Five brothers, p.15
Five Brothers, page 15
I carry the food off, swiping a ketchup bottle and pinching it between my elbow and hip as I go.
“I’m considering this payback for that onion ring incident!” Summer yells. “We’re even now!”
“Affirmative.”
I set the plates down in front of the two ladies, one of them so beet red, they have to be tourists.
I drop the ketchup at table eleven and grab the Coke I left at the bar, setting it in front of Sam Martinez, who comes in only when his wife puts tuna sandwiches in his lunch, which he hates but doesn’t have the heart to tell her.
“Here you go,” I tell him, dropping a fresh straw next to the drink.
“Thanks, hon.” He cuts into his steak. “Keep ’em coming.”
“Will do.”
My phone rings in my back pocket, and I pull it out, seeing Bateman’s name on my screen. I answer it, holding it to my ear as I start clearing the dirty dishes at table twelve. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Krisjen…”
He’s breathless. I pause.
“I’m sorry about this,” he says. “But you have to come home.”
I stop, standing up straight. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother is two hours late from her lunch appointment,” he tells me. “And I told her I could stay only so long today.”
But I tear off my apron, leaving the dishes as I ask, “Why are you even there? The kids are at school. My mom dropped them off this morning.”
“No,” he retorts. “It’s some staff-development thing that I’ve had on my calendar since August. The kids are off today, and I have my own errands to run. Your mom assured me she’d be back by two.”
I dart my eyes up to the clock above the breakfast bar. It’s after four.
“Can you please stay?” I ask him. “I’m really sorry, I just—”
“And your mom also hasn’t paid me in five weeks, either.”
I hesitate. “What?”
Bateman doesn’t say anything for a moment, and while I’m grateful he’s continued to come, I can’t imagine anyone else would’ve. What the hell is going on with my parents?
“I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem,” he tells me, “but I can’t get ahold of her, and I’ve had it. I need to leave.”
For today or for good? I exhale hard. “Oh—okay. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, babe.”
I hang up and swing around the counter, taking out my bag.
“Order up!” Mariette calls.
I dial my mother. I’m not worried, but if she’s on her way home, then I can stay and finish my shift at least. The call goes to voicemail, and I hang up, immediately dialing my father, who I know won’t answer.
“Krisjen! Order up!”
I wait for his voicemail and clench the phone in my hand, turning away from the customers at the counter. “I promise,” I grit out over my father’s voicemail, “you won’t be able to walk out of your fucking house someday without hearing my name. You are going to be sorry I was ever born.”
I hang up, slide my phone into my pocket, and take my backpack. I don’t blame my mother. She always paid Bateman, and if she can’t, it’s because of what my dad has done to us.
I don’t like the way she’s handling a lot of this. She has things to sell. The house. Her jewelry. She has options.
And yeah, trying to pimp me out is a whole other discussion, but if nothing else, my mother is a survivor, and none of this would be happening if my father hadn’t ditched us without a cent.
I toss my apron into the laundry basket as Summer stops next to me. “Are you okay?”
“I have to go.” I don’t even look at her. “I’m really sorry. I’ll try to make it up another time.”
“You’re supposed to cover the bar tonight,” Aracely snaps.
“Can I get some napkins, please?” someone calls out.
Followed by the bell. “Order up!”
“Seriously?” Summer begs me. “Not now. It’s busy.”
“I have to,” I tell the new girl. “It’s an emergency. I know I suck. I’m sorry.”
“Go,” Mariette tells me. “It’s okay. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I flash her a grateful smile. Then I look back to Summer, ignoring Aracely. “I’ll get you back. I promise.”
“Yeah, you will.”
I laugh a little and spot the to-go bag under the warmer. I grab it. “I’ll take this,” I tell Mariette.
Macon wasn’t home for lunch, but we saw his truck pull in a half hour ago. Mariette probably thought he’d be hungry.
I hurry out of the restaurant and make my way to the Jaegers’ house. I didn’t tell Mariette that I wasn’t sure I’d be back at all, actually. If Bateman isn’t paid, he won’t return, and I’ll have to be home. What the hell would happen if I went to college in January?
I veer right, into the garage, and find Dallas, Macon, Trace, and Army all working on an old Cadillac. A gold one that everyone knows belongs to the mayor of St. Carmen.
It’s amazing how long the Jaegers have survived by making themselves useful to the right people. Public enemies but private friends.
“I have to leave early,” I tell Macon. He sits at his workbench, inspecting something that looks like it came out from under the hood of the car. “I won’t be able to cover the bar tonight.”
He twists his screwdriver slowly, the bolt spilling off onto the table.
Seether’s “Careless Whisper” plays in the background.
Macon doesn’t reply.
“What’s wrong?” Army asks me.
Macon takes the screw, rubbing his eyes.
I study him. “N-nothing,” I reply to Army.
I inch to the side to see if I can see Macon’s eyes. The bags are darker, and I set the food down in front of him so he sees. Is he okay?
My phone rings again, and I pick it up without looking.
“Where are you?” Mars asks.
“I’m coming,” I explain. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Okay.”
“ ’Kay. Bye.”
“Will you be back tomorrow?” Army asks me.
I meet his eyes, the concern taking me off guard. I’m easy enough to replace.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I—”
“We need to know,” Dallas cuts me off.
I start to back away, out the door. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t,” he replies, leaning back underneath the hood. “You’re replaceable. By a dozen girls who won’t bring me a cold cheeseburger.”
Army glares at him. “My cheeseburgers are always fine.”
“Probably because she wants to screw you next.”
Macon fits the head of the screwdriver into the bolt, not blinking as he twists it slowly.
It spills out of the notch. He puts it back in.
He breathes in.
Then out.
In. Out.
Little turn of the tool.
Another little turn.
Breathing in. Breathing out.
Army goes on. “Stop treating her like shit.”
“She knows how to hit back.”
Macon’s jaw flexes.
“Dallas, shut up,” Trace finally chimes in.
Macon squeezes the screwdriver. His knuckles are white. His hand shakes.
My stomach churns. Does he know we’re here?
“Come on.” Dallas doesn’t stop as he saunters up to me. “Where’s the fire you had for Iron?”
“Leave her alone,” Army growls.
Macon’s hand shakes again. It won’t stop. My gaze flashes between his hand and his face. Am I the only one seeing this?
But Dallas keeps going. “We’ll leave the door open,” he taunts me. “I’m sure you’ll be back tonight.”
I back away from him.
“What the hell is your problem?” Army yells at him.
But a small voice finally pipes up. “Go take care of your family, Krisjen.”
I turn, following the direction of the whisper. All eyes turn to Macon as he rubs his own with his thumb and forefinger. I’m probably the only one who sees it. The way they’re watering.
“Mariette will have you back whenever you want,” he says, his voice gravelly.
His brothers watch him warily as he rises and moves away from the table.
“Do I tell Mariette to turn customers away?” Army asks him.
“Tell her to close the fucking doors for the rest of the day for all I care.”
Dallas moves as his brother passes, and Trace comes out from under the hood, watching him. Everyone finally noticing what I did minutes ago.
“Now get out,” Macon barks at them. “All of you. Now.”
I back toward the bay door, his brothers following and scramming before Macon hits the button and the door comes falling down. Locking him back in solitude.
Slowly, I walk to my car, while the boys drift out into the street.
“I don’t see how we can’t find any employees without fucking kids to take care of,” Dallas gripes behind me.
Something’s wrong. How can they not see it?
Is it Iron? Or…
But I just climb in my car and sit there for a second, tears starting to stream, and I don’t know why. It’s changing.
The Bay can’t change, but it is.
He looks like he’s dying.
Liv gone. Iron gone.
Macon…
8
Trace
“I seem to remember Macon having to quit a job to come home and raise you,” Army tells Dallas.
Krisjen drives off, and I stare after her car as it disappears around the trees. What the hell is she doing? I didn’t start up with her because I thought I would be rid of her when she left for college this fall. I started up with her because she’s hot and fun.
But she shouldn’t still be here. She has choices. Why does she look like she’s treading water?
“Stop being a fucking coward,” Army tells him, “and start taking your anger out on whoever really deserves it.”
“I can’t.”
“Leave her alone.”
“But I haven’t gotten a reaction out of her yet.”
I draw in a breath, my shoulders feeling heavier today.
Army moves into Dallas’s space. “You’re giving her an awful lot of attention for someone who’s supposed to hate her.”
But Dallas doesn’t back up. “You’re not scary.”
Not like Macon, he means.
“You’re draining me,” Army nearly whispers, and I can hear the fatigue in his voice as he talks to Dallas. “It’s a drag being around you anymore, and if you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong so I can help, then you just need to shut up. Or else you won’t have to worry about Macon, because right now I’m the one who wants to snap your fucking neck.”
“Tryst Five, then?” Dallas taunts.
But Army fires back. “No, still Tryst Six. You’re assuming you’re irreplaceable. There will be more Jaegers.”
I can’t help but smile a little. None of us can keep up with Dallas, except Macon, and he only accomplishes that because most of us aren’t completely certain that Macon won’t actually kill him. Looks like Army is finally learning to lead.
Dallas says nothing, simply spits on the ground and jumps into one of the trucks. He takes off the opposite way from Krisjen, into the swamps, and I don’t look to see where Army goes.
I pull out my phone, still staring off as Clay picks up.
“Hey,” she answers.
“What’s going on with Krisjen?” I ask.
“Huh?”
I wait, hearing a horn honk and realize she’s in her car.
Krisjen’s not one to hide things. Not like my family. If something is wrong, Clay knows.
Finally, she sighs. “Her dad left. Like eight months ago.”
I feel like I knew that. She might’ve hinted at it in passing. I was probably drunk or something.
“He took all the money, including her college fund,” Clay tells me. “That’s why she didn’t participate in the debutante ball with me last spring. She couldn’t afford it. He started over, a mile away on Barony Lane, with his sidepiece, and won’t front any child support until…”
“Until?”
She clears her throat, probably nervous about betraying a confidence, but she knows better with me.
“Until he knows all the kids are his,” she explains. “Mars looks…”
I nod, finishing for her. “Different from Krisjen and Paisleigh…”
Jesus Christ. What a fucking dick. He has more money than he will ever need, and at the very least, he knows Krisjen is his daughter.
I wish you all could have all the money you ever wanted, so you can see that’s not the answer.
That whole fight with Iron makes more sense. What is her mom’s plan to take care of her kids?
“He left Mrs. Conroy the house,” Clays explains, “the cars, and her jewelry, which she can sell but won’t.”
Because she’s spent a shitload of time accumulating that life.
“And I heard…” Clay pauses, and I hear her engine shut off.
“What?” I press.
She hesitates, exhaling. “So Krisjen didn’t tell me this, but my dad called this morning, and…” she says.
I tense, waiting.
“Some of the men at the club were circulating an old photo of Krisjen.” She lowers her voice as if someone can hear her in her car. “One she sent Milo back when they were together in high school probably, and like the asshole he is, he didn’t keep it to himself. Jerome Watson is saying that she’ll be his. Her mom, apparently, is pushing for it, because he’s rich, and…”
And she can’t sell her jewelry, but she can sell her daughter. Yeah, fuck.
“She would’ve been a minor in that photo, Trace,” Clay explains. “My dad called her mom. He called her dad. No one is answering. He waited until Watson hit the parking lot and then gave him a bloody nose.”
Really? Heh.
“My dad’s known Krisjen since she was a baby, you know? He was really upset.”
“Don’t worry about anything,” I tell her. “Tell your dad not to, either. We got it from here.”
“We?”
I hang up, heading for the house. I like Krisjen. I always have. She’s sweet to people, and I don’t want that ruined, because I think that’s why I was drawn to her. Neither of us has grown up, but where it’s just pathetic on me, it’s hopeful on her.
I step into the kitchen as Army pulls chicken nuggets out of the freezer. I snatch the bag out of his hand and toss it back in. “Get Dex,” I tell him. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see,” I say. “This could be it. Come on.”
* * *
—
Krisjen and I have screwed at least twenty times, but I’ve never been inside her house. I know which one it is, and I’ve passed it a million times, but the Conroys hire elsewhere for their landscaping, and when we hooked up, Krisjen never wanted to do it at her place.
Which made sense. I can be seen with a Saint. Her parents can’t see her with Swamp.
Army parks, and I walk up the long driveway to her house, avoiding the door at first. The Spanish revival has characteristics similar to my house—the clay shingles, the stucco exterior, the lead-paned windows and wooden front door. But her house is white, in excellent shape, and I know from her social media that she has a huge T-shaped pool on the back patio, which itself has as much square footage as the damn house. Or at least looks that way on Instagram.
I spot her crossing the room in front of the window, and I step over the flower bed, tapping on the glass. She jerks around, then sees me. I nod once and head for the door.
No idea if her mother is home, but I don’t think she usually is. Rather not bump into her, in any case.
Krisjen pulls open the door, and I stroll in, not waiting for an invitation. “Hey,” I say, looking around the shiny foyer. There’s a mirror on the ceiling. In the foyer. I shake my head.
“What’s up?” I hear the surprise in her voice.
I face her, Army stepping in, his kid hanging half off his shoulder. “Kids eat yet?” I ask her.
“About to.”
She’s studying me like I’m going to piss in her house.
I whirl around and head into the living room—or one of them anyway. “What are you cooking?” I shout.
But I just hear her yell behind me. “Hey!”
It’s too late. I already spot the kitchen to my left and head for the doorway. “It smells good in here,” I call out.
“It smells like her,” Army adds.
Paisleigh and Mars sit at the kitchen island, but we’ve never formally met.
Krisjen charges after me, her voice on my tail. “What the hell are you guys doing?”
But then I stop, scrunching up my nose as I turn to Army. “Do you smell that?”
He nods, hesitant. “Broccoli.”
I pick up the plate in front of the little girl, inspecting that shit that’s popular in homes with women. Thank God Macon eighty-sixed that crap the day he took over. The only green things I eat are jalapeños.
“Krisjen, what are you doing to these kids?” I eye the little girl. “You want to eat this?”
But the middle schooler next to her pulls down his headphones instead. “Who are you?” Mars asks.
I like the scowl on his face. It’s protective.
I pick up the grilled cheese on Paisleigh’s plate and take a bite.
The butter hits my tongue, and my taste buds fucking implode. “It’s actually pretty good,” I tell Army.
There’s ham on it, and the cheese is on the outside of the bread. Weird, but massively edible.
Krisjen sets her hands on her hips. “It’s croque monsieur.”
