“Maybe next time, I can shave by myself,” he told me. As he always did.
I smiled as I patted his face with the towel. “Yeah, maybe,” I replied with a nod.
“You shave by yourself, right?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he tried to work through the quandary he seemed to face on a regular basis: why can’t I do the things Blake can?
“Yeah,” I said, nodding and then lifting my hands to my face, “but I don’t, do I?”
He seemed to forget the question at hand as his lips spread into a grin. He shook his head. “You’re hairy,” he stated simply. “I wanna be hairy, too.”
I scoffed playfully, shaking my head. “You can’t be hairy.”
“Oh, yeah?” he taunted, the grin never leaving his face. “Why not?”
“Because nobody would be able to tell us apart, that’s why.” I grabbed his shirt and playfully tossed it at him. It landed in his lap as his smile widened with enthusiasm.
He pulled it on and shouted, “Yes, they would!”
I laughed at the exasperation in his tone. “We look the same, dude!”
When his head popped through, he made no attempt to hide his eye roll. “We wear different clothes, duh.”
“Well, maybe if I shaved to match you, I’d start to dress like you, too,” I teased, quirking a brow. “I’d get myself some Mickey Mouse shirts, a Red Sox jacket …”
“No way!” He was nearly hysterical now, laughing boisterously and throwing his head back. “You don’t even like baseball!”
I shrugged. “Hey, I used to be into it. Maybe if I shaved—”
A knock on the door stopped my words and I asked, “What’s up?”
“Keep it down in there,” Mom ordered from the other side. “Your father is trying to sleep.”
Jake’s eyes grew childishly wide, scared that we’d been caught laughing and having fun. I took a quick glance at my watch. It was barely eight o’clock at night, and I knew there was no way my dad had gone to bed this early. But I didn’t call her out on her joy-killing bullshit, and instead replied, “Yeah, sure. Sorry.”
I listened until her footsteps had reached the end of the hall before I rolled my eyes and flapped my hands mockingly. Just to make Jake smile, to hear his laugh again. Because I loved my brother, and nothing made me happier than seeing him happy. Even in these small, nearly insignificant ways.
Take that, Doc.
Chapter Two
I LIVED IN A warm and cozy three-bedroom house in suburban Salem, just blocks away from the town’s life source. I welcomed the somber calm that I only felt here, within the town’s force field. Close enough to be there for my brother when he needed me, with just enough distance to feel removed from my parents and the place I grew up.
The ghosts here were a lot friendlier than the memories at home.
My bones felt heavy from the interaction with my parents. They always did, every single day, but tonight, I was also left with a weariness I wasn’t used to. Maybe it’d been my session with the good doctor, setting a different tone for the rest of the day, but something felt off, unbalanced, and I slogged my way toward the kitchen for a beer.
I didn’t typically like to drink on a weeknight, but every so often, it was nice to take the edge off.
With a cold bottle in one hand and my phone in the other, I dropped into one of the two chairs at the table and looked across at the other, empty chair. I remembered when I’d bought the set a year ago, to replace the two worn-out tray tables I kept in the living room. I had told Dr. Travetti about that weekend. About the yard sale I’d stopped at and how I’d snagged the table and chairs for a song. When I’d shown her a picture, she just asked if I was going to buy anymore chairs, to which I had asked, “Why?”
I tipped the bottle back to my lips while my eyes remained trained on that chair. Sometimes I liked to imagine what it’d be like to sit across from someone who wasn’t my mirror image, knowing very well that could never be anything more than a fantasy. Being Jake’s brother was a full-time job, and one that didn’t offer health benefits or a paycheck. Hell, I could barely carve out enough space in my life for my actual job that I needed to pay the bills. So, how the hell could I manage a relationship of any kind, with responsibilities like that holding me back and weighing me down?
Sighing, I resigned to browsing through my phone while finishing the beer. First things first, I checked my email and found a message from someone looking for some new ink. The message was short and vague, and I hated vague. I was very particular about the work I’d do, agreeing mostly to custom pieces and only making a few exceptions, and vague gave me absolutely nothing to work with. Never mind that I make it very clear on every social media outlet that I prefer a detailed description of the requested piece.
Scrunching my nose with disparagement, I shook my head, already suspecting this wasn’t a job I’d end up taking. But still, I tapped out a quick message to request more info, even including my cell number, in case they’d prefer to speak directly. I sent the message away, then drained the beer before standing up from my small, two-person table.
In the heaviness brought on by the deafening silence of night, I didn’t expect the phone to begin ringing from behind me. I peered over my shoulder at the lit screen, at the unknown number, and considered letting it go to voicemail. It was already late, and I needed to get some sleep. Five AM would be here before I knew it, and the routine of my day would begin all over again. But my better judgment was shushed by curiosity, and I reached for the phone, answering it before I had another chance to think twice.
“Blake Carson,” I answered curtly.
“Hi!” came an upbeat, feminine voice on the other end. “So sorry if it’s too late to call. I just got an email from you, with this number included, so I thought I’d—”
“It’s cool. Don’t worry about it,” I interjected lightly, as my lips curled into a smile I knew was condescending. I hated being judged by superficial aspects of my being, and I hated even more to be a hypocrite. But, there was a certain type of person who was interested in my work, and if I was judging by her voice alone, this girl didn’t fit the bill. Not by a long shot.
“Oh, good.” The words were carried by a sigh of relief. “I’m really sorry I was so vague in my email. I was so excited it completely slipped my mind to tell you what exactly I wanted.”
I took a seat at the table again and leaned back in the chair. “It’s all right,” I said, raking a hand through my hair and leaving it at the base of my neck. “So, what did you have in mind?”
“Well, actually, I was hoping I could come down to the shop tomorrow and show you.”
The sigh that pushed through my nose was haughty. The statement matched her tone. This girl was interested in something she’d seen online, a shot she’d snagged from Google or Pinterest. Something that had probably been superimposed onto someone else. And now she wanted me to put it on her, and that was never going to happen.
Clearly, this was a waste of both of our time.
Still, this was my livelihood and there wasn’t any sense in earning myself a bad review. So, I made the quick albeit difficult decision to remain cordial.
“You could,” I told her, “but, if I’m being honest, I rarely do anything other than custom pieces. So, if you want, you can come in for a consultation and I could draw something up inspired by it—”
“Oh, um, I’m really looking to have this exact tattoo done, so …”
My jaw ticked as her voice trailed off with her words hanging on the thick, tense air. “Okay. So, what I can do is, take a look at what you’d like to do, and then recommend you to one of the other artists at the shop. What style is—”
“Um,” she interjected awkwardly, “actually, I really need this done by you, specifically.”
I scrubbed a hand over my bearded jaw. I wouldn’t argue with her and wouldn’t allow my pride to mar my reputation as a professional, but it was obvious I’d need to put my foot down with this one. It happened o
ccasionally, but damn, I hated it. It was a real test of my patience and I dealt with that enough as it was with my family.
“O-kay,” I drawled, patronizingly, before putting her on speakerphone to open my phone’s calendar. “I have a cancellation at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The rest of the day is pretty booked-up, so unless you wanna come in another day—”
“No, that’s fine,” she said, her voice breathy with relief. “I really appreciate you making time for me.”
“Yep,” I replied shortly. “What’s your name?”
“Audrey.”
“Audrey?” I confirmed questioningly, my fingers hovering over the phone’s keyboard.
“Yes. Like Audrey Hepburn.”
I typed her name into my calendar. “Okay, Audrey. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you so much. I’m really looking forward to it,” she answered. I had no idea what this woman looked like, but I could picture her smile in the airiness of her words. So light and delicate, as curved and bubbly as a girl’s handwriting. She probably dotted her i’s with hearts and signed her name with a smiley face, and I could’ve kicked myself for my condemnatory smirk.
“Me, too,” I lied, already predicting this would be a massive waste of my time. But at least it was in the morning. I’d get it over quick and go on with my day. No harm done. “Have a good night.”
“You, too, Blake.”
***
"Come on, Jake. Time to wake up." I opened the blinds in my brother's room, allowing the morning sunlight to stream across his Mickey Mouse comforter. "Gotta get you to school before you're late."
Jake mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the blanket over his head. I gently wrenched it from his hands and pulled it back.
"I don't wanna get up," he whined and pushed at my hands before rolling over. "Go away, Blake. I don’t wanna get up."
"I know, buddy," I sympathized. In all of our lives, Jake had never been a morning person, and I felt guilty every day for waking him up. But someone had to get him up and get him to school, and since my parents would never do it without the battle of the century taking place, that someone had to be me. "You want some oatmeal for breakfast?"
"No way, José," he protested and rolled over again. "Go away."
"How about some fruit? An apple, or a banana, maybe?"
Jake finally rolled to face me. In his grasp, he held his ratty stuffed dog, Mutty. Sometimes, when his forehead crumpled with concern or the creases around his eyes deepened, it was easy to forget the challenges he’d been burdened with. But in these moments, I could easily look beyond his exterior and toward the child within. When his mouth twisted into a pout like this, like he was four instead of almost thirty-four, it was hard to remember that this was my older brother albeit by two minutes.
"Banana with sugar?" he asked.
I raised an eyebrow and bargained, "Will you get up?"
"Uh-huh." He pulled himself into a seated position to prove he was good on his promise.
I crossed his bedroom to grab the clothes I’d laid out for him. "Will you get dressed?"
"You betcha." Jake held out his arms and I handed him the clothes.
"Okay. Then a banana with sugar, it is." I left his room and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
Mom and Dad sat at the table with coffee cups and cellphones in hand, playing the part of a picturesque American couple in their 60’s, living comfortably in the 21st century. While my routine was to get my brother out of bed and to daycare before I headed to work, this was theirs.
Must be nice.
I grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit on the table and went in search of the sugar. It’d been in the same spot my entire life, but today, when I needed it, it seemed to have gone missing.
Addressing my parents with a sigh, I asked, “Where’d the sugar go?”
Mom turned from her phone and pointed toward a white canister right in front of me. “Right there.”
“These are new,” I commented, opening the one clearly labelled Sugar. I felt like a moron for even missing it in the first place.
“Mom picked them up from the store a couple days ago,” Dad said. “Nice, aren’t they?”
“Not my style, but yeah, they’re nice,” I said, nodding as I grabbed a knife to slice the banana into a bowl.
Mom scoffed and shook her head. “Always have to throw your two cents in.”
“Huh?”
Laying her phone down, she leaned back in her chair and pinned me down with a steely glare. “You can’t just say, ‘Yeah, Mom, they’re nice.’ You just have to add something negative. Why does it matter if they’re not your style, Blake? You think I don’t know that?”
“No,” I muttered, pressing my lips into a thin, terse line.
“Okay. So, then why do you have to say it?”
I canted my head and gritted my teeth. My slicing quickened and became more aggressive. “I … don’t know, Mom. Guess it’s just all a part of my charming personality.”
She uttered a disgusted noise and turned away from me. “Always negative. Always sarcastic,” she mumbled under her breath and picked up her phone.
“Maybe I should put that on my resumé.”
“Blake,” Dad warned, shaking his head.
I turned away to grab a spoon and roll my eyes. Snippy retorts nagged at my tongue, but I didn’t say anything more. I kept my lips sealed as I dusted the banana slices with sugar, giving my mother the opportunity to either fire back or accept the miniscule scrap of peace I’d offered by staying quiet.
Much to my surprise, she chose the latter.
Jake entered the kitchen with his sneakers on the wrong feet. I was about to say something as I placed his breakfast on the table, when Mom pointed it out first. She finished by saying, “Honestly, honey, are you ever going to learn? You’re almost thirty-four years old, for crying out loud!”
My lips twisted with a hot anger as I ordered my brother to sit down and eat, before I dropped to my knees to help fix his shoes. He laughed innocently at my mother’s probably well-intentioned jab. She never meant to be nasty toward him—she saved that for me, the negative, sarcastic, problematic son—but I couldn’t help feeling the overwhelming need to defend him. To point out that he was never going to learn, no matter how old he got. And to ask her why she felt the need to rub it in his face, when he was all too aware of how different he was.
But I said nothing, choosing to keep the peace, until after Jake had eaten his breakfast and we were heading out the door. Mom gave Jake a hug, kissed his cheek, and wished him a good day, and as she turned to head back into the kitchen, she casually said, “You better drive safe, Blake, I swear.”
She instructed me to drive safely every damn day, and I normally mumbled an agreement before getting out of there. But today, she’d thought to add that extra oomph with the “I swear.” It felt like a threat, an attack, and I stopped with my hand on the door.
“When the hell have I ever been in an accident?” I foolishly asked, shaking my head with disgust.
Turning slowly on her heel, she cocked her head with a wash of incredulous disgust blanketing her features. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that,” she spat at me before rushing into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the gaping hole in my chest neither of us would allow to heal.
***
“You look like shit,” my co-worker and friend, Celia, eloquently pointed out as I hurried through the back door of Salem Skin.
“It’s been a fuckin’ day,” I explained gruffly, dropping my leather jacket on the back of the couch in our breakroom.
“It’s nine in the morning,” she laughed, crossing her arms and smirking.
“And that should tell you how shit’s been going for me, so don’t piss me off,” I threatened in jest.
She nodded with sympathy and tipped her head toward the front of the shop. “Well, it’s about to get even better. Girl walked in about fifteen minutes ago asking for you. Said she made
an appointment with you?”
I groaned under my breath and scrubbed a hand over my chin. I’d completely forgotten about the consultation I’d scheduled with that chick, Audrey. “Oh, shit,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Yeah, we talked last night.”
Cee smirked and her eyes crinkled with amusement. “Well, good luck with that. She’s a freakin’ Barbie doll, man.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say, I don’t envy you.”
I grumbled a thanks and left the breakroom to head toward the front of the shop. Gus, my boss, sat at the counter with an issue of ModInk in hand. He lifted his head at the sound of my heavy footsteps and nodded a greeting before shifting a glance toward the young woman sitting on the couch. With her legs crossed, one foot swinging carefree in the air, her face was downturned as she scrolled through her phone. I couldn’t discern from the angle what her features looked like, but from where I stood, it was clear she was attractive. Gus’s eyebrows raised when he looked back to me, a suggestive glint in his eyes, and I smirked as my head shook.
She might’ve been pretty, but I knew, from the pastels she wore and the pink manicure on her long nails, she wasn’t my type.
Casually stuffing my hands in my pockets, I took another step toward her. “Audrey?”
She lifted her eyes from the phone and smiled brightly at the sight of me. Hastily stuffing her phone in her bag, she rose to her feet and extended a hand. "You must be Blake! Hi! It’s so nice to meet you."
I had to bite back my chuckle as I enveloped her palm in mine. “How’s it goin’?”
“Good!” she exclaimed, nodding and pinning me to the spot with her powder blue eyes.
I would never say that I’d never seen eyes that color before—that’d make me a liar—but it was their shape and size that struck me dumbfounded. They were round and big, wide open as if she were always surprised by something. Like a deer perpetually caught in the headlights. There was something almost comical and cartoonish about them, and I might’ve even laughed, had they not suited the rest of her face so well. Her heart-shaped face and straight nose. Her full, bottom lip and the emphasized curve of her Cupid’s bow. A small, pointy chin sat just above a long slender neck, leading the way to an exposed and delicate collarbone.
Warrior Blue Page 2
