Protect

by C. D. Breadner

  She still didn’t get what the issue was. He was sixteen for fuck’s sake; he hadn’t crapped his pants in years. At least, that’s what she assumed. She’d get it out of him if Jasmine couldn’t say what was going on. She’d have the drive back to Markham to get it out of him.

  Her Focus was already fueled so she hit the highway with a bottle of Coke Zero. Halfway between Markham and Bakersfield the rain finally let loose and it was almost a relief. She cracked her window for a bit of fresh air, then turned up the radio. It was just starting to be a fun one-person road trip as she hit Bakersfield city limits.

  Jasmine and Steven had a swanky penthouse condo in some towering glass and concrete high rise. She parked in a five-minute loading zone spot and sent her son a text message, since that was what the kids did these days. I’m here. Get your ass out here.

  No response, but she waited and soon enough she saw him pass through the glass double doors. Grinning to herself she climbed out of the car and circled back to open the hatchback so he could toss his two duffel bags inside. Then she gave into her urge and yanked him into a hug.

  “Oh Mom,” he mumbled sullenly, but he hugged her back.

  “Missed you Bray,” she mumbled, rubbing his back before stepping back to get a look at him.

  He was only sixteen but he was already three inches taller than her. And he looked like a man now. It was somewhat disconcerting. His hair hit his shoulders in dirty blonde waves. That was her hair, she recognized it immediately. The blonde stubble on his jaw was new. She hadn’t known he was shaving. He was long and lanky, emphasized by an oversized T-shirt, flannel shirt tied around his waist and baggy jeans. He pushed his hair back with both hands and smiled down at her.

  Not her kid, no way. He was almost grown-up.

  Her heart did a weird little trip, then she shoved him by one arm. “You wanna drive us back?”

  Manliness was gone. His eyes got big. “Really?”

  “Sure. Your old mom had to drive here to collect you, you should drive her home.”

  “You’re not old, Mom.”

  She was grinning as he took the keys from her hand then passed by to climb behind the wheel. She got in the passenger side, buckled up and watched him adjust the seat and mirrors.

  In a weird moment of “mothering,” Sharon had taken it upon herself to teach Brayden to drive. Jasmine and Steven hadn’t seen the need and none of his friends drove. In the city they had no shortage of public transport. Jasmine didn’t even have a vehicle of her own, never needed one. Afterwards Steven had hit the roof, demanding to know what she was thinking teaching Brayden to drive in the city.

  Sharon had gotten a rise out of that. She was a parent, for fuck’s sake. And an officer of the law. She had regular driving assessments done. She always had been a better fucking driver than Steven was.

  That had been a shitty fight, but it resulted in Brayden getting a learner’s permit. In a few months he could get his full license. Not that he’d have a car, but who the hell went through life without a driver’s license?

  “Hospital?” he confirmed, signaling and shoulder-checking before pulling into traffic.

  “Yeah, might as well see how your old man’s doing,” she mumbled, rolling her window down. It wasn’t raining here, but the temperature had dropped a little. It was nice.

  “So, what’s new in the thriving metropolis of Markham?” he asked sarcastically with a charming smile. Her son was going to break hearts—that was becoming obvious to her.

  “The ice cream shop got closed down.”

  “What?” He seemed honestly disappointed.

  “I know, bummer, hey? Health inspector closed them down. They were serving expired ice cream and the coolers weren’t being maintained.”

  He laughed at that. “You’re making this up.”

  “I’m not! The fifth grade class all got sick after stopping there after a field trip.”

  “Oh my God,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Anything else?”

  “Um,” she scratched an elbow, trying to remember the last time he’d actually been to Markham. “Do you remember the kids’ paddling pool? In the park?”

  “Yeah. I remember going there.”

  “That got filled in last year.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Teenagers were lighting bonfires in it and shit. There was always broken beer bottles in the bottom.”

  “Damn kids,” he cackled with an old-man lisp he’d picked up somewhere a few years’ back.

  “That’s about all the news I have.”

  He cocked one eyebrow. “Nothing exciting happening as far as the sheriff is concerned?”

  She shook her head, grinning. “Nothing I’m telling you about.”

  “Fine,” he relented, having heard this before.

  He filled her in on his asshole teachers, and she tried to be diplomatic in her defense of them but she didn’t know these people so it just came across as cliché tripe. He listened anyway. It was too early in their visitation to get into arguments.

  Steven Westhall was on the third floor. He was able to have visitors, and that’s where Jasmine was. When they appeared in the doorway she excused herself, giving them a moment. Jasmine was really understanding like that, she always had been. It was difficult to dislike her, but occasionally Sharon managed it.

  The man in the bed looked like he should be in a cartoon. Everything seemed so extreme; the body cast, the contraption keeping his limbs in place, all the equipment hooked up to his plaster prison. She had the grossly inappropriate urge to laugh suddenly but she prevailed. He’d been seriously hurt, after all.

  “Steven,” she said sympathetically, approaching the bedside and leaning over to peer into the face that looked like it was being squeezed out of the neck brace. “Jesus. How are you?”

  He moved, might have been a shrug but it was impossible to tell. Whatever it was, her ex-husband winced and had to take a few deep breaths before he could answer. “Mostly I’m doped up,” he admitted, attempting a smile.

  Sharon inhaled sharply. Half of his front teeth were knocked out.

  “Yeah,” he continued. “Teeth are fucked up, too.”

  “I’m so sorry, Steven. I can’t believe it.”

  “Hey, thanks for taking Brayden. I mean it. It’ll be a big help to Jasmine.”

  Again, she had no idea why a sixteen year old wasn’t able to fend for himself. She just nodded, though. Her sympathy had her avoiding anything that might turn into a fight. “It’s fine, don’t thank me. I’m his mom for Christ’s sake. Just worry about getting better.” Although, there was no way he was going to be up and moving around in two months.

  “Thanks.” Now Steven looked to the opposite side of the bed. “Listen to your mother. Do what she says.”

  “I know,” her son groused, sounding like a sixteen year old again.

  “Don’t worry about us,” she interrupted. “We’ll be good. It’ll be fun. Maybe?”

  That got her another smile. “Maybe,” Brayden agreed.

  Silently, Sharon watched her husband give her sixteen-year-old son a proper set of warning-like instructions, which should have felt insulting. But she wasn’t offended, just amused. She was pretty sure she could handle a sixteen-year-old.

  The rain caught up with her just as she and Brayden were leaving the hospital, and they dashed to her car with her shouting, “You’re sure you can handle driving in this?”

  He shouted back, “Uh, yeah,” as they both hurriedly ducked into the Focus, her throwing her damp hair back just as he did the same. She fought back a laugh as he pulled out an elastic and tied his hair up at the back of his head in a sloppy knot.

  She kept her thoughts to herself as he maneuvered out of the parking lot and into traffic. Once they were on the open highway she decided the broach the real issue of the moment. “So tell me. Why in the world do Jasmine and your dad think you can’t be left on your own?”

  There was a deep, theatrical sigh, but she didn’t excuse hi
m from answering. They had a twenty-five minute drive ahead of them; he was talking.

  “Well?” she prompted when the answer wasn’t provided immediately.

  “Mom, you know Jasmine. She’s such a prude.”

  Sharon knew her eyebrows went up. “Shit, Brayden. What did you do?”

  That fucking sigh again; she hated when he did that. “Nothing!”

  “It wasn’t nothing to get this reaction. What did you do?”

  He made a face and refused to look at her, but he eventually answered, like she knew he would. “She was out for a spa day with her friends and one of them got sick so they cut it short. She came home and I ... I had a girl over.”

  “Shit, Brayden.”

  “And we’d smoked some pot.”

  Now she felt her back straighten. “Brayden Oliver Westhall.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. But Mom ... pot?”

  “I don’t care. It’s illegal.”

  “Mom—”

  “Mom nothing. That pisses me off. Your mother’s a sheriff, remember?”

  He shook his head. “So it only matters because it makes you look bad.” It was almost muttered to himself, not a question.

  “No, it pisses me off that you don’t fucking listen. It’s not just pot. When you buy that shit, you know where the money goes?”

  “Yeah, it goes to my friend’s older brother. He sells it.”

  She was shaking her head now. “And he’s getting it from somewhere. And it’s not from a bunch of hippies wearing flowers in their hair running around the woods barefoot. Hippies have really shitty pot. The good stuff comes from criminals, and you don’t want to be tied to that for any reason.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Yes, Brayden, I do. You can trust me on this. I know that for a fact.” They were silent, both staring out the windshield. She wouldn’t be surprised if their jaws were clenched in the same way. “It’s just been pot?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “If you’re lying—”

  “I’m not, Mom!” She could tell from the indignation in his voice he was being honest. “Pot is ... pot’s fun. That’s it.”

  “It’s not worth it, son.”

  “Yeah, well ...” he let that trail off.

  “I get it. You want to try it. It’s mellow or whatever. It makes you loopy and giggly and—”

  “Horny.”

  She winced. “It does?”

  Now he looked away from the road, mouth dropping open. “Mom? You never smoked pot?”

  She waved a hand to indicate he should be keeping his eyes forward. “No, I haven’t smoked pot.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Language, Brayden.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And I’m not shitting you. We drank when we were kids. Our parents smoked pot, we weren’t interested in being like our parents.”

  “Grandma and Grandpa smoked pot?”

  She laughed at that. “Christ, I meant in general. Pot was what the older folks were doing. We wanted to do our own thing, so we drank. And there was more booze in Markham than pot back them.”

  “Before there were bikers.”

  “No, the bikers were there. I’m not sure when the pot got into town, actually.”

  It fell quiet and calm again, and she contented herself watching the dessert roll by. Then she just had to ask. “And the girl?”

  “Girl?”

  “The one Jasmine caught you with.” Sharon had also been the one to give Brayden the sex talk. Steven nearly broke out in a rash at the thought, and Jasmine got so flustered when she tried the poor boy came out of the experience more confused than anything else. He knew about the babies; they taught that in school. But it was Sharon that had to sit him down and give him the most important lesson: don’t be a prick.

  It was a point of pride that her son seemed popular with girls without resorting to mouth-breathing sports. He was a good-looking kid, and he looked older than he really was. He didn’t like sports or picking on people. He learned to play the guitar. It was all pussy-magnet stuff that he did before he even knew the effect it would have.

  When he lost his virginity a few months’ back he’d called his mother to tell her. That might be weird, and Sharon had been shocked but still somewhat proud. Not that he did it, and she certainly didn’t ask for fucking specifics, but that he respected her opinion of him enough to call. The weirdest fucking call she’d ever got, but she had to say she approved of his milestone achievement.

  The girl had been a year older, not a virgin. Overall, a good choice by her son. Not a clingy type; and the girl had no aspirations of getting married immediately after graduation. Plus, Sharon got the impression this nameless girl had been kind with her son about the whole thing.

  Keeping sex a mystery was a fucking horrible idea, by Sharon’s way of thinking. She knew how badly her own first experience could have gone, and she could have ended up one of those women who had no idea how good the act could actually be. So for three years anytime her son had a question about sex he phoned her, or asked on her weekend visitations. He asked smart questions, intuitive questions. She hoped like hell she’d helped develop a caring and attentive young man.

  Hence, her questions.

  “Just a girl, Mom,” was his answer, his cocky smile back in place now.

  “Older or younger?”

  “Same age as me. She’s in my class.”

  “You’re being good to them, right?”

  Now his smile came back to her, not nearly as cocky. More understanding. “Yeah, Mom. I think I’m being good to them.”

  “Good,” she replied, appeased enough to reach out and tug on his man-bun. “I hear about you being an asshole—”

  “Language, Mom,” he teased. That made her laugh, and she was secretly glad he’d misbehaved enough to get sent to live with her for the summer. She might not have felt it until right then.

  Chapter Ten

  “You sure you don’t want more people coming with you?”

  The question, from Jayce, was directed at Buck. He shook his head, making a dismissive face. “Nah. Gertie’s going to want to go the service and get home fast. She’s getting along better with her brothers now but ... she just wants to get this over with.”

  Jayce nodded. “Understood.”

  “Plus Mickey and Jolene are coming, which is perfect. Jolene will keep her talking, distracted.”

  The clubhouse door opened behind the three of them with a squeak and Fritter offered the redhead his biggest smile. “Hey Gertie,” he greeted, noting how thinly stretched her smile back at him was. “Looking good, Momma.”

  She shook her head but at least her laugh sounded better. “Don’t lie. I’m as big as a blimp.”

  “No you’re not,” he admonished, opening his arms for a hug she walked right into. “You look gorgeous. When you running away with me again?”

  She gave that outraged but girlish giggle again and someone was pulling him away from her. “Get your fucking grubby hands off my woman.” It was said somewhat jokingly, but Fritter caught the glint in Buck’s eye that meant he wasn’t amused, but making a big deal about it in front of said woman would cause more hurt feelings than he wanted.

  Fritter backed off.

  “You do look great,” Jayce assured her, placing a simple kiss on her cheek. “You need any help with anything, say the word. We’re here for you.”

  She nodded, lower lip trembling again. Fuck. What was Jayce doing? He just had her laughing, dammit.

  “Okay babe, let’s go,” Buck suggested gently, taking her by the elbow. “Jolene and Mickey are waiting.”

  She nodded, offered a weak smile to Fritter and Jayce then leaned on Buck as he led her to the Grainger’s silver Escape. Jayce delivered a shot to his arm when they were further away, and it really fucking hurt even though it wasn’t the arm with stitches.

  “You gotta cut that shit out. Even if you’re just trying to make her feel better. That
’s not cool. That’s his wife.”

  Fritter frowned. “I said the same shit to Trinny.”

  “I know, and I threatened to take your fucking block off for it more than once.”

  “You did?”

  Jayce shook his head but he was laughing. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Hey, Jayce?”

  The two turned to Spaz, hanging out the door of the clubhouse and squinting at the brightness of the outside world. He was the palest guy you’d ever see in California, but that’s what spending all day attached to a keyboard could do.

  “What’s up?”

  “Got something for you. Those two that had the rental on that trailer where they were keeping those kids.”

  Jayce nodded, smile fading as he made his way inside. Fritter followed, giving a sharp whistle that Knuckles heard across the lot. He made a motion and Knuckles got up off the picnic table, crushing his cigarette and making for the door.

  Fritter let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the clubhouse, then he headed for the hallway that led to Spaz’s “office.” It had been a storage closet at one time, but now it was filled up with a huge desk and a rolling chair. Two computer monitors were mounted on the wall like TVs, all to make more desk room for all the other tech shit the kid needed. Half of it Fritter couldn’t identify.

  “So, the trailer was leased to Kennedy Black. Fake name, of course. It shows up on a driver’s license though, so we have her picture.” He did a few things on the keyboard and a picture popped up on a monitor.

  Knuckles whistled. “Hot.”

  “With face identification software I found this.” Few more keystrokes and a different photo of the same blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman appeared on the other monitor, this time a mug shot. “Tiffany Pullman. This is from Kern County, about three years ago. Possession with intent to distribute. She’s married.”

  “To who?”

  To answer his Prez, Spaz went back to work on the keys and then covered up the fake driver’s license photo with another mug shot, this time a dude with a lot of hate in his face and darkness behind incredibly dark brown eyes. His short hair was military precise. There was a flash of recognition but Fritter couldn’t place the guy. “This is Brian ‘Bunyan’ Pullman.”