by Reinke, Sara
He led Brandon back through the living room, then through the neighboring kitchen, out into the garage. Stifling heat from the cramped confines struck them headlong as he opened the door, and Brandon could see more boxes from his apartment stacked and stuffed wherever free space could be found. There wasn’t room to stow a vehicle in the garage, but something else had been parked front and center on the slick concrete floor—a motorcycle, all sleek cerulean hull, chrome fixtures and thick-treaded tires.
Jackson turned to him, still wearing that shit-eating, enigmatic smile on his face. “What do you think?” he asked aloud.
Brandon blinked at him. It’s a motorcycle, he signed, holding his hands out as if clasping the handlebars, and cranking his hands, miming the motions of revving the bike up.
“It’s not just a motorcycle,” Jackson replied. “It’s a modified Suzuki Katana 1100 Streetfighter with a 1,170-cc piston kit and custom-built titanium exhaust system.”
Brandon pointed to him: It’s yours?
“Hell, yeah,” Jackson said, still beaming, and when he held up his hand, Brandon clapped palms with him.
Sweet, he signed, brushing his fingertips past his lips.
Jackson reached into the hip pocket of his nylon pants and pulled out a key ring. He let it dangle in his hand, an open invitation. “You want a ride?”
Hell, yeah, Brandon signed with a grin.
****
“What the…?” Lina murmured, as from outside the house—literally within inches of the stucco outer walls, from the sound of things—came the sudden, loud roar of an engine firing up. Within seconds, it revved to even higher octaves, and she crossed from the kitchen to the living room to look out the front windows in time to catch a glimpse of a blue and silver motorcycle streaking off down the street. “Was that Jackson?”
“Oh, yes.” Latisha chuckled as she stood over the kitchen sink, tearing back the green husks and underlying silk threads from a large ear of raw corn. “He didn’t waste any time, I see, in showing off his new toy. You’ve been here, what?” She glanced at the digital clock on her stove. “Twenty minutes?”
“He got a motorcycle?” Lina asked, hands on hips as she returned to the kitchen. Not just any motorcycle, either, she’d noted with a frown. From the glimpse she’d caught of it, it had looked like what she and her fellow police officers had always called “crotch rockets.” Worse—it had looked like Jackson had taken Brandon along for an impromptu ride. “What the hell for?”
“Beats me.” Latisha shrugged as Lina took up a piece of corn and began shucking alongside her. “He got interested in them when the new neighbors moved in. The boy next door, Valien, owns some kind of bike shop in town. Jackie’s been working down there two or three times a week now that I’ve been feeling better, getting my strength back. He’s met some new folks through that, hobbyists I guess you’d call them. They like to fix up those street bikes and ride them around town.”
“Hobbyists?” Lina raised a dubious brow. “Sounds like a gang to me.”
Latisha laughed. “I think he’s enjoying being part of a group.” Having finished picking thin strands from the corn, she dropped it into an awaiting stainless steel pot on the stove, then started working on a fresh ear. “Jackie’s never had that before. He’s always had problems feeling like he fits in anywhere.”
With this last, her smile faltered.
“What are you talking about?” Lina said, although she knew. In a bid to keep her kids out of trouble growing up, Latisha had busted her ass working as a registered nurse so she could afford the mortgage on a small home in the mostly-white, middle-class suburbs. Lina had always felt out of place a lot growing up, because she’d never really meshed with many of the white girls in her neighborhood. At the same time, black girls at her school had always looked down on her, just because of where her house happened to be.
Jackson had suffered a lot of the same difficulties, and more besides. His hearing loss hadn’t been diagnosed until grade school, and his deafness hadn’t been complete until high school. In the meantime, he’s struggled with being labeled “learning disabled,” and having to go to specialized or remedial classes. Latisha had enrolled him in aikido in an attempt to bolster his floundering self-confidence, but also as a means for him to protect himself. Jackson had been frequently teased and bullied for the speech impediment his hearing loss had caused, cruelly labeled as “stupid,” “slow” and even “retarded” by his peers. Lina had always thought that was why Jackson had taken such a shine to Brandon—who’d been similarly tormented—when he’d been his tutor.
“Don’t you worry about him on that thing?” Lina asked Latisha. “They’re dangerous, Mama.”
“He’s a grown man, and it makes him happy,” Latisha said. With a sideways glance and a renewed smile, she continued, “Besides, I think he’s got another reason for liking it so much.” When Lina raised her brow, puzzled, she added, “Same reason he’s decided to move down here, I suspect.”
Lina blinked in surprise. “What? When’s he doing this?”
“He’s already done it.” Latisha flapped her hand, dismissive. “Sold his apartment, turned in his resignation, packed his things up and shipped them down. I told him he could stay here until he found himself a place he liked.”
“He quit his job?” Lina asked, stunned, and when Latisha nodded, she said, “And you’re okay with that?” Because frankly, you’ve done nothing but ream my ass since I did, she thought.
Latisha shrugged. “I told you. He’s a grown man. It’s not like I can ground him anymore, or stop him.” With a mysterious little smile, she added, “I think he’s met someone.”
Lina gaped in bright new surprise. “You mean a girlfriend?”
Not that it was inconceivable. Jackson was a good-looking man—and he was built like a Freightliner truck. He was also highly intelligent, well-educated and savvy enough with his money over the years to have put away a comfortable little nest egg for himself. That a woman would find all of these things appealing didn’t surprise Lina—but the fact that her brother had worked up the balls to do something about it sure as hell did.
“I don’t know for sure,” Latisha said. Wagging her finger in mock admonishment, she added, “And don’t you go saying anything to him about it, either.”
“I won’t,” Lina replied, still marveling over the idea that Jackson might have actually found himself a woman.
CHAPTER THREE
Jackson pulled the bike to a stop in front of a small bar with a parking lot that stood mostly empty, given the waning afternoon hour. It was still too early for happy hour, but too late for the lunch crowd. Neon signs for Bud Light and Corona flickered in the windows, along with a sign that announced DAILY PLATE SPECIALS! $3.99
Above the entrance, Brandon saw a sign. Duke’s Place, it said, with smaller lettering beneath: Established 1982.
Jackson pushed the kickstand down with his heel, and the entire bike listed to port as he shifted his weight, swinging his long leg around in a practiced dismount. Ducking his chin, he pulled his helmet off. Before leaving, he’d fashioned a bandana around the bald cap of his head to keep from sweating too badly in the confines of the thickly padded helmet. This he left in place as he grinned at Brandon.
What do you think? he signed.
Amazing, Brandon signed back, pulling his own helmet off. It was ungodly hot inside the thing, and his hair drooped around his face in a sweat-dampened tumble he then fought to rake back with his fingers. He’d never been on a motorcycle before, and the rush of wind in his face, the furious vibrations of the chassis beneath him, the dizzying blur of the landscape as they’d streaked past—it had left him pumped up and ready for more.
As he looked around, however, taking in their location, he realized it was something more than adrenaline he was feeling. Again, as he had at Latisha’s house, he had that tingling sensation of being in the presence of another Brethren. With a puzzled frown, he looked around.
Where are we? h
e signed.
I’ve been working across the street. Remember I said my friend owns a repair shop? Jackson nodded to indicate behind Brandon, and he looked over his shoulder toward a motorcycle garage. A row of gleaming, candy-colored bikes had been lined up outside, dazzling in the sunshine.
Not much, just a few days a week, Jackson continued, once Brandon had returned his gaze to his friend. But I like to come over here for lunch.
What are we doing here now? Brandon wondered, but before he could sign the question, Jackson beckoned him with his hand.
Come on. Jackson tucked his helmet between the crook of his elbow and his hip, then added aloud: “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Brandon swung his leg around, his ass and thighs feeling admittedly numb. His dismount was significantly less graceful than Jackson’s, and he stumbled clumsily, like a sailor trying to find his land legs after a particularly choppy tour of duty. Together, he and Jackson left the bright, warm glare of the midafternoon behind them for the darker, cooler interior of the tavern. Brandon faltered once across the threshold, pausing long enough to blink stupidly at his toes, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the abrupt and unexpected change.
Like the parking lot, the inside of Duke’s was pretty much empty. A couple of loners sat perched along the bar across the room, nursing half-empty mugs of beer. A trio of ceiling fans traced long, slow circles above them. All along the walls, banged-up, weather-beaten, rusty license plate had been haphazardly nailed, representing all fifty states, from the looks of things—some more than once. Tacked in and among these were framed black and white headshots of celebrities Brandon had never heard of from passing glance, every one of them signed “To Duke.”
Jackson bee-lined for the bar, which struck Brandon as peculiar, because to the best of his recollection, Jackson didn’t drink. Neither Jackson nor Lina had often spoke much about it, but it was Brandon’s understanding that their father had been a drunk. Although very much still alive, the man had not been a part of their lives—in fact, both Jackson and Lina went by their mother’s surname, Jones, instead of his. As a result, or perhaps because he remembered the financial hardship his father’s drinking had caused Latisha in his youth, Jackson avoided alcohol.
As Brandon neared the bar, trailing in his friend’s footsteps, he realized that Jackson may have had other motivations for visiting Duke’s. Behind the bar, a woman stood, dressed in a faded yellow T-shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans that revealed what Brandon estimated to be at least a good mile’s length of legs beneath. She was black, her caramel-colored skin slightly lighter than Jackson’s, with short-cropped hair worn in a curly do that framed her face in a wild, wide halo. She was busy slicing fresh lemons, but when she looked up from her work and saw Jackson, her mouth unfurled in a surprised but delighted smile.
There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Jackson had told him, and all at once, Brandon thought he knew who that “someone” might be.
“Hey, you,” he saw her say to Jackson. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting to see you again until tomorrow.”
Because Jackson stood with his back toward Brandon, Brandon wasn’t privy to his reply. He suspected it had something to do with him, maybe along the same lines as There’s someone I’d like you to meet, because the woman cut her gaze toward Brandon.
Brandon, this is Taya Parker, Jackson signed, pivoting so that Brandon could see his hands as he finger-spelled the woman’s name. Speaking to Taya, he said, “This is Brandon Noble, my friend.”
Taya set her paring knife down on the small plastic cutting board she’d been using. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she then leaned across the bar. “Nice to meet you, Brandon,” she said, offering her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
All good, I hope, Brandon signed with a glance at Jackson, before accepting the proffered shake. Taya’s grasp was confident and firm, her fingers slim but strong, cool and damp with lemon juice he could distinctly smell.
Because she clearly didn’t understand sign language, and looked to Jackson for help, Jackson translated for Brandon aloud. With a laugh, she nodded, facing Brandon again.
“Yeah, mostly,” she said, making Brandon laugh with her.
“He’s deaf like me,” he saw Jackson say, then whatever else he added was lost as he hooked his arm around Brandon’s neck and hauled him in for a quick but fond embrace.
Taya laughed again and nodded. “How long are you in town for, Brandon?” she asked, and it occurred to him that she’d known Jackson long enough and well enough to feel comfortable speaking to someone hearing impaired. Unlike most people he met for the first time, and who learned of his deafness, Taya didn’t try to compensate by speaking too loudly or slowly, or stretching her mouth into ridiculous contortions of annunciation, that, although an attempt to help in his lip-reading, did anything but.
I don’t really know, Brandon signed, with Jackson offering translation simultaneously. A couple of weeks at least. Maybe more.
Once upon a time—not that long ago, in fact—he would have been able to communicate more readily with her, without the need for Jackson’s intervention, because he’d carried a notebook with him. Enclosed in a brass case with a ballpoint pen tucked into the hollow tube of its hinged cover, it had dangled around his neck from a chain. The notebook had been a gift from Sebastian, and had been something Brandon both appreciated and abhorred all at the same time, primarily because to him, it had always represented the fact that he was different from the other Brethren with whom he’d been raised. He’d been considered defective by them, and that notebook had remained a constant, ever-visible reminder to him and anyone around him.
He’d gotten rid of the notebook upon his escape from Kentucky, having left it behind, forgotten at Jackson’s apartment. A part of him wished for it now, not only because it would have allowed him to interact with Taya more directly, but also because it would have been a nice keepsake from his father.
When Taya turned her head, as if distracted by a sound neither could likewise hear, Brandon and Jackson both pivoted to follow her gaze, just as a man stepped through a doorway to the right of the bar. OFFICE, said a small sign posted on the door. Below this, hand-scrawled in red ink on a worn piece of notepaper that had been taped into place, someone had added, IF YOU’RE NOT BLEEDING TO DEATH, STAY OUT.
If Jackson was built like your average bear, then this guy was a Kodiak: at least a half-inch taller and twenty pounds heavier, which made him at least fifty pounds heavier than Brandon and more than a full head taller. He was damn near as wide across as he was tall, by Brandon’s estimation, and although he appeared in his late fifties to early sixties, there was still enough solid muscle to his form to lend him an intimidating, if not downright menacing appearance. Like Jackson, his pate was shaved bald; a thick mustache and heavy brows compensated for the loss.
At the sight of him, Brandon shied back reflexively, but Jackson and Taya seemed completely unalarmed. They both smiled brightly, and though Brandon tried to follow what they were saying by reading their lips, he was distracted by gawking as the big man approached.
“…quit messing around, Daddy,” he saw Taya say—to which he thought, Daddy? Jesus Christ, this guy’s her father?
Jackson and the man exchanged quick, familiar hand clasps, a series of interlocking finger movements and light slaps that they’d clearly used numerous times before. Jackson must have introduced Brandon, because the man’s dark eyes cut in his direction, making him feel for all the world like he was a child again, scrawny and puny.
“Hi, Brandon,” the man said, though it was hard to tell beneath the heavy fringe of his mustache if he was smiling or not, never mind read his lips clearly.
This is Jim Parker, Jackson supplied with sign language and finger-spelling. Everybody calls him Duke.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Duke said, like his daughter, offering his hand in greeting.
Brandon managed a clumsy smile and a nod to say, Back atcha,
big guy, and accepted the shake, noting that Duke Parker’s hand easily dwarfed his.
“Duke played football back in the sixties,” Jackson told him. “Six years with Vince Lombardi and the Green Bay Packers.”
Because this meant nothing to Brandon—and it must have been obvious on his face—Duke laughed and clapped him on the back, damn near knocking him to the floor. “Hell, this boy wasn’t even born back then, Jackie,” he said. “And neither were you. Come on back here in the office for a minute. Got something I want to show you online. A little ’68 Superhawk I’m thinking about buying.”
“You mind?” Jackson looked at Taya, his expression for all the world like a little boy begging his mother for a new toy at the store.
Rolling her eyes, she laughed and flapped her hands to shoo him. “Go on.”
I’ll be right back, Jackson signed to Brandon, more or less. He held up his index finger, at any rate, an unspoken signal for Brandon to wait in the bar while he followed Duke. Brandon watched the two of them duck through the office doorway again, leaving him to stand in front of the bar, feeling awkward.
Taya waved her hand to draw his gaze, and when he turned to face her, she smiled. “You want something to drink?” she asked.
Brandon figured what the hell. He had his wallet with him, some money to spend, and none of Jackson’s proclivities about abstaining from alcohol. Rather than struggle to find a pen and paper with which to write, he nodded once, then pointed to the man sitting nearby, the beer mug in his hand. Since he could see the pull tabs for several varieties on draft, he leaned across the bar to point to which one he wanted: Newcastle Brown Ale.
“Can do,” Taya said, reaching below the bar for a fresh mug.
While she poured, Brandon walked over to a nearby wall, where the blanched jawbones of different sharks had been mounted. They were all different sizes, some very small, and others wide enough to make Brandon think twice about dipping foot in the ocean anytime soon. He’d seen sharks on TV and in books, but had never seen anything like that close up before. Curious, he examined them closely, marveling over the recessed rows of teeth lined up in dutiful phalanxes behind each visible tooth along the gum line.
