by Mandie Tepe
When Chance had gone off to join the Navy after high school graduation he did it with a lot of guilt. River had good friends with decent parents Chance could rely on to keep an eye on his brother. Chance had made sure to touch base with them before he left, and he felt like River’s honorary families would have his back. Those two friends—more like brothers really—were up on the stage with him right now.
Over the years, when Chance could get home on leave, he did. If River was on break from school and Chance wasn’t deployed, he’d fly his little brother out to spend time in San Diego with him. And when they couldn’t be together, they talked at least three times a week.
Right now, River stood front and center, dressed in all black from his pearl snap shirt and black jeans to the soles of his boots. His shaggy black hair was dripping with sweat as he screamed into the microphone and wailed on his guitar. The black of his hair came from a bottle. If he’d left it natural, it would be blonde like Chance’s, but River believed the look enhanced his badass rock’n’roll allure. Chance couldn’t fault him for believing that, because it seemed to work for him. Even now, salivating young women pressed up against the front of the stage.
Chance had his own share of attention, but was ignoring it that evening. He was there to touch base with his brother. Not to hook up.
After a couple more songs, River’s Edge left the stage to take a break. River made his way immediately over to the bar to embrace Chance.
“Good to see you in one piece, bro,” he said before pulling back and examining him carefully. “Hard to tell in this light, but I don’t see any new scars.”
Chance grinned. “Came away unscathed this time.”
“What badassery were you up to and where were you this go ‘round?” River asked that same question after every one of Chance’s deployments.
And Chance answered the same way he always did. “I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”
River snorted. “That’s gonna be the title of the next song I write.”
“I’d download it,” Chance quipped.
“Come outside and have a smoke with me,” River invited before turning on his heel and heading toward the door.
Chance followed, watching as River dispensed nods and seductive smiles to the women trying to get his attention. He never paused until they were through the door and leaning against the brick façade of the building.
Chance shook his head as River offered him a cigarette. “Still on the wagon.” He’d quit a couple of years earlier toward the end of his SEAL career when PT workouts began to kick his butt more and more.
River took a deep inhale and asked, “When did you get in?” on a smoky exhale.
“Around two this morning. Thanks for dropping my mail and groceries by.” He grinned. “I hear you had a little help.”
“What?” River asked confused.
“Some girl. Willy had some things to say about her.”
“Willy? We didn’t see her.”
“Well, she saw you.”
“Yeah. She always does,” River sighed. “What’d she have to say about Brittany?”
“Her heels were too high.”
“Her heels were too high,” River repeated.
“That’s what I said,” Chance laughed. “What color were they?”
“What color were what?”
“Brittany’s heels,” Chance clarified.
“Hell if I know,” River shrugged. “Why?”
“They sounded sexy, and I was just wondering.” Chance looked over his shoulder toward the door. “She here tonight?”
“Nah. She deals blackjack at a casino in St. Charles nights.”
“Ah. You two serious?”
River answered with a non-verbal “you’re kidding—right?” expression.
Chance smirked. “Okay. How ‘bout you only bring your serious girlfriends to my place in the future?”
“I don’t have serious girlfriends,” his brother reminded him on another smoky exhale.
“Right. So,” Chance got to his reason for being there, “you doing okay?”
“I’m good,” River answered. “Got gigs booked local for the next two weeks solid. Heading to K.C. for the week after.”
“Nice. You guys are sounding great.”
“Thanks.” River took a last drag, dropped the butt and smashed it with a twist of the toe of his boot, then bent to pick it up. After he straightened, he looked up at his taller and much bulkier—though no more tattooed—brother, and asked, “You call Mom? Let her know you’re back?”
“Not yet. Something going on with her?”
River shrugged. “All signs point to things getting rocky with Number 5.” They didn’t bother getting to know their steps any more, rarely even referring to them by their names. “She’s called me every day since last Wednesday which means he doesn’t have her complete attention any more.”
Today was Monday. Their mother had all the time in the world for her boys when she didn’t have a man. When she did—weeks and sometimes months—went by before she called or took their calls.
“Great,” Chance muttered. “Did you ask about her husband?”
“Hell, no. I don’t want to get in the middle of that crap.” River paused in an internal debate over indulging in a second cigarette. He held strong. “She wants to have dinner.”
“I’ll call her tomorrow. Set something up for the three of us so neither of us have to go it alone with her. Lunch work better for you?”
“No way,” River smirked, which reminded Chance his brother played music into the wee hours of the morning and slept most of the day. “None of our gigs start before eight, so an early dinner is good.”
“Got it. How’s Dad? I need to call him too.”
“I’ve heard from Dad exactly once since you left. He called to see if I wanted some Cardinals tickets he had. His Number Four had other plans for him that day.”
“Did you take the tickets?”
“Of course. It was an afternoon game. Met up with him in the Walmart parking lot for the hand off.”
Number Four didn’t like having the grown stepsons around because it reminded her how old her husband actually was and that he was not the age she wished him to be.
“How did he look?” Chance asked.
“Whipped,” River answered straight-faced. “Fake tanned. Botoxed.”
Chance laughed, but was interrupted when River’s drummer leaned out the door to tell him it was time to re-take the stage. As they walked back in, Chance greeted River’s band mates with hugs and slaps on backs. He returned to his seat at the bar, had another beer and listened to half of the next set before heading out on his drive back to Carrefour.
CHAPTER 2
Chance made it back to Crosswinds Apartments just after midnight. The building wasn’t as large as most modern apartment buildings. It was a boxy two-story structure built in the 1950s. There had been improvements made, but the building was still dated. Each floor had five apartments—two on either side of the wide hallway and one at the far end. He lived in the first apartment on the left at the top of the staircase. His neighbors were Axel who was next to him, Willy at the far end of the hall, Roscoe in the second apartment on the right side of the hall, and the new neighbor in the first apartment directly across from Chance. The bottom floor was inhabited by the Hansons, a young couple with a toddler son; Hector and Marisol (Chance’s former across-the-hall neighbor); Marty and Leona Ricci, a retired couple; a single widow lady named Olga Maly who spent most of her days at the senior center downtown or volunteering at a local hospital; and the building supervisor, Ben Tyler, who lived with his wife Anita and their sullen teenaged son Shad directly below Willy’s place. The eight side units were two-bedroom, but the residences at the end of the hallways were larger with three bedrooms.
Chance liked the building. It had character. He also liked his neighbors. Everyone was nice and friendly enough (except for Shad, the landlord’s son), but not too invasive. Before the new
neighbor moved in, Chance was the newest resident and had been immediately accepted by everyone. The older ladies liked to mother him in a non-smothering way. Willy and the other widow lady used him to do things around their apartments if he was in town because they never knew if Ben would be too busy and send his son to take care of their issues. They preferred not dealing with the boy sulking and pouting about having to unclog their drains or whatever. Chance also liked hanging out with the younger residents and shooting the bull with the older men.
The latter was what he found himself doing soon after he returned home that night. Roscoe kept two canvas folding chairs outside his door, as if that were his front porch. On nice days, he’d take them out to the front lawn under the trees, but normally they stayed by his door. No one ever bothered them. When Chance had come up the stairs, Roscoe was sitting, one leg crossed over the other and a can of beer in his hand.
Roscoe held a special place in Chance’s heart. He was an African-American retired barge worker, stooped and slight of frame. He was also a Vietnam War veteran and he and Chance spent hours and hours swapping tall tales about their wartime service and smack talking each others’ branch affiliations . . . Chance’s Navy and Roscoe’s Marines.
Chance could hear a not-too-out-of-control party going at Axel’s across the hall from where Roscoe sat. He approached his elderly friend.
“Party keeping you up, Roscoe?”
Roscoe waved a hand, “Nah, son. I heard worse, an’ even been at worse. Why, one time when I was stationed at Twentynine Palms . . .”
And the old man was off on one of his crazy tall tales, so Chance sat in the chair next to his and settled in to listen. Roscoe’s stories never disappointed.
After a half hour or so of shooting the bull with the old man, they were both startled when the door to Roscoe’s new next-door neighbor jerked open suddenly and a blur shot out of it. Chance blinked in surprise at the tiny blonde woman stalking diagonally across the hallway toward Axel’s door.
“Jimi girl!” Roscoe exclaimed on a huge smile. “How you doin’?”
She didn’t look at Roscoe, but gritted out in an attempt at friendliness, “Fine, thanks, Roscoe. You?”
Jimi?! When Willy had said the new resident was named Jimi, he imagined a man. Not a small, curvy figure dressed in spring green capris-length pajama pants and matching camisole, blondish hair bundled in a pile of curls high at the back of her head, and bare feet with glittery purple polished nails. She reminded him of a fairy. Tinkerbell. Angry Tinkerbell it appeared.
Suddenly Chance remembered she was a police officer . . . or worked for the police department in some capacity or other. When he was in town, he tried to keep an eye on things and the last thing he wanted to see was the cops coming down on Axel. Sure, his partying could get out of control, but Chance had been able to calm things down when he was in residence. The other neighbors could get annoyed, but were generally good-natured about it because Axel was someone you could talk sense to and he’d listen. Then again, they never had CPD personnel living in the building before now.
Jimi got to the door and began banging on it and yelling, “Axel! Get out here. Now!”
Chance jumped to his feet and hurried over to try to play peacemaker. It appeared the new resident was a feisty one to take on their biker neighbor. Before he could say anything, the door opened on a whoosh.
“What’s goin’ on?” Axel demanded. His eyes landed on the small woman in front of him shooting lasers at him from her eyes. “Oh hey, Jimi.” His eyes hit Chance standing behind her. “Yo, Chance! How you doin’, bro? Heard you come in last night.” He brushed past Jimi as if she weren’t even there and clasped Chance’s hand while bumping chests.
Chance gave him a lame, “Hey, Axel,” before Jimi interrupted.
“Axel! I want my key back,” she demanded.
Whoa, Chance thought. They hooked up seriously enough that she’d given him her key? And it already fell apart? That didn’t take long. He studied them and could not for the life of him see them together.
“Why?” Axel asked . . . a clueless man like any other who had screwed up and had no idea how.
She thrust a foot out, hitched a hip, plopped on a hand on it and held out the other hand. “Gimme.”
“Why?” he asked again. “What about the next time you want me to feed your fish while you’re gone? You’re just gonna hafta give it to me again,” he stated in a reasoning voice.
Whoa, Chance thought again. She had fish for pets? And she and Axel had gotten close enough in a couple of weeks for her to trust him to take care of them? Chance wouldn’t trust Axel to take care of a pet rock . . . if he had one.
She leaned in and growled strangely, “Banana ice cream.”
Chance blinked in confusion. He thought he heard Roscoe choke on a sip of beer or something.
Meanwhile, Axel took on a wheedling tone, “Now, Jimi. It’s not that big a deal. I asked some people over for carryout this past weekend and forgot to order dessert. I’ll pay it back. Eventually.”
“No, you won’t,” she retorted. “And it’s up to three gallons you’ve stolen n—”
“Two and half,” he interrupted. “One of those gallons was half gone when I got to it.”
Banana ice cream? She was mad about missing banana ice cream and not the fact that, looking inside the apartment, three biker babes and only one dude could be seen partying in there?
He decided to intervene before she noticed and really went off. “Now, let’s calm down,” Chance soothed. “No need for a lovers’ spat over ice cream—right?”
Jimi stiffened like a board and spun to face him while Axel’s face went slack.
“L-l-lovers’ spat?” Axel sputtered.
Her face screwed up. “Eeuww.”
Axel shook his head. “She’s my cousin, dude. My first cousin.”
Well, that explained her trusting him to take care of her fish. Maybe. Kind of. Not at all, actually.
“Your cousin?” Chance looked from Axel’s short nod to her I’m-gonna-be-sick expression before addressing Axel. “Well, this verifies what I’ve suspected all along.”
“What’s that?”
“I knew you had to be the black sheep of someone’s family,” Chance cracked.
Axel burst into loud raucous laughter. He laughed so hard he bent in half at the waist and had to hold onto the doorjamb to keep his feet. Chance looked down at Jimi, who had thrust out that foot again, hitched her hip and crossed her arms while she glared at her cousin. Chance checked to see if she was tapping her foot in agitation. She wasn’t. When Axel’s laughter wound down, Chance gave him his attention again.
“Bro,” Axel began still chuckling, “everyone in our family is varying shades of dark. We don’t have a black sheep. We have a white sheep.” He pointed at Jimi. “And it’s her.”
“Get bent,” she bit out.
“See? She can’t even curse,” Axel said in disgust. “She doesn’t curse, doesn’t ride, and she works as a church secretary. Spent the weekend chaperoning a church youth group camp out.”
Chance blinked down at her, but she continued to ignore him.
“And I don’t steal other people’s banana ice cream. But if I did, I’d at least warn them I took it so when they have a craving at midnight, they’re not blindsided by absence of said banana ice cream.”
Geez, Chance thought, what’s with the banana ice cream? He was ready to go out right then, find an open-all-night grocery store and get her some just so she’d stop going on about the banana ice cream.
Axel shot her a badass biker look that might scare a grown man, but didn’t seem to faze her in the least. “You know, Jimi . . . I could brawl all night over this, but I remember you’re not a brawler. Besides, I have other things to do.” He gestured over his shoulder at his guests who were sitting around a piece of crap coffee table groaning under a weight of tequila shot glasses and beer bottles.
“Fine,” she bit out. She moved as if she were about to h
ead back to her apartment.
Axel stopped her. “You met Chance yet?”
She looked up at Chance, her eyes sweeping up his tat-covered arms exposed under the short sleeves of his tee. She didn’t seem impressed. “I saw you. Through my peephole this morning.”
Rude, he thought. “Yeah. I waved. Thought you were Marisol.” That could be perceived as rude as well, but he didn’t care.
“Marisol moved downstairs.”
“I know. That’s what Willy told me.”
“Who’s Willy?” she asked curiously.
“Mrs. Wilson,” he gestured toward the door at the end of the hallway.
Roscoe called out as he rose from his chair, “’Night young’uns. Thanks a lot for the entertainment. Come on by for coffee tomorrow, Chance. Wanna hear the rest of that story.”
The three young’uns chorused good nights back and watched him disappear inside his apartment.
“I’m gonna get back to my party,” Axel informed the other two. “You all stand out here and get acquainted as long as you like.” He shot Jimi a look. “You’ll get your ice cream tomorrow,” he informed her before practically slamming his door behind him.
“No, I won’t,” she murmured. She looked up at Chance. “How did I get to be the bad guy? He’s the one that stole my ban—”
“Banana ice cream,” he finished for her while he rolled his eyes. “Geez.”
“It’s not just about the ice cream,” she retorted. “He raids my pantry at least twice a week. I knew I shouldn’t have moved in here.”
“You don’t like it?” he asked surprised. He loved living there.
“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just that Axel is a pain in my backside. He always has been.” She paused. “Frig! I didn’t get my key back. He’s always so slippery,” she complained.
They started down the hallway toward their doors.
“So, are you a volunteer church secretary?”
“No,” she answered in surprise. “It’s a full-time job. I get paid and everything.”
“But, you work at the police department.”
