Gannon (Kennedy Ink. Book 8)

by Jenny Wood

  “What the fuck, Shade?” it’s a plea, plain and simple. Even though he’s the one in control right now, he’s waiting for me to decide. I slide my tongue out to wet my lips so I can answer him, and the way his hands flex on my face and the soft groan he whispers against my lips, I do. Using his shirt to pull him down to me, I expect his lips to be hard and bruising against mine. I expect an angry thrashing of tongue and teeth, but what I get is the complete opposite. Gannon’s lips are soft against mine, and he just holds them there while he takes a deep breath, still holding me in place with his hands.

  Sliding my tongue out once again, this time to taste him, Gannon growls against my mouth as he opens for me. It’s a slow, plundering, savoring kind of kiss and he sears every rational thought I have in that moment.

  “I’ve wanted you for so long, Gannon,” I confess, no longer caring what comes out of my mouth. “You’ve been drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy for as long as I can remember. Please, just do something," I beg, apparently, just fine with doing that while Gannon bends at his knees to stay at lips length with mine.

  “Gannon!” Ms. Holly pounds on the door at my back, bouncing my head off the door twice before I can think to stop it. Gannon’s hand moves around to cushion it and his forehead presses against mine. “Gannon, I need to talk to you. Can you come out here?”

  “We’re gonna’ have to talk about this, you know?” he says, opening his eyes to look at me. I nod slightly, tilting my chin up to kiss him with a quick peck. “You’ve wanted me for a long time?” he asks, earning another nod. Apparently, my words are nowhere to be found, but I can’t find it in me to care. Not when he’s smiling at me like he is. “You’re gonna’ have to tell Kelson Mandella, that you can’t have that drink. Not until we figure all this shit out, okay?” I nod again, having completely forgotten about Kelson Mandello.

  “This can’t ruin who we are to each other, okay? You’re my best fucking friend, Shade, that doesn’t change, no matter what.”

  “I –“

  “Gannon! Get out here, I need you out here!” Ms. Holly’s tone turns desperate and Gannon sighs and kisses me one more time before sliding his hands down my arms and pulling my hands until I step away from the door.

  “I don’t think you should leave her alone today, Gannon. If you can hold off on going to the gym until I get done with this Brock shit, I can come back and hang out until you get home tonight. I don’t want her taking off or taking half your house with her if she decides to," I tell him, my brain finally firing up enough to tell him what I’d wanted to say a few minutes before we’d come in here.

  “I’m gonna stay home today,” he says, opening the door but not yet moving out. “Cam told me about these sober-living homes in Atlanta, and I’m hoping he can get me a referral so I can call about getting her into one this week. Maybe she’ll hear me out.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” I ask, willing to do just about anything I could if it would take a little of the weight off his shoulders for a change.

  “Come back here when you’re done?” he asks, hopefully. I squeeze the hand that’s clutched in mine and grin.

  “I’ll bring Pasta Barn,” I offer, knowing the fettuccine from there is his favorite. With his mother sitting on the couch and not hiding that she’s watching us walk out of Gannon’s room hand in hand, he stops in the kitchen walkway and kisses me.

  “I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” he quips, earning a quick tap to the stomach with the back of my hand. He laughs as he groans and I tell him I’ll see him later and love it when he winks.

  “Thanks again for breakfast,” he says, just before I walk out the door. I wave in acknowledgment but didn’t say anything else, needing a second to get my head together. I sat in my truck for several long minutes, wondering if any of that just happened or if I somehow conjured it up in psychotic, wishful delusion. I kissed my best friend. No, I kissed my best friend. I couldn’t have dreamed that up no matter how hard I tried. Believe me, I’ve done it more than once.

  If I am honest, though, now it is kind of scaring me. I’m used to worst-case scenarios and I don’t know what I would do if this turned into one. In a perfect world, everything would be great. We could date, though we don’t need to get to know anything about each other because he is the only person who knows me inside and out. There’s nothing new he could learn, and the same goes for him. Unless he’s been keeping secrets or hiding himself from me, I can’t imagine learning anything new about him either.

  I want to if there is something to learn, but, I don’t want anything to change. I mean, I want more… more everything with him, but what if he doesn’t want it with me? What if, what if, what if? Shaking off the doubt, for now, I buckle up and head to the shop. I’ll worry about this hurdle later, I have another one to deal with at the moment. I only hope this one goes more smoothly than the last one.

  ---------------------------------------------

  I stay distracted all morning, but it is a good kind of distracted. The have-somebody-on-your-mind, can’t-stop-smiling, in-love-with-your-best-friend-and-finally-kissed-him, kind of distracted.

  When I get to work, I call Zach to make sure we are all set up for today and then I call Brock to see if he’d be willing to be in a program like, ‘Second Chances’. He agrees after dad tells him that it would look good with his parole officers and the courts. Plus, he wouldn’t be stuck at dads on house arrest, he could transfer it to inside monitoring at the housing units that I understand are kind of like felon barracks.

  Now, normally, in the state of Georgia, a felon isn’t supposed to be associating with other known felons, but through this program, they kind of help each other stay out of trouble. Zach could do the screening today, to make sure Brock would be compatible with a roommate, and I have to admit I’m worried as hell about that. If he could pass it, though, I think he might enjoy having a little bit of independence and providing for himself. He’s never done it before. It might help him keep his head straight to have something to be proud of. I’m hoping, at least. They both agree to be here by one, but Zach had called and said he’s running a little bit behind.

  I manage to lose myself for a couple of hours, ordering stock parts and trying to find a mistake I’d made on last months order so I could correct it during this order. I never did find it, not before I’m interrupted.

  “Hey, Shade?” Shelly knocks on the door before peeping her head into my office. “There’s a man out front that says he’s your brother?” Alright, showtime.

  “Oh, yep, I’m expecting him. Sorry, I told him to text me when he was on his way, he just doesn’t listen well," I try and explain, hoping he hasn’t offended her in the few minutes he’s been in contact with her. “I’ll go with you," Shelly nods, looking relieved.

  When we step back into the lobby, Brock is sitting by the coffee machine, drinking a cup and looking like he just woke up.

  “Am I going to be waiting long?” he asks, rudely.

  “Shouldn’t be. Zach is on his way, he’s just running a bit late," I reply. “This is my office assistant, Shelly, Shelly, this is my brother, Brock. He’s going to be on his best behavior because our mother raised us that way, right Brock?” he rolls his eyes, but exaggerates a small bow in answer. I’ll take it.

  “How’s dad doing?” I ask, leaning against the lobby’s built-in desk area, hoping to dredge up enough small talk to pass the time until Zach gets here. Though it has been over a decade since I’ve had anything to do with my brother, he seems like the same ol’ asshole, Brock.

  “I don’t know, call him and ask him," It is my turn to roll my eyes, though I don't give him the satisfaction of snapping something back. It’s likely what he wants, confrontation. He’s the most confrontational person I know. He really has no hope in this program, I only suggested it for my dad. I think Brock living with him will send him to an early grave, and I don’t want to lose my dad because my brother is a stressful, selfish fuck.

  “He
y, Shade? Would you mind if I ran over to the gas station for a cappuccino? Not that I’m complaining, but your boy coffee leaves a lot to be desired," Shelly laughs, stacking several papers in a folder and then closing it and putting it under her desk. She has my desk and the errant papers in my office organized and in an easy enough to remember order, and I’d have given her anything she asked for that. She keeps things tidy, not only in her area, but mine as well, and both Tallon and Hudson adore her, though I think Tallon, a little more than the rest of us. Our “boy-coffee” is just plain ol’ black with sometimes, hours old dregs in the bottom of the pot. I don’t blame her for not drinking it, it tastes like shit, we just don’t often have the time to worry about fancying it up or even warming it up half the time.

  “Fine by me, go ahead and take a break for a bit, I saw you come back early and work through half of your lunch," I eye her knowingly but she just laughs.

  “I don’t like clutter. It bugs me. I want to get this stuff put where it goes. I have a system," she tells me, haughtily, but with a smile.

  “I think I’ll ask Hudson if he wants to go with me if that’s okay?” she asks, now knowing that Zach is coming in. It probably won’t be awkward, but, Shelly has made it her mission to “mother-hen” our little Hudson. I smile and nod, loving that she fits in so well here already.

  When Zach and his buddy, Freeman, get to the garage, we all migrate to the breakroom so we’re not out in the open, should anyone come in. After I make all the introductions, Zach’s friend Freeman jumps right in.

  “Second Chances really is, just that. I don’t care what you did to get locked up, though I do know because I have your file. I spent eleven years at New Orleans Parrish, back in 1998 for vehicular manslaughter. My mistake took the life of a seven-year-old girl who was riding her bicycle after church one Sunday morning because I stupidly chose to drive under the influence," he explains, sadly, changing the air in the entire room. Even Brock couldn’t hide his reaction and I’d swear I saw a little guilt and a lot of remorse.

  “My point is, we all make mistakes. Everyone does. It’s what we do after that’s important. Did you learn from yours or do you let it limit you? Do you let it beat you? Are you the same person you were or has it changed you?” Freeman asks, eyes only on my brother. I expect my brother to spout something sarcastic and rude, but he doesn’t. The only time in my life I’ve ever seen it happen, he looks up with tears in his eyes.

  “It’s changed me, but not for the better. It beats me every day,” he confesses. I hold my breath, hoping this man doesn’t say something to piss him off or antagonize him into saying what he wants to hear. My brother is a very volatile, uneasy person to talk to. His mood flips on a dime, I’ve seen it many times.

  “Do you regret it?” the man asks, no subtlety whatsoever. Just an honest question asked as if he might ask if my brother blinked today.

  “Every day.”

  “I understand you got a letter from the victim’s mother. Did you read it?” Freeman asks and my brother just nods. I feel light-headed with the need to hold my breath during each question until Brock answers. Surely, I'll pass out if I keep it up.

  “I have. Once," Brock answers, chancing a glance over at me. It is too quick to give him any sort of reaction, but I wish I knew a way to encourage him to keep it up. This is a side of my brother that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

  “Why only once? Do you still have it?” Freeman inquires, making me jittery with this line of questioning. It all seems so personal, and I’m not sure Zach and I should be here for this, or if it’s even any of Freeman’s business. I mean, he’s asking like he’s a doctor, a head doctor. I mean, it seems to be an approach that Brock is okay with, but for how long?

  “It pissed me off. I still have it, but it’s fucked up. I’ve ripped it, tried burning it, wadded it up so many times, it’s a wonder it hasn’t fell apart and blown away by now," he answers, quietly.

  “Why?” Freeman asks, not so quietly. “Why does it piss you off?”

  Brock sits with his body folded in on itself, his eyes looking straight at the table. His expression turns to one that I’m familiar with and I hope that Freeman can read the room, because he needs to back off, right now.

  “Why does it piss you off, Brock?” Freeman tries again, not giving my brother a chance to second-guess his answer.

  “Because she forgave me!” Brock bellows in the small room. “She fucking forgave me when I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. I don’t fucking deserve it!” he pushes his chair back and stands, stalking across the room and puts his fist through my wooden cabinet. “What kind of mother forgives the person who kills their kid?”

  No one says a word as Brock’s words hang in the air. Freeman waits until Brock gets himself together, his breathing loud in the small room.

  “You didn’t kill her, Brock. The drugs did," Brock scoffs and runs his fingers through his hair and stops to pull it as Freeman keeps talking. “You didn’t make her come to your house, you didn’t afflict her with the disease of addiction. You didn’t force her to use the drugs, you just supplied them. It was an unfortunate accident, but it was an accident all the same.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, it was. It was tragic and preventable, but it was still just an accident," Freeman insists. “Do you think you’d benefit from a program that gives you the tools to succeed and move past your mistakes?”

  “I don’t know,” Brock answers.

  “Do you want to try?”

  “I don’t know," Freeman isn’t deterred, he just pulls his bag to the table and pulls out a leaflet, opening and sliding it across the table for Brock to see.

  “This is Second Chances,” he says, pointing to a building with windows lining three across and three rows down. There’s a garden, a basketball court and another little side building that I’m not sure about, but it looks like a nice little apartment building in a cute little community. “This is where you’d live for the remainder of your parole. How would you feel about that?”

  “I don’t have a job. I can’t afford something like this," Brock tells him, but Freeman interrupts him with his shaking head.

  “It’s an income-based situation, so, when you get your first employment opportunity, you’ll sit down with your counselor and she’ll help you figure out what your rent will be. It’s cheap, I won’t lie, because it’s more of a contribution to your future. You’ll get a percentage back when you’re ready to leave the program and it’ll be a nice little nest egg to get you started. How do you feel about that?”

  “Will I get to visit Madison? My dad is here," Brock inquires, fingering through the leaflet.

  “After a probationary period you can qualify for weekend passes, but it wouldn’t be until after your home confinement stipulations are expired,” Zach answers for the first time since we’ve sat down.

  “Can I have a minute to talk to my brother?” Brock asks, and Freeman and Zach agree without hesitation and close the door on their way out. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s an awesome opportunity. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think I deserve any second chances and if I did, this one would be low on the list," he tells me, and for the first time, maybe ever, there’s no hate or jealousy or malice in his gaze.

  “What would be the first one?”

  “To tell mom, I’m sorry,” he answers without hesitation, “for letting her down, for not being there for you and dad, for not saying goodbye. I’m sorry for a lot of things, Shade.”

  “I am, too,” I say. “I think you should do it though, you owe it to yourself to really try. You’re young, your life isn’t over. So, you did something bad, you have a chance to turn it around and do something good, you know? You could get married, have kids even. Have a little girl and name her after mom, or have a little boy that dad can take fishing. Find something you like doing and have a career. A house. You can do all that if you want to,"

  “I don’t know about
all that, but, I can work towards somethin’ I guess,” he shrugs, flipping through the leaflet and studying it some. “You can do all that too, now, right? Dad says queers can get married and shit now. It’s legal.”

  I close my eyes and exhale slow and even. I know he doesn’t mean to be offensive, he just doesn’t know how to act right. I can’t imagine the shit he’s seen, heard and did in prison. “Wait, what?”

  “What?” he looks confused.

  “I’m not gay. I’m bi, but how do you know that?” I ask, not wanting to delve into the mechanics of gender-identity and how one chooses to identify.

  “Huh?” he truly looks confused, about as confused as I feel. Surely it isn’t something he and dad talk about, though I’d confided in mom, who I know told dad, years ago. It’s never been a problem because I’ve never been in a serious relationship, so, nobody to ever bring home to meet them, but… what?

  “Did dad tell you?” I ask, making him scoff.

  “Seriously? You’ve been with the Butler kid over half of your life and I know he’s queer, I saw him with Brady Jacoby when y’all were kids," he looks at me as if I’ve got a screw loose.

  “I – we aren’t, I mean, we weren’t together then," I try to sputter a coherent response and fail. Brock only laughs.

  “Anyway, I guess I should thank you for setting this up. I want to try. For a lot of things, not just this," he tells me, walking to the door and opening it up so Freeman and Zach can come back in. It takes a while for Brock to fill out forms and he and Freeman use my office for privacy to make phone calls to Brock’s parole officer and my dad, but, overall, I feel a lot better about how things are with my brother. I never in a million years thought we’d ever get to a place like this, but, I’m grateful that they are. I hope things work out for him.