You’re saying this Hernandez character is the one we should be looking into?”
“Definitely.”
I really can’t stand the captain’s office. The ashtray is always full, the coffee always foul, and the entire place jammed with military memorabilia from his time as an army sniper. He’s particularly proud of this. Give him five seconds and he’ll start hitting you with his infinite war stories.
He leans back and looks over my report. “You filed your recordings with Audio?”
“Headed right there.”
“Keep at it. I want more. I want to know what these guys are having for breakfast, who they’re fucking… everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
*
Tonight I didn’t even have to ask. Brock simply threw me my jacket on the way out.
“Your car’s back,” I note, stepping out into the cold with him.
“Yeah,” he replies, “she’s good to go again.”
“Your car’s a girl?”
“You’d prefer I was riding a guy?”
“Sorry, the Brokeback thing really isn’t my style.”
He winks. “Good to know. Can’t say the idea of two ballsacks rubbing together is of high appeal to me either.”
We get in, the perforated leather of the passenger seat now comfortable and familiar, the smell of the old leather thick.
“You never dropped the soap in prison? Just for curiosity?” I query, trolling again.
“No,” comes the emphatic, monosyllabic reply.
I curl one finger into a circle and work another in and out of it. “You and Hernandez never…?”
Maybe it’s taking it too far, but Brock’s always had a thick skin.
“No, Mads.” He holds up his hand. “Good ol’ Ms Palmer saw to that end of things.”
“Ew.”
“Inside, you take what you can get.” He turns the key, the Chevy rumbling into life with a lopey idle. “You do what you have to. That’s the only way to get by.”
Something about these last words makes me uneasy as we pull out and head off. What did Brock have to do in prison? Kill someone? Smuggle something in? I checked his file. He got done for low-level distribution, six months, but he only spent three inside. There were no reports of any trouble, any incidents. There was a riot just before he left, but the chaos was so widespread nothing concrete was added to the report. I even had the tech guys pull the footage, but it’s just a blur of bodies. I couldn’t even pick him out.
I’m pretty familiar with the bay area, but the club has found a spot overlooking the entire expanse I never even knew existed. The cars are lined up at the water’s edge, the sky a sharp magenta.
I recognize most of the vehicles now, can put them to faces, but I do note Hernandez is notably absent.
I find Birdie hanging her feet over the water stuffing a hotdog into her mouth. So far all I’ve seen these guys eat is fast food with more grease than a Puerto Rican gang bang, but Birdie has somehow retained a perfect figure. I haven’t seen Brock working out once, but he too is looking far too good considering his diet of soda and processed meat.
I sit beside Birdie and take in the water. It’s really peaceful out here. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
I kick out my chin towards the hot dog. “Good?”
“Terrible. Ass on a bun.”
“Sounds… delicious.”
She hands over the half-eaten monstrosity. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. Say, does Brock ever work out?”
Birdie looks confused. “Like, the gym, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Hernandez has a warehouse on the other side of the bay. I think they hang out there a fair bit. There are some weights down the back, a stack of pornos. Nothing that takes my fancy, of course. Pornstars with their big, plastic tits. Not my thing.” She turns her attention to my breasts. “But those? I could work with those. You sure you don’t want to swing a little, check out the other side?”
“I think I’m right.”
She returns to her hotdog. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Then again, if I was a fan of the cock I could see why you’d be interested in Brock.”
I can imagine the audio guy’s face lighting up when he plays this back tomorrow.
“What do you mean?”
Birdie holds the hot dog sideways and adds another couple of inches.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, he’s packing a real deli down there.”
I have to ask. “How do you know?”
“Back in the day your stepbrother was pretty loose. He had no problems pulling that thing out.”
“I bet.”
I try to cast my mind back a few years ago. There were a lot of girls. They never lasted long, and he never brought them home. Once he got a car, that was it. We barely saw each other. Sometimes I could smell them on him, that flirty vanilla body-spray scent teenage girls seem to love slathering themselves in.
“Shit.” A line of sauce has squirted down Birdie’s top. She stands up and drifts off. I’m about to get up myself when Jay takes her place, seating himself beside me and smiling.
“How’s it going?” he says. “Ready to run Main to Second yet, become one of us?”
“I doubt Champers would even make it from Main to Second let alone in twelve seconds.”
“You should try it in Brock’s car.”
“Is it really that special?”
“Very. He’s done all the work himself, you know. Doesn’t trust anyone with it.”
“What about Hernandez?”
“Not even Hernandez.”
“I thought they were only just fixing it for him the other day.”
Jay shakes his head. “Not that I know about it. Wherever the Camaro is, Brock is. It’s as simple as that.”
I decide to flesh this out a bit more. “Where’s Hernandez tonight?”
Jay throws his hands up. He’s European, his words clipped with an accent I can’t place. He dresses like he’s eighteen, but he looks older. There are lines on his face. “Who knows? Business probably.”
“Business?”
“I’m not really involved, sorry. Got too much on my own plate.”
He pulls out his wallet and opens it to reveal a beaming little girl with pink-studded braces and porcelain hair. “My baby. Love her to bits, you know.”
“She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”
“Amelie.”
I’m not ready for what comes next.
“She’s got the big C, cancer,” Jay continues.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Is she okay?”
Jay just holds wallet open staring at her. She will be, and she’s been better lately thanks to a new treatment. Your brother had a lot to do with it.”
“Brock?”
“Yeah.”
Clearly, Jay doesn’t want to elaborate, and I don’t wa
nt to pry, but this is intriguing. It just doesn’t seem like Brock at all. Maybe he has changed.
There’s a whistle from behind us, the others signaling they’re leaving.
“What is it?” Brock asks as I open the Camaro door. Even after all this time we can still read each other so well. He knows something’s going on.
Inside, I spill. “Jay told me you’ve been helping with his daughter.”
Brock starts the car and nods. “True.”
“Well…?”
“Well, what?”
“Why?”
Brock turns to me, those eyes growing deeper and deeper every time I see them. You could lose yourself in them, Maddy. Be careful.
He polishes the gearknob with the palm of his hand. “I’m just helping a friend. Tell me, Officer Collins, is that a crime?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“What you’re doing?”
“Enough,” and with that Brock reverses out, waving to the others as we take the highway.
“We’re not going to cruise with them tonight?”
“Not tonight. Tell me, why are you really here, Maddy? And don’t tell me it’s to spend time with your beloved stepbrother.”
Shit. “So what if it is?”
“None of this interests you. I know that. You know that, so let’s cut the bullshit.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Nothing more is said, the highway markers whipping by the only sound.
“Are you spying on me, for our folks?”
I laugh. “That’s a good one,” but far too close to the truth.
“Then what?”
“I like it, okay?”
“Like what?”
“Spending time with you.”
“Why, in god’s name?”
He just won’t let it go, a pit bull with a bone. “You’re,” I search rapidly for the right word, “exciting.”
He turns to me perplexed. “Exciting?”
“Yeah, you’ve always had an edge. You were always cool. I was just the studious good girl. I never had time for fun.”
“And now you do?”
“I guess so.”
He thinks on this, leather jacket shifting against his seat, eyes focused on the road and the Camaro purring. “So, what do you like to do for fun?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I don’t know. I like eating out.”
“Okay, where?”
“Nowhere you’d know.”
“Try me.”
“Well, there’s a new place down past Spinnaker I want to try out, kind of retro. The Glass House, I think it’s called.”
Brock turns to me and I know he has an idea. “Tomorrow then. We go there tomorrow night just you and I.”
“It’s not cheap.”
Brock smiles. “Nor am I.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I book the restaurant the next morning and spend the next eight hours fiddling with my thumbs at HQ nervous and also slightly skeptical at what’s to follow.
Brock seemed like he wanted to prove something, show me another side of himself, but maybe I don’t want that. Maybe I want that dirty bad boy I remember so vividly, or so I think. Can I even trust myself with these memories? Who is to say I haven’t added hyperbole where necessary, filled in details that didn’t exist in the first place? I had a real good imagination growing up, always the one surrounded by dolls, all of whom had a name and occupation. I was that kid.
I arrive home, bypass the main house and get straight into Operation Dinner Date.
Date? Yeah, that does sound kind of weird, doesn’t it? What do I even say if someone asks if we’re together? ‘No, sir, we’re just stepbrother and stepsister out on a romantic dinner date. Nothing to be concerned about. Nothing to see here.’
I put my hair up, put it down. I try on a dress. I take off a dress. I pace around my room. I can’t remember the last time I put in this effort for a dinner, and why? It’s not like he’s going to care. I could dress in a burlap bag and he probably wouldn’t know the difference.
As the hour approaches, and Brock’s still nowhere to be seen, I grow increasingly anxious. I finally settle on a tight black mini-dress—simple, understated. I add blue heels for a bit of pop (and much-needed height), little diamond-studded earrings I haven’t worn since prom. I curl my hair loosely and leave it at that. I add a squirt of Chanel No.5 I got for a Xmas present two years ago, bottle still unopened. I towel off the heavy make-up and go light, still quite bemused at why all this is suddenly so precious to me. I’m not a Kardashian. I don’t care what people think about me.
But I do care what he thinks. Why I do not know.
I hear the Camaro prowling down the driveway five minutes before we’re supposed to leave.
He doesn’t rush. He strolls in and stops dead when he sees me, whistling. “Wow, you look… stunning.” He scents the air. “Number Five. Classy.”
He strolls on past me to his bedroom.
“We’re late,” I snap at him. “We have to go.”
He saunters back a minute later a changed man. I actually have to blink twice to make sure my eyes can be believed.
All he’s done is lose the leather jacket and replace it with a navy blazer, pointy leather shoes instead of sneakers, and I’ll be damned but those two things completely change his look. He’s gone from Rebel Without A Cause to Bond in five seconds flat.
Oh, you’re good.
“What?” he says, trying to gauge my expression.
“It’s just… where did you even get a blazer?”
“I told you. I’m an educated man of the world.”
He places his hand into the exposed pocket of skin at the base of my back and gently herds me towards the door, his own natural scent intoxicating.
*
I wasn’t lying. I do like eating out, but as we pull up to The Glass House I’m starting to think even this place might be out of my league in terms of overall cool.
The entire restaurant sits on a hill overlooking the water like a see-through box, cold and warm light blending together inside.
Brock reluctantly hands over his keys to the valet, a pimple-pocked teenager who looks like he’s just won the lottery.
Brock tenses up as he watches his beloved disappear around the corner.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was cheating on you,” I tease, taking his arm. “Don’t tell me you have a name for your car.”
“Like Champers?”
“Hey, don’t knock Champers, okay?”
A pleasant, perfectly presented man greets us past the doors. He looks at us both briefly, Brock passing the test with flying colors.
“Reservation for Collins,” I announce.
“This way.”
As we’re guided through the restaurant, the man turns. “Special occasion tonight?”
The man goes to pull out my chair, but Brock is already there, subtlety pushing him aside and taking over. “A reunion of sorts,” replies Brock.
“Splendid,” says the man, disappearing.
Brock takes his seat, his look so at ease here among the young crowd. I was actually surprised we got a booking at all.
Two menus arrive. I glance at mine briefly, most of the ingredients lost on me, but, it seems, not Brock.
He leans back, observing the menu. “What do you think, Maddison? I’m thinking the robata grilled raw beef with the shitake mushrooms and endive.”
He just dribbles it all out perfectly.
“I don’t even know what an endive is,” I admit.
Brock just shakes his head. “You can learn a lot in prison, you know, about all kinds of things. I read a lot. Learnt to cook, too.”
“You were only in there three months,” realizing my mistake as soon as the words are out. Opps.
Before he has a chance, to reply, I add, “I looked at your file.”
“It’s only fair. Anything interesting?”
“No, it was very clean actually.”
“What were you expecting? Shankings and brawls?”
At ‘shankings’ the couple at the table next to us bristle up.
I clear my throat, taking a sip of (no doubt hideously overpriced) Voss water. “You yourself said you got into some trouble.”
“That was all behind the scenes. Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Should I worry about you? Because I do.”
“Are you saying you care for me?”
I have to think about this. “Yes, I guess I do.”
We look at each other. I mean, we look at each other. Something passes between us that is more. I press my legs together tighter under the table. I’m hot, flushed. Something is happening and it has nothing to do with the ambience.
The dinner passes on pleasantly. Brock wasn’t kidding. He helps me order, talks me through the dishes from the foraged mushrooms down to the miso dressing. It’s so at odds with the Brock I know I constantly have to look sideways to watch us in the window.
We do look like a couple. We look like we could be together.
We look happy.
The serving sizes are deceptively small, but I’m still stuffed after desert. The wine too, again Brock’s selection, has left me light-headed and open. I talk freely, letting everything just sort of ramble out, including the financial trouble Dad and Michelle are in.
“How bad is it?” asks Brock.
I hold up five fingers.
He looks slightly stunned. “I see.”
“I’ll deal with it,” I tell him, Maddy the fixer-of-all.
“You can’t repair everything, you know. Sometimes people have to figure it out themselves, no matter how hard it may be initially.”
I get the impression he’s talking about himself.
“And me? Do I need fixing?”
“No,” he replies quick as can be, “in my eyes, you’re perfect.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
When the bill arrives, I almost drop dead at the figure, but Brock takes care of it, just lays down a wad of bills from nowhere. Alarm bells ring, but the wine dulls everything, makes it light and fluffy.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro, Brock driving, and for the first time I realize I’m horny, like really horny. I’m not seeing the Brock of old sitting in the driver’s seat. I’m seeing Brock 2.0, new and improved, cultured and caring and with a real big cock—if the rumors are to be believed. I didn’t get a good look the other morning.