Rebel

by Rhys Ford

  “Finally decided to show up for work?” Ivo bumped shoulders with him, whacking Gus harder than he needed to.

  “Don’t have any appointments today. Came in to get situated and chauffeur the dog,” he replied, his attention more on the new guy’s drawings than his brother. “Pretty decent line work. Composition’s a bit sloppy but okay. Better at the Neo-Traditional stuff than Illustrative, but that shit’s hard to grab at if you don’t have the eye. How’s he at Realism?”

  “So-so,” Ivo grunted. “Draws what’s there. Not what he sees so there’s some spatial fuckery, but now that you’re here, you can fix that.”

  “I’m not here to teach kids how to draw,” Gus snorted, glancing at his brother, then frowning when he had to crane his head up. Looking at Ivo’s feet, he grumbled, “Why do you have to wear those at work?”

  “Because they’re cool. Black fuck-me shoes with bloody undersides. Like I’ve walked through my victims’ remains.” Ivo placed his hand on Gus’s shoulder and lifted his foot to show off the stiletto’s red sole. “They go great with jeans. ’Sides, these are the ones Bear got me for Christmas.”

  “Bear told you to not wear that kind of shit at work.” Gus waited for Ivo to stop using him for support, then slapped his brother on the rear. “Floor gets wet and you’re going to go ass up like you did in those other really cool shoes.”

  “Yeah, he already yelled at my head.” His brother shrugged. “And by the way, cannot wait to get your kid all kinds of shit we couldn’t have when we were kids. I’m thinking a drum kit and five pounds of Crunch Berries to start off with, and then work him towards a pair of Jimmy Choos.”

  “He’s three.” Gus glared, daring Ivo to let loose the shit-eating grin lurking at the edges of his mouth. “Can’t you at least wait until he’s five before you start making him weird?”

  “Never too early for the weird,” Ivo shot back. “Speaking of weird, Gus, this is Rob. I’d call him the newbie but—”

  “Hey! Not the weirdest one here. That title’s yours, Ivo.” The new guy was shorter than Gus remembered, but then he’d only taken a quick glance at the kid before. He stuck his hand out, and Gus gave it a quick shake. “Good to meet you. I’ve heard a hell of a lot about you.”

  He was stocky, built more for power than stamina, his tank top and cargo shorts showing off his thickly muscled thighs and arms. Judging by the blend of Asian-European in Rob’s features, the black roots of his tufted-up blue hair was probably his natural color, but his bright amber eyes were contacts or someone back in his family tree did the nasty with a tiger. His skin was a light gold, a hue Gus loved to ink, a nearly perfect parchment background to make teals, greens, and purples pop. The inker’s right arm carried a full sleeve, the interconnecting pieces stitched together with scrollwork, but his left arm was bare except for a small red heart on his shoulder.

  “Good to meet you. I’ve heard… nothing about you, but that’s on me. I’m crap when I’m on the road,” he confessed. The lack of ink on the artist’s hairless left arm was odd, and Ivo caught Gus eyeing the blank skin, shrugging at him from behind Rob’s back. “And apparently I’m supposed to be teaching you how to do some shit.”

  Rob’s laugh was soft, more apologetic than Gus would have been able to scrape up if someone told him he needed to work on something. “That’s what Bear—”

  “Barrett,” Ivo said in time with Gus, then continued when Gus laughed. “You don’t get to call him Bear. He’s either Barrett or Mister Jackson—”

  “If you’re nasty,” Gus finished as Bear came out of the storeroom carrying an armful of paper towels. “Speak of the devil…”

  “And he shall appear,” Ivo finished.

  “God, I sure as hell don’t miss any of that,” their older brother grumbled. Edging past Gus, Bear thrust the towels at Ivo. “Put these out. Noob bought the smaller rolls last time, so they’re not lasting as long. And when you’re done with that, I want you to start going over portraiture with him—”

  “Me? Gus is standing right here. Dude’s—” Ivo wrapped his arms around the load, then rolled his lips in when Bear cocked his head.

  Arguing with Bear never went well, and true to form, their elder brother cut in, “Might as well take Rob with you too. He was talking about needing to work on his forms.”

  Waiting until Ivo slunk off, grumbling and dragging an intrigued Rob with him, Gus slung himself into Ivo’s spare chair, hooking his legs over the arms, and stared up at Bear. “Before you ask, yeah, I cooked the crabs, and they’re in the fridge.”

  “Good.” Too short of a response for Gus’s liking but probably all he was going to get out of the burly man unless he pushed.

  “Did Rey call you or did you call him first to give him an excuse to come over to the house?” It was less of a push and more of a shove into the dirty mud puddle Gus’d been swimming in since he’d seen Rey’s reflection in the cabinet’s glass. “Because if you called him, then I’m going to tell you, that’s one of the shittiest things you’ve done to me. And dude, you’ve done some really fucking shitty things to me.”

  “Some good things too,” Bear reminded him, pulling one of the oddly painted wooden chairs around from the front. Straddling its seat, he rested his arms on the back rest and regarded Gus with a steady, assessing stare Gus knew all too well.

  “Do your raging Buddha thing to someone else,” he said, waving Bear’s frown off. “I’ve actually got shit to do. A Russian-style phoenix. You have any idea how much research—”

  “A lawyer called for you. From Family Court.” The velvet-soft voice was a warning. There’d been too many times Bear wrapped horrific news in his silken, honey rumble, and no matter how gently he tried to ease into what followed, Gus’s world always caught on fire. “Well, called to see if you worked here. Then asked how long I’ve known you.”

  “Did you mention I pissed in your mouth when you tried to change my diaper?” He sat up, swinging his legs down. “What the fuck is going on? Did the guy leave a number? Am I supposed to call him back, or was it just fishing?”

  “He didn’t say anything but asked questions about you. Told him we were related, and then….” Bear sighed heavily. “Then he began asking about your mom… and Puck. Suggested he talk to you about that if he had any questions, but it sounded like he was… digging. Trying to see how you were dealing with that. If you were still dealing with it. You know how those guys ask around what they want to know, dragging you to where they want you?”

  He knew exactly what Bear meant. There’d been something he said or did after he’d gotten out of the hospital when he’d been stewed in painkillers and grief, but it’d taken years before the state would allow Ivo to be with them. No matter how much he’d pleaded with the social workers, they’d kept him from his youngest brother and Bear. He’d been shuffled from one detached therapist to the next, sometimes landing in group sessions with other kids lost in their own minds. A chilling thought hit him, and the anxiety he’d scratched at unfurled, slapping at him.

  “Can they really get a hold of anything from my juvie records?” Whining, Earl shoved his head under his hand, and Gus scratched at the dog’s ear, rubbing at the soft divot along his neck. “They can’t use anything like… I mean fucking hell, it wasn’t like I was the one who pulled that shit. It was Melanie. Most of the hard-core shit from before was from her making me carry for her. The pot stuff when I was sixteen was nothing.”

  “I don’t know,” Bear confessed. “But we can find out. I’ve got a call in to Luke. He can run interference—”

  “I don’t want anyone to run fucking interference.” He forced himself to calm his tone when Earl trembled under his fingers. “Sorry, boy. Look, Bear, I’m doing everything they’ve asked from me. I’m here in the city, I’ve spat and bled into cups, and now they’re poking at Puck? I’ve had enough crap hit me today. I don’t need this right now. Not after….”

  “Rey?” Bear’s eyebrow went up.

  “Yeah, Rey.”
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  “No, I meant… he’s here.” His older brother jerked his chin toward the shop’s front.

  The bell jangled, the old door’s hinges squeaking loud enough to be heard from the back, and Gus turned to see his ex crossing the threshold, an unreadable, staunch monolith of a man Gus would have once walked through fire for… and nearly had before Mace’d gone in. Spotting Gus, Rey stopped at the end of the reception desk and shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets.

  “We’ve got to talk,” Rey snapped. “Now. Before this… just now, Gus.”

  “Well, little brother, looks like your day just got a little bit shittier,” Bear said, slapping Gus on his shoulder, nearly knocking him to the floor. Standing up, Bear filled the space for a moment, bristling upright. “Thanks for the crabs, Rey. Oh, just so you know, my fist is going to fit really snug into your face if you tear Gus apart, so don’t forget to tell me how much I owe you before I make you swallow your own teeth.”

  Seven

  YOU CAN say no, Gus. You can always say no.

  Ivo’s words chased Gus out of the shop, nipping at his ass when the bell jangled over the door. After a lifetime of telling people to fuck off and saying no to things he should have done, refusing Rey seemed to be something he was incapable of doing.

  Saying no back at the shop would have meant a line being drawn, a line he wasn’t quite ready to put down in the sand. A no would have divided the family, or at least he thought it would have, separating Mason from the cousins. Luke would stand aside, refusing to take part in any division, but secretly, Gus half hoped his adopted twin would have his back.

  He could have said no, but Bear’s words—don’t let pride or spite make your choices—resonated more than Ivo’s, and he’d followed Rey outside, only to wander aimlessly around the pier because apparently Rey hadn’t quite thought his part of the conversation through.

  Midafternoon on the piers was a busy hustle of kiosk barkers trying to lure tourists in and restaurant workers hurrying down the sidewalk to make the start of their shifts. Down the street from the shop, the blues bar was just opening its doors, its second-floor shutters clacking open, their hard wood frames smacking the building’s weathered shiplap siding. Rey crossed the street, caught in a stream of people dressed for a warmer day than what San Francisco had to offer them. The sky was gray, the air heavy and muggy enough to leave a sheen on any bit of exposed skin it could find, and whenever Gus thought they’d reached a point Rey would stop, he’d continue walking, barely sparing Gus a glance to check if he was still there. It seemed like Rey wasn’t going to be happy until he’d put the shop far behind him, and Gus resigned himself to a damp, sticky stroll through noisy seagulls and even noisier people.

  A salt-kissed wind picked up when they hit the parking lot outside a sourdough bakery, easing some of the lingering heat, and Gus eased his stride back, reluctant to chase after Rey any longer. They’d reached the end of the walk, and Rey turned at the corner of an old dock warehouse repurposed to hold a relocated mechanical games and toys museum, heading down to a broad asphalt walk toward the pier’s end.

  Gus’s feet dragged, nearly refusing to follow, but the hot anger in Rey’s eyes—in his face—kept him going, even though every step took him closer to a secluded place he’d once loved. They’d spent hours roaming the area after Rey and Mason became friends, mostly Gus stomping around behind the pair in an attempt to stay out of trouble. Or at least that’s what they’d told Bear, who’d been seriously thinking about starting up his own shop.

  It’d been a time of cotton candy, listening to musicians on the boardwalk, and offering rickshaw rides to tourists after they’d hacked one together from an old bicycle and frame they’d bought off of an old man for ten dollars. Unlicensed, they’d put up a sign asking for donations, making a few hundred dollars before the bike’d been vandalized beyond repair.

  They’d been young, tanned from the sun, and carefree, stealing half-empty wineglasses from unattended café tables and pouring what they found into a plastic jug. They’d eventually drink themselves silly, sitting on the pier behind the museum and sharing a bag of still-warm sourdough bread ends soaked with garlic butter Mason got from a baker in exchange for a kiss.

  He couldn’t remember their final trip down to the end of the pier behind the museum. It’d been like everything else in Gus’s life, something precious he didn’t know he’d never experience again until it was gone, and following Rey to the spot where he’d first discovered he had a thing for Mason’s best friend didn’t seem like the best of ideas.

  Then again, most of his life was simply a long conga line of bad ideas.

  Framed by the turbulent Bay, the salt-spray blurred islands, and a bank of nautical flags snapping in the wind, Rey stood silent, waiting for Gus to catch up. There were too many of Gus’s memories caught up in images of Rey and the churning waters off of the pier. Their first real kiss, a brushing shy experiment fueled by a strong blend of whiskey and red wine, happened only a few yards away under the cover of a milky San Francisco night sky. It would take another few years before their mouths would touch again, an accidental slide of lips while playing a pass-the-spoon game at someone’s birthday party.

  On the pier was where he and Mason shed their hoodies and peeled back sleeves to show Rey their newly inked five-point nautical stars, a shared symbol between the brothers, and they’d laughed over the unevenness of Mace’s part of the stencil, a little too loud for a passing security guard. Later that night, legs swinging loosely while they sat on the blues club’s second-story balcony with their thighs threaded through the wide bars, Rey’d kissed him hard enough to take Gus’s words from his tongue, finishing with an encouraging murmur for Gus to be a tattoo artist, if that’s what he wanted to be.

  It was all Gus needed to believe in a dream.

  “Why the hell are you taking me out here, Rey?” Gus spat, keeping a few yards of asphalt away from his ex. “What do you have to say that couldn’t have been said at the shop? There’s… shit back there I’ve got to deal with.”

  Rey said nothing. He braced his stance and studied Gus as if seeing him for the first time. The staring unnerved him, peeling back Gus’s insouciance and control with every slow blink.

  Standing impatiently at the edge of the pier, Rey wasn’t the scrawny, all-elbows teenaged boy who’d made Gus’s heart seize up. Not anymore. He’d thickened, gained muscle and breadth, firming up into his once-too-big face and jawline. But those eyes—Rey’s sloe gaze with its hot, honeyed depths—and a mouth filled with the knowledge of Gus’s body made walking away hard. He’d been stupid to say yes, stupid to follow Rey down a path they’d gone down too many times before, and this time there wasn’t anything but heartbreak waiting for Gus at the water’s edge.

  “Either fucking talk to me or I head back,” Gus warned, ignoring the pointed looks he got from a woman walking away from the pier’s end, pushing a stroller with a sleeping toddler buried beneath a clutch of toys. She hurried away, leaving them alone with the gulls and a stretch of brackish water. “This isn’t exactly private. The shop—”

  “I’m not talking to you some place you feel safe. This is at least neutral.” Rey hit, hard and fast, a lightning storm of simmering words and something indescribable catching in his voice. “Not like at the house. I’m not going to let you kick my feet out from under me again.”

  “Neutral? You think this is neutral?” Keeping his voice down was hard, and his words drifted, carried off in the sounds of the rolling waves. He pointed at a spot once shielded by a pile of pallets. “Gave you a blow job right there once or twice. Or how about over there?” Gesturing to the open gate they’d just walked through, he said, “Remember pushing me up against that with our pants half-off and the guard caught us? How fricking neutral is here?”

  “Better than the damned house,” Rey shot back. “Or the shop. No one can hear—”

  “What? Hear what?” Gus cocked his head. “Hear you say ‘I’m sorry’ because you’re a
fucking asshole? ’Cause I’m thinking there’s not enough damned people in the world to hear you say that.”

  “Sorry? Sorry for what? Do you know what it felt like to walk into the kitchen this morning and see you there, Gus? Like a punch to my stomach. Then you go and act like us fooling around meant something to you and you were so hurt by me telling you we weren’t working out, you got fucked-up and made a kid.” Rey’s nostrils flared, and suddenly it didn’t seem as if the space between them was enough—or maybe it was too much—then it shortened when Rey strode toward him.

  “You’re the one who decided it wasn’t—”

  “Decided? There was no deciding. You weren’t ever fucking there, Gus.” Leaning in, Rey growled, “Is that the line you gave Bear? That we were together and I broke it off? Because I’m not putting up with any of that kind of shit from you, dude. I’m not losing the guys because now you’re making them choose between us. I don’t care if you call them your brothers. Mace and the rest of them are as much family to me as my baby sister, and I’m not losing them because you can’t take responsibility for where you shoved your dick.”

  Damn, Rey smelled good, and Gus hated himself for responding to it. His balls were heavy, his desire tugging at his dick. Trying to deny wanting Rey wasn’t doing him any good, and focusing on the hot rage pouring out with Rey’s angry words wasn’t helping. They’d been good together, their lovemaking passionate and needy, leaving them wrung out and exhausted. He missed the sex, the boneless languor Rey left him in when they finally rolled off of each other to catch their breaths. If Rey thought none of that mattered to him—Gus rocked back on his heels, trying to wrap his brain around the idea their relationship had been nothing more than sweaty sheets and explosive climaxes to Rey.