Beard With Me: Winston Brothers

by Penny Reid

  My fingers twitched at the mention of my siblings. I didn’t like the idea of Jethro thinking he could talk to Ashley or Beau. A burr of discomfort settled between my shoulder blades.

  “When did you talk to Ash and Beau?”

  “You’re leaving soon?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  Taking a deep breath, I flexed my fingers. I was going home today, as a matter of fact, but it wasn’t something I wished to discuss with Jethro. I couldn’t think of a single thing I wanted to discuss with Jethro. Ever.

  I heard the door click shut followed by footsteps on the linoleum floor. He’d decided to cross the threshold. My hand curled into a fist. They hadn’t broken all the fingers in my hands, just a few. Those were the bones that healed first, all the others had taken longer.

  “Billy, what happened? No one is talking at the club. Why were you there? Why’d they beat you up?”

  Licking my lips, because they were dry, I felt something. A little something. I shied away from it.

  Think of Scarlet.

  I’d known all along she wasn’t mine to keep. There was no way she could’ve stayed in Green Valley, in the short or the long term. She had to leave, otherwise she would’ve been within Razor’s reach and he would’ve ruined everything that made her beautiful. He would’ve broken her spirit.

  Once they discharged me, and as soon as I got home today, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I would put Scarlet’s haikus in Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, the book Dolly Payton had bought me, where I kept that little flower she’d placed on the plate last winter. A primrose. I’d pressed it between the pages.

  I wanted to keep it all safe, my mementos of her, somewhere no one would ever look.

  The other thing I wanted to do was find her music notebook. And then I’d find Ben McClure. I’d question him and discover where she was so I could send it to her. Not knowing where she was, or if she was for sure safe, had been a daily strain on my mind. Cletus had informed me while I’d been in the hospital that she hadn’t gone with Carla to California. My brother had also said that he’d tried to talk to Ben about Scarlet, but Ben wouldn’t tell him anything.

  She should have her notebook. I’d write her a letter and I’d tell her . . . I have no idea what to tell her.

  Would I tell her Sam lost the baby last winter? That Sam and I weren’t getting married? Would it matter? Did it matter that I mourned the loss of my child even as I rejoiced at being free, not having to marry the baby’s mother? And how was that possible? To mourn and rejoice?

  But I’m not free. I was a tangle of too many things. I couldn’t find the beginning or the end.

  “Are you going to say anything?”

  I worked to unclench my fists and found I couldn’t. “What do you want, Jet?”

  He laughed, like I frustrated him. “I want to know what happened.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you serious? You almost died. I’d like to know why they—”

  “Why?” I turned to my brother, facing him, looking for some clue because I was honestly curious what the hell difference it made to him. “Is there ever a good reason to almost kill someone? Revenge maybe? You people deal in revenge, right? If I told you your brothers almost killed me to get revenge, would that make a difference? Would that set your mind at ease?”

  I watched him gulp, frown, saying nothing.

  “You know how it is, Jet. You’re one of them. They’re your family now.”

  Jethro cringed, his gaze dropping like mine was too heavy to hold. “I just want to know what happened.”

  “I betrayed them,” I said, unable to look away from his face, enjoying his tortured reaction for some bizarre reason, deriving an unhealthy amount of satisfaction from the streaks of anguish painting his cheeks pale. “So I guess I deserved it, right?”

  My older brother closed his eyes, his hands coming to his hips. “If I’d been there, I would’ve stopped it.”

  I snorted. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  His glare cut to mine. “You know I would’ve. I wouldn’t have let them touch you.”

  I laughed. And then I laughed harder, pushing myself up from my chair even though the action still hurt something fierce. I could walk, but my bones and my muscles felt rickety, unsteady, like they wanted to pull apart from each other instead of work together. I laughed through the pain.

  “Billy—”

  “I know no such thing.” I wiped at my eyes, still chuckling, walking over to the table where a pitcher of water had been set. My clothes were all too big for me, hanging on my shoulders, belted at my hips. I was skin and newly mended bones, someone else, someone both old and new.

  “You are my brother,” he said, his voice full of gravel, but also a noteworthy amount of passion. I almost believed he meant it. And yet, I didn’t care what he believed.

  “No. I haven’t been your brother for a very long time.”

  “Would you—”

  “You’ve chosen who’s important to you through your actions, Jet. It’s on your face, it’s the words you speak, to me and to . . .” I scratched my forehead, the words catching. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “You’ve chosen your side.” Shaking my head, I poured myself a glass of water, watching my body complete the action. It had taken me four months before I could hold a full pitcher of water and longer still before I’d been able to hold it steady enough to pour.

  This is what his brothers had done, these were the people he’d chosen. Fuck that. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

  “What can I do?” Jethro pleaded. “If I’d been there, I would’ve stopped them. I would have.”

  “Just like you stopped Darrell? When we were kids?” I set down the pitcher, my hands balling into fists again. I was certainly feeling something now, a crack had formed in my calm, a deep slash, much deeper than the cuts Razor had carved into my left shoulder. I blurted and felt in tandem, "You disgust me."

  Jethro huffed, and though my back was to him, I knew he was rolling his eyes. "Here we go."

  "You want to be just like our father?” I faced him, my legs protesting. “Guess what, you’re just the same. Don’t they call you Romeo Jr. at the club?”

  Jethro’s jaw clamped shut, he spoke through gritted teeth. “I never raised a hand to a woman, and I never would."

  "Yeah, you say that, but you didn't raise a hand to defend our mother, did you?"

  "There were other ways of getting Darrell to stop, Billy!” he shouted, words I’d heard many times growing up. “There's other ways, not just fighting."

  "You mean distracting." I snorted again, and my disgust bloomed, thrived, flourished, breaking through my calm so completely, the intensity of it stole my breath.

  I hate him. I hate him so much.

  "Yes, I mean distracting him.” Jet took a half step forward, his frown severe. “It worked growing up and it would still be working now if you didn’t—"

  "If I didn't get in the way of Darrell's fist? But someone had to do it. You being charming didn't always work, Jet. Yeah, sometimes you could get in his way with words, but you know as well as I do, it didn’t always work."

  "But it worked most of the time, and it kept y’all safe, didn't it?” His voice rose again, and his frustration was a varnish, coating his words. “Darrell didn't put a hand on you or Cletus or Duane until you decided to provoke him.”

  "You know how fucked up you sound right now? Someone had to protect our mother!"

  "You were twelve, Billy. That someone wasn’t you!”

  “Well, it obviously wasn’t you either.”

  “Don't you get it?” He charged forward, his eyes frantic, seeming desperate. “She asked me to protect you! To keep y'all safe. And I did. I kept you safe. I was the one keeping him out of the house, I was the one standing between you and him, Cletus and him, Duane and him, all the time. I used to stay up late at night and make sure—when he got home—he was either sober and in a good mood, or too
drunk to beat on anyone. I was so careful. And you go and ruin everything."

  I shook my head, grinding my teeth, causing a shooting pain to travel up the side of my face. I’d heard all this before. Nothing had changed. He didn’t see, he would never see.

  “Why do you think he’s stayed gone all these years?” Jethro asked. It sounded like an accusation. “You think he would’ve stayed gone if I hadn’t been there with him?”

  I grew very still, simmering fury pushing disgust to the side. “We both know why Darrell hasn’t come back. Momma would’ve had him arrested.”

  Now Jet laughed. “Yeah. Maybe your stunt is why he left originally. But do you really think he would’ve left you and Momma and everyone else in peace if I hadn’t been a recruit?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No. Not bullshit.”

  “Leave.” I was tired of him and his visit and the stories he told himself so he could sleep at night and his guilt, if he was capable of feeling any.

  “You need to listen—”

  “Why? What the fuck do you want from me?” I worked to control my rage and cursed my weak body, promising myself that I’d never be weak again. Promising myself I’d never be at the mercy of anyone ever again, least of all Jethro and our father.

  He breathed out, his eyes moving between mine, his eyebrows pulled tightly together. “I want us to be brothers again,” he said, his voice raw with hope. “I want to come home. I want to know Roscoe. He barely knows who I am.”

  Like. Hell.

  Roscoe was the baby. He was my little buddy. He’d grown up in a house mostly free of Jethro and Darrell and neither of them would have influence over him. Over my dead body or theirs.

  I said nothing because I couldn’t, I was so angry. I just stared at my brother while he searched my face. If he was looking for something to give him a glimmer of hope, he’d be disappointed.

  “Billy. Please.”

  “Never,” I said, shaking my head, using the pain in my legs and back and arms to fuel my wrath and my determination. “It’s never going to happen. You are never welcome. Never.”

  “What if—”

  “No, Jet. It doesn’t work like this. You don’t get to change your mind whenever the fuck you want. You don’t get to choose your friend and MC brothers over your own family, time and time again. No.” I shook my head, whispering now so he’d really listen. “You’re dead to me. You are not my brother. And you need to leave. Now.”

  *More Months Later*

  “Do you think you’ll play football this year?” Roscoe’s eyes moved over my body. “You’re smaller than you were last year, but that just means you’ll be faster too. Maybe you could be a receiver instead of a quarterback.”

  I lifted an eyebrow at my little brother. “I think my football days are behind me.”

  “Then why’re you working out so much? And can I eat that?” Roscoe pointed to a piece of bacon on my plate. “I’m so hungry.”

  “Sure. Go for it.” I pushed my plate over. He snatched it off and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth.

  “Hey. Can I have the other piece?” This question came from Duane, who was sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, frowning at me and Roscoe.

  I scowled. “No, you may not. You already had seven.”

  Duane also scowled, moving to stand.

  “And clear your plate. We’re not your maids,” I added, squinting at his bad attitude. Something had to be done about that. Things were getting worse with him.

  “I was going to, sheesh.” The surly twin rolled his eyes, grabbing his empty (and scraped clean) plate and walking it to the sink.

  “I have to go,” Roscoe said around a mouthful of bacon, checking his watch before picking up his plate and taking it to the sink.

  “Meeting Simone?” I picked up my toast to butter it.

  “Yeah. With school starting next week, I think she’s trying to get through her summer list.” Roscoe walked back to me, placing his arm along my shoulders and giving my cheek a kiss. “I’ll take my bike. Is that okay?”

  I nodded. “If you hear a motorcycle, pull into the woods.”

  “I know.” He smiled, his teeth too big for his face. This kid was the cutest.

  “Summer list?” Duane asked, walking over to stand nearby.

  “Mr. Payton was supposed to pick us up some owl pellets to dissect.” Roscoe’s arm slid from my back and he sighed, like he felt the burden of his nine years and it was a heavy one. “But now she’s saying she wants to cut open a frog too. I’m basically going over there to save Simone from her murderous impulses.”

  Duane’s mouth hooked up, and he tracked our youngest brother as he ran from the room. I also watched Roscoe go, wondering if I’d ever been so young. Had I ever run everywhere like my littlest brother? Like I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next?

  I didn’t think so.

  “Billy.”

  I glanced at Duane and found the entirety of his surly attention pointed at my face.

  “Yeah?”

  He chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes narrowing. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure. Take a seat.”

  He did, and I shifted my plate closer to me, just in case he still had designs on my bacon.

  “It’s about, uh . . .” Duane scratched his neck. “It’s about this girl.” My brother’s voice cracked on the word girl just as I was lifting the buttered toast to my mouth. It was a good thing I hadn’t taken a bite, otherwise I would’ve choked.

  “Oh?” I said when I’d recovered, careful to sound as disinterested as possible. Once you showed interest in Duane or curiosity beyond his level of comfort, he closed up tighter than a safety deposit box. Sorta like Scarlet.

  My eyes dropped to my plate. Months ago, as soon as I could, I’d sought out Ben McClure and asked about Scarlet. We’d both been at church the week after I was released from the rehab facility. Surprisingly, he’d been more receptive to me than Cletus, giving me a genuine smile, which I hadn’t expected.

  He’d said, “I’ll tell you the same thing I told your brother. Scarlet came with me to Nashville. Carla got on the bus for California, Scarlet did not. Scarlet is gone. But I know for a fact she’s safe. I haven’t talked to Scarlet in months. But don’t worry, she is safe. I saw to that.” But then he added, “If Cletus cared about Scarlet, he’d let her go. He’d let her move on to something better, to be a better version of herself.”

  Before I could question him further or suss out his words—which sounded like a riddle—we were surrounded by well-meaning well-wishers. Everybody was wanting either his attention or mine. Since then, I hadn’t seen Ben at church. When I asked after him, his parents said he’d joined the Army and wouldn’t be back for months.

  “How do you talk to girls?” Duane sounded frustrated.

  “Well, your sister is a girl. Maybe you should ask her.”

  He huffed. “You know what I mean. Ash is Ash. She’s a big softy. Even when we torture her, she always forgives us. But this girl . . .” He frowned so hard, two lines appeared between his eyebrows. “I can’t stand her.”

  “Then don’t talk to her.”

  “No, I mean, she makes me crazy. I think about her all the time. She doesn’t take any of my shit. You know?”

  Do not smile, do not smile. “I reckon I have some idea.”

  He huffed again, gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. “She hates my guts and won’t even talk to me. I want to stop thinking about her. What can I do?”

  Looking at my brother’s young but tormented features, I stalled by taking that bite of toast. I chewed. I swallowed. Then I washed it down with juice.

  He stared at me the whole time, his eyes big and watchful, like he expected the next words out of my mouth to hold the key to his salvation. But I didn’t know what to say. I had no clue.

  “Maybe—” I took a deep breath, trying to come up with something I would’ve wanted to hear back in January when I’d woken
up, and the torment of my heart had numbed the pain in my body. “Maybe you could say sorry.”

  “I tried that. She won’t listen to me.”

  “You said she hates your guts? Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent,” he said, slumping forward a little. “And every time I try to talk to her, I mess it up. Say something stupid and mean. Why do I do that?”

  “Hmm.” I knew what that was like. “It’s an inconvenient truth not frequently acknowledged, Duane. Boys, men, don’t generally like feeling out of control. They don’t embrace it the same way girls and women do—generally. That’s why you’re saying the mean things. She makes you feel crazy, uncertain, and it’s scary.”

  “I’m not scared.” He glared at me. “I’m just—”

  “Scared,” I supplied, taking another bite of my toast.

  “I’m not scared of anything,” he said again, but this time mostly to himself. His eyes fell to the table and he picked at a dried piece of candle wax, scraping at it with his thumb. “I just wish I didn’t think about her so much.”

  He has no idea.

  My days and nights had been spent absorbed in thoughts of Scarlet since . . . well, since I first heard her sing, I reckoned. Granted, the direction of my thoughts had taken a winding road, but looking back, it seemed inevitable that I’d end up here, loving her.

  I loved her and she was gone.

  Keeping busy helped distract me, working on my health, getting stronger, catching up with schoolwork. I’d been able to complete a lot of small projects around the house, read a lot of books.

  But at night, when it was dark and quiet, I’d find myself staring at the bed where she’d slept. Her pajamas sat in the same spot she left them at the foot of the mattress, and I ached.

  I glanced at my little brother. “Hey, Duane.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You want to build a cabin with me?”

  “What?”

  “A cabin.”

  “Is this your way of trying to get me to help you fix up the carriage house?” He narrowed his eyes, turning his head slightly, like he found my answer suspect. Scarlet did that too, that look.