by Rhys Ford
Their father intended to kill them. Without hesitation or a single regret, Cliff Daniels planned on wiping his sons off the face of the earth, probably from the moment Derry Washington reached out to him, and Angel had no intention of letting his father kill anymore.
As his father pulled the gun’s trigger, he dove onto Rome’s trembling, lanky body, shoving his brother down toward the display cases by the dining room’s right wall. Rome folded into him, a soft, skittering bag of bones, thin muscles, and fear, and Angel embraced him, rolling himself as tightly around his brother as he could.
When Angel’s side caught on fire, his ribs shattering under the bullet’s mindless fury, and his blood spurted out of the hole burrowing through him, Angel gasped, riding the pain and the nausea carrying him away. Struggling to breathe around his pounding heart, Angel tightened his arms around his little brother and whispered, “Love you, Rome. Don’t forget.”
RAGE WAS a marvelous thing. If he’d been by himself, West wondered if he’d be scared, more willing to buckle and fall to his knees in front of the men holding them hostage in Angel’s dream. He hoped he’d never have an answer to that question. It was far better to mull that over a shot of whiskey while watching the stars play across the sky.
Angel had to be okay. He scolded himself for thinking his lover would never rise up from the pile of entwined bodies near the velvet couch. There was blood on the couch, a dark crimson splatter quickly being sucked into the fabric’s run-down nap. West couldn’t look at the blood. He had to keep his sights on taking out the man who’d stolen Rome, then tried to beat Angel into the ground.
“West!” Roman screamed across the room. “Angel’s hurt.”
“Get out behind me, kiddo,” West said out of the side of his mouth. Cliff was on the move, crossing the room toward them.
The display cases were a wall of glass and metal to his right, but a cut through on the left was open. If he could distract Cliff, Rome could at least make it to the kitchen. The key was keeping Cliff and Byron off-balance. “Asshole, once I’m done with your cousin, I’m coming for you next.”
“Oh, this is going to be good.” Byron grinned through a slick of spittle. “You watch the kid, Cliff. I’m going to deal with this fucker.”
West’s fingers already hurt. He’d put up a fight when they cornered him in the parking lot. Lying in wait for Marzo to leave after dropping West off at the sidewalk, the Daniels men jumped him when he walked toward the Shack’s rear entrance. He’d gotten in a few good hits before Cliff pulled out a gun. Then he’d realized the danger he’d brought to Angel’s front door.
He couldn’t look at Angel, refused to chance his heart being torn from him. Rome needed their help. If—when—they got out of the bakery, away from the mess of their father, West was going to put his foot down and demand Angel and Rome stay with him. He’d had enough of being alone, of not waking up to a stormy-eyed, dark-haired Angel in his bed. He liked going downstairs for his morning coffee and finding a pair of brothers arguing over the merits of crispy rice cereal or if blue gummy bears were really necessary.
Angel was going to have his four walls of home, and West intended to be the man who gave it to him.
As soon as he beat the shit out of Angel’s father and their bastard cousin.
“Fucker! Time for you to die,” Byron growled, swinging his gun around.
The weapon barked once, but the bullet went wide, shattering one of the display cases. His finger twitched again, but it was too late for Byron to do more than backpedal a step because West’s hands were clenched, already moving to pound at Byron’s face.
His thumb ached, and his chest burned a little from the searing terror of seeing Angel fall. Shifting his feet, West planted himself and swung, putting his weight into the punch. Byron jerked his head to the side, trying to avoid the hit, but West connected, grazing his knuckles across the man’s mouth. His hand rocked with the impact, and a tooth’s edge nicked West’s skin.
Fight dirty, Deacon’d told Zig one day when they’d sat down to a dinner and she’d complained about a pack of older boys picking on her friend, a friend who’d turned out to be Rome. His brother-in-law didn’t blink when he answered her about what to do if the boys got physical with them. Fight dirty, he’d said. The point of a fight isn’t to inflict pain. It’s to end the fight. Don’t dance around it. Someone comes up and tries to hurt you, you take them down. Then you go find help.
Help wasn’t going to come. No one was going to save them from the bogeymen wearing parts of Angel’s face. West was on his own, and he had to take care of Byron before he could choke the hell out of his lover’s father.
Byron shoved West into the counter, spitting blood onto the floor. The spittle barely missed West’s foot, and his ankle twisted under him, the strained tendons giving in under the pressure of being bent sideways. Grabbing at Byron’s filthy shirt, West shoved back, slamming the man into the broken display case.
Knickknacks flew from a table next to the case, falling to the floor with a loud rattle. A long black cylinder landed near West’s foot, and he caught on its square base when he took a step forward. He fought to regain his balance, and Deacon’s words resonated once more in his mind. Heavy and thick, the battered old tchotchke was going to come in handy. Scooping it from the floor, West grinned at its weight.
Dirty in this case meant a black iron candlestick and the side of Byron’s head.
He came at West again, stretching up with his hands clenched together into a meaty doubled fist. Byron’d lost the gun somewhere, hopefully under a couch or behind a table. Either way, West knew the blow coming at him was going to hurt a hell of a lot less than a bullet.
West lashed out, holding the candlestick at its thinner end. Its base was chunky, squared off into a faux Art Deco design. It was hideous, profane in its design, and at any other time of his life, West would have gladly turned his nose up at the thing. At that moment, he sent a brief, silent thanks to the candlestick’s probably deceased creator’s lack of taste and buried a base corner into Byron’s gaunt face.
Someone with wings and divine grace must have been paying attention, because West watched in horror when the candlestick’s base bounced off Byron’s cheek and lodged into his right eye. Howling, the man spun about, covering his face with his hands. Blood gushed from between his fingers, and he turned, a wicked fire burning in his one good eye, glaring at West standing numbly with the candlestick still in his hand.
“Going to fucking kill you, asshole,” Byron promised. “Then I’m going to fuck your mouth with my dick.”
West lifted the knickknack up, prepared to defend himself, when another boom drowned out their labored breathing, and Byron’s head blew out onto West’s face and chest, powdery bloody flecks coating his skin and thickening the spit on his lip.
Byron’s eyes widened, either in shock or perhaps his mind refused to believe he was dead. The hole wasn’t big enough to see daylight through, but there was no mistaking the brain splatter oozing from the wound or the slacking droop of his jaw muscles loosening. He staggered, taking a fumbling step. Then Cliff fired twice more, shearing chunks off of Byron’s skull.
The man finally fell, his body hitting the floor with a wet splat. Blood oozed from his mangled skull, and a dribble of mucus and spit drained from his nose, his good eye rolling back in its socket.
“He was taking way too fucking long there. Now, why don’t you put that candlestick down?” Cliff smirked, aiming his gun at Rome’s head. “Then we can head to that bank, Harris.”
“Let them go first.” West refused with a shake of his head. “You don’t get shit without them getting out of here.”
“Don’t push me, asshole. I’ve only got one son left to shoot, and I don’t give a rat’s shit about him. They’re not worth crap. Neither of them. You’re an idiot if you think the older one wasn’t going to screw you out of some money. I’m just doing it before he can get to you.” Cliff motioned to the door. “Now get moving, becaus
e after the brat, there’s only you. And I care even less about you.”
The boy shuffled back, keeping away from his father, but the distance wasn’t going to matter. All it would take was one well-placed bullet and West’s world would crumble under him.
He hadn’t done the right thing by Lang growing up. They’d never been close and fought more than they’d talked. In the rare times they’d reached out to one another, it’d been too hard, or so West thought. Being with Angel and Rome gave West a scrap of hope he and his brother could have what the Daniels boys had, a teasing, argumentative, loving relationship, and all West had to do was survive Angel’s father.
He needed them—both—because as much as he loved Angel, as much as his soul belonged to the older Daniels, Roman’d captured a piece of his heart. And he was going to be damned if Angel and Rome didn’t survive along with him.
“You didn’t have to do any of this. I’d have given you what you wanted from the beginning. You didn’t have to hurt Angel,” West offered. “Let them go and I’ll give you as much money as we can get out of the bank.”
“He can’t do that.” Angel lurched to his feet. “We’re the only ones who know he’s here. He can’t let us go. And he shouldn’t, because as long as he’s out there, he knows I’m going to hunt him down, because I’m going to kill him before I let him hurt my brother.”
Movies had it right… or wrong… depending on how West looked at it. There might not have been scores of white doves or singing rodents celebrating Angel staggering across the floor, blood seeping out of a wicked-looking gouge in his side, but West felt the sweet chorus of woodland animals echoing in his heart. Especially when Angel gave him a wan smile before taking another unsteady stride toward his father.
“Think I won’t blow his head off?” Cliff threatened, waving his gun at Rome. “Or yours?”
“You can’t.”
Rome’s reedy voice quivered, fright bleaching the color from his face. He’d moved a few feet, standing not far from where Byron lay. West hadn’t seen Rome reach Byron’s side, but he had. His young face was damp with snot and sweat, and his sneakers were coated in the man’s drying blood, but it was the snub-nosed black revolver he’d aimed at his father that gave West pause.
“I know you can’t.”
“You don’t have the balls, kid,” their father laughed, an uproarious mocking boom nearly as loud as the gunshots he’d let loose in the tight space. “Put that fucking thing down! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re holding a Rossi Centerfire. It’s only got five shots. You taught me that, Dad.”
The gun in Roman’s hand shook, bobbling about as he tried to hold it steady. West carefully laid the candlestick down, then took a step toward the boy. He shuffled away, but his eyes never left his father’s face.
“You’ve only got one bullet left. I counted.”
“Rome!” Angel winced, bending over as he clenched at his ribs. The blood dripping from his side ran down his leg, a dribbling river of red splattering the fabric and the floor by Angel’s feet. “Dude, give the gun to West. We’ll take care of this. Don’t—”
“No, Angel,” Rome argued softly. “You take care of everything else. Sometimes I’ve got to take care of you. He hurt you. I can’t let him hurt you.”
“Fucking kid, you better—”
Cliff lunged at Rome, and it was all West could do to not fall apart when Roman pulled the trigger as Angel pitched forward, screaming his brother’s name.
Epilogue
“HE IS possibly one of the worst drivers I have ever seen.” Lang’s eyes went wide when a Lexus sedan lurched into the cul-de-sac. The sleek black vehicle jerked and stopped, threatening to stall before lunging forward a few feet, much to the amusement of Zig and Rome, sitting in lawn chairs on the sidewalk in front of Deacon’s shop.
“How the hell is he doing that? It’s an automatic!”
“Told you,” Marzo muttered over the rim of his coffee cup. “He’s a menace. It’s like he’s the Hindenburg and the Titanic wrapped up in one skinny disaster.”
“We are not skinny,” Lang sniffed. “It’s that you’re the size of a small mountain.”
“Never insult a man when his identical twin is standing right next to you. Shit, why didn’t we have him learn in some beater?”
Angel winced when the Lexus came to a shuddering stop. He got withering looks from Marzo and Lang, and he sighed heavily when the kids cheered at the car’s gunning engine.
“Yeah, sorry. What was I thinking? West Harris wouldn’t be caught dead in a Ford Focus.”
“Oh, he’d be caught dead in it,” Lang muttered. “Then he’d drag his decaying body around until he found a BMW to crawl into.”
On a lazy Sunday afternoon, Half Moon Bay was a subdued murmur of activity, lulled into naps, quiet times at home, or lolling about on the shore’s broad expanse of glittering white sand. The historic district with its tiny specialty shops was closing down, business coming to a crawl, then petering out the closer it got to dinnertime. There were a few restaurants doing a brisk trade near the main drag, but on the far end of Main Street where a cul-de-sac led to an overworked auto shop, a comfortable bookstore with its two cats-in-residence, and a hair salon filled with laughter and gossip, Sundays usually meant a meandering time spent doing mostly nothing in particular.
The cul-de-sac’s indolent afternoons became a thing of the past, and the slow, painful, jittering progress of an expensive sedan moving up and down the street was less of an event over the last few weekends and more of a hazard when crossing the road.
“This is too painful to watch.” Marzo crumpled up his cup into a ball, then tossed it into a recycle bin on the edge of the sidewalk. “You two can suffer through this. I’m going to see what the bookstore’s got.”
“Tell Chris he needs to take his break if he hasn’t already,” Lang called out after the bodyguard. Turning to Angel, he asked, “Do you ever have that problem? My employees keep forgetting to get off the floor and take their lunches and breaks.”
“I tend to employ stoners and slackers.” Angel shrugged. “They take breaks they’re not even supposed to take, but they make a hell of a great pastry.”
The Lexus inched forward, then sped up, careening toward the auto shop’s driveway. Rome and Zig shouted encouragement, laughing uproariously when Deacon pressed his face against the passenger window and slathered the glass with his tongue.
“Great, now West is going to have to burn the car. He knows how West is about spit,” Lang grumbled. “I can’t believe Deacon’s doing this.”
“He pulled the short straw, and West’s overcome a lot of his body-fluid issues,” Angel reminded him. “Besides, they’re actually doing pretty good together. This is what? Their fourth lesson? Marzo said most instructors don’t last two trips with West. And he’s mostly driving in a straight line now.”
The Lexus hit the curb, jumping the concrete lip running along the edge of the street. The car hung at an angle for a second, then slid back down, shaking when the tire hit the asphalt. Rome groaned and scribbled something down in a notebook he and Zig were passing back and forth. Angel didn’t want to know what the kids were writing down. If he knew his brother, he’d taken bets from everyone up and down the block on how often West did something and was running a gambling pool from his yellow-and-white-plaid beach chair.
“Is he doing okay?” Lang asked quietly. “Nightmares? Anything?”
“Rome or West?” Angel teased back, and the silent reproach in Lang’s achingly familiar blue eyes was enough to sober him. “He’s had some rough nights. Thank God he missed Dad by five miles, or it’d be worse.”
“I can’t believe… I can’t imagine being in a position where you needed to shoot your father.” Shaking his head, Lang angled himself away from the kids, keeping his voice low as he spoke. “I mean, I’ve wanted to. Our father wasn’t any treat, but he was mostly cold, unfeeling. What the two of you had to deal with is…
unimaginable. And I know that sounds privileged, but I really can’t imagine it. It’s like Deacon and Zig. They have this experience they share, a life language only they can speak, and it’s because of where they came from, how they grew up. It’s not anything I can comprehend, and I feel so ignorant, but at the same time—”
“You’re glad you don’t know?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Lang confessed with a wide grin. “And it sounds condescending to say I admire them for who they are, because it sounds like I’m spitting on where they came from.”
“I’d be the first one to tell you Deacon’s come a fuck of a long way from where he’s supposed to be. Zig too. No shame is saying that,” Angel replied. “I want more for Rome than how the rest of our family lives, and I’m not going to say I’m sorry about that. If he grows up and lives in a house with a white picket fence and has a wife and two-point-five kids, I’m good with that.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be the case.” Lang eyed the kids. “God help the world.”
“Yeah.” Angel shrugged. “But at least we’ll probably have bail money for them. I just have to make sure he gets through this shit he’s going through and comes out the other side as whole as he can get. Dad’s not seeing the light of day ever again, and Rome knows that. Adoption papers were signed last week, so he’s stuck with me now. His therapist says it’s normal for him to have bad dreams, but you know—”
“You worry,” Lang finished, nodding. “Zig has them sometimes. Less and less, but once in a while, they’re bad.”
“Yeah, they’re shitty because I don’t have any goddamn way to fix it for him.” Angel jostled his coffee cup, wondering if he could get in a refill before Deacon called an end to the lesson. “Doctor says it’ll take time. I get that.”
“Is he happy?” his lover’s twin asked, gently prodding at the scab of Angel’s worry. “Is Rome happy?”