Begging For Mercy

by Mataya, Tamara

  My smile lasts all the way back to Dad’s, where it dies at the sight of him glowering at me from the porch. The dim animosity in his eyes is enough to kill my happy mood. I park and dawdle walking to the house. He’s spoiling for a fight and I can’t be bothered to provide one. I’m too full of Andy.

  He looks my up and down for a moment. “Where you been?”

  “Racing.”

  “And then?”

  I laugh. “Where do you think?”

  “I don’t think your methods are working with the Perris girl.”

  I swallow back my disgust at the words I have to say to convince him. “Oh, they’re working. She’s already making enemies at the races because of her frustration with me. Pretty soon she’ll be begging me to put a ring on it.”

  His posture relaxes a little. “You’re not doing enough.”

  “I’ve done a lot, thanks.”

  “Not enough.”

  “Hey, I won the race.”

  Dad shakes his head, disgust rolling over his features. “She shouldn’t have even been there. What if she hadn’t lost? Do you even care what that means for this family?”

  “I don’t give a fuck about what it means for this family. I’m doing this for Luke, not you.” I throw the money at him. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but who’s paid off the majority of Luke’s debts so far?”

  Dad takes a step closer, stale beer breath wafting over me. “Don’t get uppity with me, boy.”

  “Or what?” I straighten, realizing I’ve got a couple inches and forty pounds on him, unlike when I was a scared shitless kid he could knock around like a personal stress relieving punching bag. “You going to try to take a swing at me, old man?”

  “Wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face, would we? How else would you keep that Perris girl’s interest?”

  That stings, but I refuse to rise to his bait. Some part of Andy cares about me, or she wouldn’t have given a shit when I didn’t call her.

  I smirk and lean against the railing. “I’m not worried. I can ride. Bikes and women. Andy won’t beat me in a race now that I’m riding her as well.”

  Dad grins like I’m finally speaking his language. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  I hold my hand up. “Too much information.”

  “There’s some pizza in there, if you’re hungry.”

  “Starving, actually.” The one true thing I’ve said on this porch.

  He claps a hand on my shoulder on my way past him into the house. “Good job, son.”

  How many times had I wanted him to say that to me growing up? Now the words just leave me cold.

  THE COLORED PENCILS scratch across the stiff, white sketchbook page, leaving swirls of green and gold, shades of Andy in graceful patterns.

  Sketching paint job ideas always helps quiet the noise within, puts me at ease when my thoughts and emotions cloud the inside of me, murking things up. I pour everything onto the page, making art from emotional chaos.

  “You still draw?” Luke leans against the door with his arms crossed, expression on his face angling for an invitation like he used to do when we were kids. I always used to tell him to get the hell out. Now, I smile. He got out of the hospital yesterday, probably faster than he should have, but now there’s the added hospital bill to take care of as well.

  “Yeah. Keeps me out of trouble.” I jerk my head as invitation, and he sits with his back to the wall, stretching his legs across the foot of the bed.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m a changed man.”

  “Are you?” He bites his lip.

  He’s nervous? I keep sketching, gaze firmly on the picture of the bike so as not to make it more awkward by staring into his eyes for this conversation. “Guess we’re going to have to get to know each other again. That’s my fault for not keeping in touch.”

  “Can’t blame you. I’d probably not have been calling every day either.”

  I’ve called exactly twelve times in the six years I’ve been gone. Once every Christmas, and on Luke’s birthdays. “Still.”

  “Yeah. It wouldn’t have sucked to have heard from you more.”

  “Dude—”

  “Whatever, I don’t want to talk about our feelings and hug it out.”

  I laugh. “We can sit around and reminisce about the good time.” Singular.

  He strokes a pretend beard. “I remember that day. It was a Thursday.”

  “Good day.”

  “Good day,” he agrees.

  We both laugh at the dusty old joke.

  He leans closer. “What are you drawing?”

  “A bike.”

  “You’re obsessed.”

  I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “A bit.”

  “You ever race out there?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I try to keep my nose clean. Did it once, decided it wasn’t worth it. Can’t say I haven’t liked getting back into things, ripping up the track a little.”

  Luke smiles. “Ever think of competing legally?”

  “Thought about it once, but it’s probably better to stay low key. And, who the hell would sponsor someone like me? Who knows what uglies would crawl out of the woodwork wanting something, trying to collect on Dad’s debts or settle his scores when they heard my name.”

  “I hear that.” He pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around his shins. “What do you do out there?”

  “Mostly custom paintwork.”

  “Spendy?”

  “Can be. Mostly pretty modest.”

  “Wish there was something I liked as much as you love art.”

  I pass him the sketchbook. “I didn’t figure out how much I loved it until I got out of this place, got my head clear.”

  He studies the picture for a minute. “Seeing anyone?”

  My mind zooms to Andy, but that’s a complicated situation. “There’s this one chick, but it’s early days. You?”

  “A few.”

  “You dog.” I punch his shoulder, and he winces, dimming the brightness of the moment. “Sorry, man.”

  “I’m okay,” he says irritably, obviously hating the reminder of his injuries. His scowl is so like mine, I hadn’t realized how much we look alike until now. My little brother’s grown into a man and I missed the biggest transition.

  “Any of those girlfriends in danger of becoming something more?”

  He grins and shakes his head. “You ever think of moving back here?”

  It’s nice talking to him like we’re a couple normal brothers shooting the shit. “Not even a little bit.” I shake my head vigorously. “This place is bad for me.”

  “It was bad for you. Could be different now.”

  “It’s always going to be what it is.”

  Luke curls his legs up. “Things that good in Colorado?”

  “It’s not that they’re fabulous. Living honestly is harder. Longer hours. Taxes are a bitch. But it’s easier. I don’t have to worry about getting ripped off, or someone coming at me because I’ve ripped them off.” The opening I’ve wanted has appeared and I seize it. “You know, you’re more than welcome to come back with me, for a visit, or to stay.”

  Fragile hope blooms on Luke’s face, like he’s never seen the opportunity of a future until now. He nods. “Might be cool.”

  “Sounds fucking stupid.”

  We both turn toward the door, surprised at Dad’s intrusion. Anger rises in me again, for his bullshit downstairs and now for how he’s interrupted my chance to get Luke away from this shit. “What would you know about it, Dad?”

  “I know you’re broke.”

  “Because I gave everything I could to you to help Luke.”

  He sneers. “Yeah, well it wasn’t much.”

  I shrug. “More than you had and I didn’t have to fuck anyone over to get it.”

  “What the hell would a fuck up like him do out there in the mountains? Sniff some daisies?”

  Scrabbling at the end of my bed
draws my attention, and Luke strides from the room. Goddamn it. Bringing up the debt was rubbing salt in the wound. Luke didn’t need that, and Dad took it to a whole other level.

  Dad’s eyes glint like he knows exactly what he just did to Luke. He probably did.

  “It ever occur to you that he hasn’t found something he can excel at because you’ve dragged him down and kept him here on your level? What’s that saying... Misery loves company.”

  Dad smiles. “There’s another saying about protesting too much, Matty. Think about that.”

  “What the hell do you want from me?”

  He tilts his head. “What makes you think I want anything?”

  “You’re such a prick. God forbid Luke and I ever get along too well. You’re probably scared we’d gang up against you.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that. Blood will out.”

  “Yeah? Well it’s not too late for him to take after Mom’s side of the family.” The lesser of two evils. I stand and close the door in Dad’s face.

  Prick.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Andy

  My sore hand protests after pumping the brake handles for a few minutes. I open the bleed screw to let out the fluid and air, and replace it, pumping more. This has been the best day of my life.

  When I woke up, I already had two texts from Matt asking me to call him. We talked for half an hour, and made plans for the weekend which would have been good enough to make my day.

  Then Temecula Frank brought his bike in for a tune-up. I somehow kept the squealing and dancing in my mind. The man is a racing legend—Dad’s a legend too, but we’re talking old school. Hell, Frank was before school, and even getting to breathe on his bike is an honor for me and a coup for the shop.

  He’s giving the bike to his daughter, and heard my name bandied about as the best garage in the state. He didn’t realize I was a woman until I introduced myself, but he didn’t bat an eye, just stayed for a coffee and a chat before leaving his bike.

  I called Matt right away, making him laugh with my fangirling over Frank, but I could tell how happy he was that I’d gotten Frank as a customer.

  I’ve made the engine purr like a cream-drunk kitten, and decided to bleed the brakes as a little something extra. Old brake fluid absorbs moisture which can corrode the caliper and master cylinder and end up screwing the brakes completely. It’s something that’s easy to fix, but will make the ride a lot nicer—especially if she’s planning on racing. Brakes are just as, if not more so, important as speed in races.

  Especially if she goes legal like her dad.

  And mine too, I guess, but he held his own on the street, mostly drag style, all-out battles for speed. Early on he was into freestyle motocross, pulling all kinds of tricks and inventing some too.

  When Mom was still alive, we’d go with him as a family, sitting in the stands while the announcers called out his titles and accolades, watching everyone watch him and cheer, even though he hadn’t raced competitively in years, as he roared into the arena.

  He made it look like flying, like the best time in the world. I loved watching him practice and perform; it’s probably directly responsible for making me toddle in his footsteps.

  Maybe Temecula Frank’s daughter is the same way, maybe she isn’t. Either way, I want to make this bike run as smoothly as I can, so I’m babying it like my own.

  When the brakes are done, I step back and inspect it. Brake fluid can screw up a paint job and I made sure to cover every inch in the danger zone, not taking any chances. It’s fine, and I relax and give my sore hand a shake to release the tension.

  The door jangles alerting me to his presence before he speaks. “If you shake it more than three times, you’re just playing with it.”

  “Hey, Patch. That only works when I’m mocking you.”

  My brother laughs. “It’s still funny.”

  “If you’re twelve. Come for a lesson on how to Motorbike? I’m sure with enough time and dedication, even you can learn how to—”

  “Nope. I drive them, I don’t fix them.”

  I snort. “And you can barely ride.”

  “Hey, careful now.” He tosses a greasy rag at me.

  “I could put some training wheels on your baby bike. What is it, 50CCs?”

  He takes a step closer. “Don’t sass my crotch rocket.”

  “Crotch rot?” I hold a hand up to my ear. “You’ve got crotch rot? Gross!”

  “Shut up, that’s not what I said!” He grabs me in a headlock and gives me a noogie, but lets go before I can put a socket wrench to use on his kidneys.

  “What are we, twelve?” I straighten my cap. “Want a coffee?”

  “Sure.” He follows me to the table, and I slip a pod of his favorite Irish cream coffee into the machine.

  “What’s up?”

  “Just checking in, seeing how you are.” His tone is way too casual.

  “Uh huh.”

  “What, I can’t visit my favorite little sister?”

  I hand him his cup. “I’m your only sister.”

  “I only need one.” He shines a toothy grin my way.

  I roll my eyes but smile and make a drink for myself. Despite the whole garage situation, Patch and I have always been close. From the time he scared the shit out of a group of kids throwing rocks at my friends and I, to the races he comes to now as my backup, he’s always been there for me, making sure no one gives me shit, but giving me plenty himself as brothers do best.

  I bust his chops plenty about his office job and being a white collar wonder, but he’s done really well for himself in IT and programming. Nothing makes me feel dumber or prouder than listening to him talk about coding while watching him open up a computer and fiddle with things inside it. Sure, I’m a mechanic, but I work motors, not modems.

  “How’s that administrator you were seeing? Bridget?”

  “Bria. She’s now a lifeguard. And her name is Gwenith.”

  I raise my eyebrows in judgment. “You broke up with Bria already?”

  “I’m not looking for a picket fence just yet. She was.”

  “Well, get on that soon. Dad’s already hassling me about grandkids.”

  Instead of laughing with me and burning my potential parenting skills, the silence draws out like a hot stretch of asphalt. “Dad wants nice things for you, Andy. I don’t think that’s bad.”

  I cover my discomfort by adding a liberal amount of creamer to my cup. “He wants things for you too.”

  “I know.”

  Things I worked to build, but I don’t say that. “What is it?” Patch’s body language has been weird since we sat down.

  He sets his cup down. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Promise you won’t kick off.”

  “Just tell me.” I promise nothing.

  “You’ve been racing without me there.”

  I shrug. “And?”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “So is eating shellfish.”

  He closes his eyes. “Andy—”

  “You can go your whole life eating all the oceany goodness you want, and then one day BAM! Anaphylaxis!”

  He slams his fist against the tabletop, killing my sarcasm. “Could you stop fucking around for one minute?”

  “Jesus, Patch, what—”

  “No! You don’t get to joke about this. Do you have any idea what it does to us, to Dad, knowing you’re out there where we can’t protect you?”

  Guilt and anger mingle in a cocktail of denial in my mouth. Anger wins. “I’m not a porcelain doll and I don’t need protecting. God, you guys are as bad as each other.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. I’m not talking you partying a little too much or dating a douchebag. This isn’t about regular life choices and don’t act like it is.”

  He’s got me there, but I’m still prickly about the shop. And what does he mean about dating a douchebag? Does he know about Matt? How does he know about h
im? And Matthew is not a douchebag. No way I’m admitting to anything. “Are you completely blind to your hypocrisy? I’m not doing anything that you both haven’t done.”

  “It’s different.”

  I cross my arms. “Why, because the shop is going to you, all the sudden I need to act differently, be a good little puppet? Should I get a pink apron to go with my overalls, and a set of pearls to start clutching whenever someone says the ‘F’ word? Are you going to hire a real mechanic with a penis to make the customers feel better about who’s fixing their bikes?”

  He sits back, disbelief and hurt entering his eyes. “God, Andy, do you really think I’d want to take anything away from you? I know how goddamned hard you work every day. I know how much you’ve put into this place.”

  I nod, knowing truth when I hear it, and cool my tone. “So why are you doing this? You don’t know the first thing about running this place.”

  His heavy sigh matches my heart. “It would be in name only. You get that, right? That absolutely nothing would change other than the name on a few papers.”

  Dad said that too. Confusion furrows my brow. “Then what’s the point of it, if it’s in name only?”

  “You’re better off not knowing some things.”

  Anger sweeps in again, rattling my bones in small tremors I can’t control, and I set my drink down before spilling it. “Stop treating me like an empty-headed doll.”

  “Then stop acting like one.” His words snap at me like a whip.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Patch shakes his head. “We just want you to be safe.”

  “How am I not safe?”

  He stands. “Stay away from the Mercys, Andy.”

  Shock steals the strength from my legs. “What?” I manage to gasp out to his retreating form.

  “You heard me.”

  I heard his words, but what is he saying?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Matthew

  “Mercy?”

  A potent mixture of dread and annoyance fill me at the sound of a stranger calling my name, especially in this city, even more so now in light of Luke’s debt. Is it someone I pissed off when I was a kid, someone who hates my Dad, or someone coming to try to lay the beat down on me in lieu of my brother?