So, he’d turned to us. His sons.
It didn’t long for us to start hating him. And after all these years, the hate hadn’t gone away.
Salvatore “Sal” Cruz had moved to the U.S. from Mexico when he was around ten years old. His parents had sent him up to Texas to live with his aunt and uncle to work, learn English, and try to get an education. He never finished his schooling but he did meet our mother Sandra, who was born and bred in Texas, somewhere along the road. How he was able to charm her into marrying him I had no idea. They moved around quite a bit and eventually ended up in Washington, D.C., where they raised the three of us.
He had never held a job for long and spent a large majority of his paycheck on booze and cigarettes, rather than food or clothes for us. Throughout our childhoods, we moved from trailer to trailer until we eventually landed in a rental house that had become a dilapidated shack real quick.
We were all fluent in Spanish but rarely spoke it around each other. Our father often spouted in Spanish when he was drunk and pissed off about something, so I think it always reminded us of bad times and unpleasant memories. We avoided speaking it as much as we could.
We didn’t want to have any connection to the man, other than the fact that we bore the same last name.
The only reason we even stepped foot anywhere near our parents’ property anymore was to make sure that Sal hadn’t killed his wife in a drunken fit. It sounded awful but we had tried many times to save her from him once we had all moved away. We had threatened him and done everything we could to make her leave him.
But his claws were in her too deep.
Either she truly loved a part of him that was so far gone now, it only existed in her memory of what used to be. Or she was too afraid of what he might do to her if she left. And after so many frustrating and exhausting years of tireless effort on our part, we gave up trying to rescue our mother from our father.
The best we could do for her now was go by to drop off some groceries, hope we didn’t have to see him, and pray for a miracle that we knew would never come.
“I went down there two weeks ago and left some groceries on the front porch,” Mason muttered, his eyes focused on the Coke label he was methodically ripping off the bottle. “I still can’t go in and see them.”
We had all handled the situation with our parents and our father’s treatment differently. But Mason was the only one of us to take to substances to deal with his pain. Or I should say, substances of the narcotic variety. Dawson had smoked some pot in his younger years, but it never evolved into anything more serious. I’d pretty much steered clear from everything but alcohol due to my baseball career. And once Mason had realized that he was turning out exactly like our father, he’d immediately checked himself into rehab and got clean.
But it was still hard for him to be around that scene, which was why he started leaving groceries outside after he got out of rehab. He was afraid of what he might do if he walked into that house. Being around me and Dawson drinking a few beers was one thing. Being around our drunken father who had bottles of liquor in the kitchen at all times and our pill-addicted mother was entirely another.
Despite all the pain we felt, though, cutting all contact with them after all these years was something none of us had been able to do.
I nodded at Mason and looked over at Dawson. “So, they still haven’t seen the kids?”
“No,” he grated through clenched teeth, “and they never will either. I give her some pictures every now and then but they will never see them. At least not him. Not as long as I’m around.”
It was horribly sad when none of us wanted to go see our parents for Christmas. Though even if we did, it wasn’t as if we were going to have a nice family dinner with turkey and gifts.
Which was why we were all at Dawson’s tonight. This was the Cruz family Christmas. These were the people we all considered family.
My other family, the Mastersons, I would see tomorrow.
“She called me the week after the World Series. Told me how proud she was of me.” I left out the part where her voice had been slurred, which told me she’d been high off her pills. Regardless, the phone call had surprised me. Sal was usually the one to call me and it certainly was not to praise me for my success.
“He still call you for money all the time?” Mason asked.
Yeah, he called for handouts.
I nodded. “Like clockwork. At least twice a month. I answer just in case it’s her, but hang up as soon as he starts shouting about how I’m a no-good, ungrateful little shit who wouldn’t even have all this money if it wasn’t for him.”
It was true that our father had been a pretty good baseball player in his youth, and it was obvious that’s where my talent had come from.
But other than the athletic gene, the man hadn’t given me shit. Besides bruises.
Why just bruises and not worse?
Because my two big brothers had protected me as much as they could when our mother was no longer able to. I had it easy compared to them. Dawson and Mason got the worst of the treatment. Dawson’s was physical pain and Mason’s was on a more psychological level.
And we had all dealt with it in our own ways.
The common factor, though?
We never talked about it.
We never went to therapy, except for Mason in rehab, but he hadn’t shared any of the details with us. We didn’t have heart-to-hearts. These brief conversations over beers were as close as we ever came to that. And we never got emotional about what we went through when we were younger. None of us wanted to rehash it, and I’m pretty sure we all just assumed it would go away if we never mentioned it.
I wasn’t sure about them, but it hadn’t for me.
“Fuck that,” Dawson spat, anger dripping from his words. “I’m not giving that bastard one more second of my time. As far as I’m concerned, he no longer exists.”
Harsh words but we all understood them.
Before we could stew in our morose thoughts anymore, Mickie announced that dinner was ready. There was no more talk of abusive fathers or miserable childhoods. In fact, it was nothing like how we had grown up. There was an actual meal around a dinner table. There were smiles and manners. There was laughter and silliness. There was togetherness, a closeness that was a complete one-eighty from what we were used to as kids.
After dinner, the kids opened their presents from me and Mason and one each from their parents. The rest had to wait until Christmas morning, much to their dismay. Not even ten minutes later, the living room floor was a sea of Santa Claus wrapping paper and multi-colored bows.
When Leo and Gabby started begging Dawson to put together their new toys, he groaned and slowly dragged himself out of his recliner.
“Some assembly required, Dad!” I said to him, drawing a hard glare from his direction.
In lieu of actual Christmas gifts to each other, the four of us adults had a competition as to who could get the ugliest present. We started it years ago, around the time when Dawson first met Mickie, and it was now a tradition. We drew names and had to go find something horrible for that person, and whoever we collectively decided found the worst gift won. The prize was determined by the winner. They could pick whatever they wanted, within reason.
Mickie won last year and she decided that her prize would be to take Mason’s beloved Harley Davidson for a spin around the block. Both Dawson and Mason demanded that Mason ride on the back since she’d never driven a motorcycle in her life.
When they got back, Mickie had the biggest smile on her face, while Mason muttered, “Never again, man. Never again,” under his breath.
Mickie then determined that she wanted a motorcycle for herself. Dawson’s response to that was, “Hell no. You just shaved off ten years of my life, woman. I won’t live past forty if you have one of your own.”
I was so going to win this year, though.
I drew Dawson’s name and my gift was the crown jewel of horrible presents.
Mickie opened her gift from Mason first. She pulled out a big piece of cloth from the box, a giddy expression on her face, and unfolded it, holding it out so she could see. As soon as she saw what it was, she started cracking up hysterically.
She turned it around to the rest of us. “It’s a tablecloth of the dogs playing poker picture.”
We all burst into laughter. Although it probably wouldn’t win, the inside joke was perfect. Years ago, Dawson had made the terrible mistake of buying the famous dogs playing poker picture and hung it in the living room while Mickie was at work.
It wasn’t one of the smaller ones either.
As a matter of fact, it had pretty much been as big as his 50” TV. Astoundingly, he actually liked the picture and didn’t think anything of hanging it up without telling his wife.
When Mickie had come home that night, she’d had a conniption. Absolutely freaked. She had always hated that picture and couldn’t believe he would buy it and then hang it up without asking her. I believe Dawson had slept on the couch that night.
She had also been pregnant with the twins at the time.
We had all later determined that it was most likely the hormones that caused the freak-out.
Either way, we all laughed about it now. Maybe not Dawson as much because he had gotten the brunt of it at the time, but needless to say, he had learned his lesson. That kind of domestic bliss was one of the reasons why I had yet to make any woman Mrs. Parker Cruz.
“It’s perfect, Mason. Thank you,” Mickie said and leaned over to hug him.
“I could hang that on the wall for you if you’d like,” he said, grinning.
She laughed and replied, “I’m good, thanks” at the same time that Dawson blurted out, “Dear God, no.” Then, she turned to me and started jumping up and down in her chair. “Okay, Parker. You’re next. Open mine.”
I placed the sack on my lap and dug into it, feeling around until I found the object. I pulled it out and was immediately blinded. It was a glass of some sort…no, a goblet? Yes, a bright gold goblet that was bedazzled with rhinestones around the rim and down the stem. When I tipped it up like I was taking a drink, the entire thing lit up.
It was ‘Lil John meets an 11-year-old girl meets King Midas.
I laughed. “How’d you know this was what I wanted, Mick?”
“Push the button on the bottom,” she said.
I turned it over and pushed the small red button. It started to play, “I’m a balla’. Shock-calla’. Twenty-inch blades on the Impala.” Then, I really lost it. But the three of us guys couldn’t help but attempt to rap along.
“I am so taking this with me to the games. It’ll be my new accessory. Like Flavor Flav’s clock.”
Mason opened his gift from Dawson next. He pulled out a million pieces of tissue paper from a big sack and finally reached in and pulled out what looked to be a leather jacket.
Correction.
The ugliest, tackiest pleather jacket I had ever seen.
“Oh my God,” Mason said through his laughs. “Where the hell did you find this? The set of an 80s porn movie?”
“Mommy, what’s porn?” Leo asked, his attention briefly pulled away from his toys.
Mickie was trying to stifle her giggles behind her hand. “Nothing, honey.”
The jacket was a metallic silver with two big holes of black mesh over the chest, where Mason’s pecs would be. There was black fringe running down each arm, starting at the collar and going all the way down to the wrist.
The real selling point, though, was the back.
Large black glitter letters stretched across the material.
They spelled out, “BITCH BOY.”
I pretty much fell out of my chair from laughing so hard, and Dawson was wiping his eyes like he was crying. “Sorry, honey,” he said to Mickie, trying to catch his breath. “I think you have to abdicate your throne. Pretty sure I’ve got this in the bag.”
“Now, hold on,” I said to him. “This party ain’t over yet. You haven’t opened mine.” I stood up and ran into the laundry room where I had stashed my gift. I didn’t want any of them trying to take guesses before Dawson opened it.
A look of apprehension crossed Dawson’s face when he saw it and I had to smile. Just wait until you see it.
I placed the wrapped object down in front of him. “Merry Christmas, Detective Cruz.”
His hands hesitated for just a minute and then he started to rip the paper off. It didn’t take long for him to react. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned.
“What? What is it? Let us see!” Mickie said excitedly.
“I don’t want to,” he pouted.
Mason laughed. “You have to, bro. Rules are rules.”
Dawson gave a long sigh and then slowly turned it around to face the rest of us. Mason spit his Coke out all over the place and Mickie started wheezing with laughter.
There stood a life-size cardboard cutout of my big brother, in nothing but his underwear.
Well, at least the head of my big brother.
The anonymous man’s body was covered in hair and he had a huge pot belly. The only clothing he wore were his tightie whities, a pair of suspenders, and combat boots. Dangling off his finger was a pair of handcuffs. And because I had a friend who was a pretty good graphics artist, Dawson’s head actually looked like it fit on the man’s body. On top of Dawson’s head was a police uniform hat.
And across the top, in big bold letters, it said, “DETECTIVE CRUZ, AT YOUR SERVICE.”
Dawson just stared at it in disbelief. Everyone else couldn’t stop laughing, including me.
“Is that Daddy?” Gabby asked, pointing to the cutout.
“No,” Dawson answered immediately. “No, it most definitely is not Daddy.”
“I don’t know, man,” I said, shaking my head. “You might have gotten soft over the years.”
He scoffed but it was Mickie who responded. “Oh, I can tell you that that,” she said, waving at the cutout, “is absolutely not under that,” and pointed at Dawson.
Dawson actually looked surprised by his wife’s comment.
“My vote is Parker’s,” Mason announced.
“Mine too.” This from Mickie.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Dawson protested. “At least mine won’t give you nightmares like this will.” The disgusted look on his face made me break out into laughter again.
“Give it up, man,” I said, slapping his back. “I win.”
“Ready to claim your prize?” Mickie asked.
I shook my head. “Nah. This will take some thought. Let me consider it and I’ll get back to you.” I looked at the cutout and then back to Dawson. “You know, you might want to put that out in the front yard. It’d probably work better than an actual scarecrow.”
I took off when Dawson leapt from his chair and ran after me.
It wouldn’t have been a complete night if one of my older brothers hadn’t tried to get me into a headlock.
Chapter Four
Parker
I pulled my truck into Sam and Diane Masterson’s driveway—right behind Clay’s Scion FR-S—and couldn’t help the feeling of coming home that suddenly overwhelmed me. Dawson, Mason, Mickie, and the kids were my blood, the only blood family I would claim anymore. But the Mastersons meant as much to me as any of my actual kin could.
Hell, I spent more time inside this modest Dutch colonial growing up than I had my own house.
For obvious reasons.
Clay and I became best friends when we were seven. I remembered it like it was yesterday, no doubt a day that would forever stick in my mind as one of the most life-changing events to ever happen to me.
I hated it when he hit Momma.
All he did anymore was yell at her and hurt her and all she did was cry. I didn’t like seeing her so sad all the time. She didn’t smile much now, didn’t read us stories anymore. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d cooked my favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs. Dawson did most of t
he cooking now, with what little food we had and what little he knew how to fix.
We’d had a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches and macaroni and cheese.
Dawson and Mason didn’t like it when they fought either. Most of the time when we all got scared, Dawson would make us go outside and we would walk around the block until we couldn’t hear them anymore. Or we would huddle together on the floor of our bedroom, build forts, and play war.
I didn’t have any friends at school, but I didn’t need any as long as I had my brothers. Some of the kids at school started making fun of my clothes, asking me why my parents couldn’t afford clothes that fit me and why they were always kind of dirty.
It hurt my feelings when they said stuff like that, so I didn’t talk a lot in my classes or to most of the other kids.
I thought that maybe if I kept quiet, they wouldn’t call me names.
But today was the first time that Dawson wasn’t there when I got scared.
Because today, after Dad drank a lot out of one his bottles that smelled really bad and hurt Momma, he started to hurt Dawson. He had never hit Dawson before, and I didn’t want him to hurt my big brother. Dad had been so angry and I had never been so afraid before.
Afterwards, Dawson got angry too and stormed out of the house without saying anything to me or Mason. I didn’t know where he went but I was too afraid that Dad would come after me or Mason next.
So I ran away, too.
I ran to a park a couple of blocks from our house where I sat now on a bench. Dawson always told us to be strong, be tough. Don’t be sad and don’t cry because we have to be brave. So, I was mad at myself when I started crying as I sat on that bench, staring down at my dirty sneakers. Dad had hurt him and I wasn’t being brave like he wanted me to be.
I wiped away my tears with my arm and told myself to be tougher. I wasn’t so little anymore. I would show them that I could act like a big kid. I could be strong like Dawson.
I still didn’t want to go home, though.
“Hey. You want to play with us?” I heard another kid’s voice say. I figured he wasn’t talking to me so I didn’t look up, just kept staring down at my shoes.
Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers Book 1) Page 4
