by Nicole Snow
Inching the truck forward while another car pulls onto the busy road, I flick the blinker. “Okay. What kind?”
She’s unzipping her backpack. “Surprise me.” Digging deep in her bag, she adds, “But no anchovies or sauerkraut, please.”
I cock my head. “Have I ever ordered a pizza with anchovies or sauerkraut?”
She's still digging, now in a side pocket. “No, but only because I always remind you not to. I know you, Daddy. Someday you'll give it a try just because I didn’t tell you not to.”
Little shit. I just might have to do that to her someday for fun.
There’s an opening in traffic, so I pull out. “What are you digging for?”
“A friendship bracelet. I can’t remember which pocket I put it in.”
Even though the term leaves little doubt what it is, I ask anyway. “Friendship bracelet?”
She huffs out a sigh. “It's like...a piece of jewelry one either gives or receives from a friend.”
I grin at how she sounds like she’s reading right out of Webster’s biggest and oldest book. Hope also rises up inside me. “Where'd you get it?”
“We made them during pod today.”
What she calls pod is a close second to what was called homeroom when I was in school. My heart also tugs slightly at the idea she’s digging it out to give to me.
Damn. I’d be honored, of course, but I wish she'd give it to a real friend from school.
“Here!” She holds up a few pieces of jute twine braided together and decorated with colorful beads.
“That’s pretty.” I’m rather indifferent to the style, actually, but do my best to support her in everything. “You did quality work.”
“I know. I’m quite proud of how evenly I was able to space the beads.” She tucks it in her pants pocket. “I want to remember to take it with me tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“So I can give it to Ms. Derby, of course.” She does a little pout with her lips like she can't believe I didn't know.
Shit.
My heart sinks. I take a deep breath, carefully choosing my words. “Ms. Derby? Wouldn’t you rather give it to a friend from school? Someone your age?”
“Ms. Derby is from school.” She’s looking straight ahead, out the windshield. “And I don’t really have any friends my age.”
Right. I look at her softly, hoping I haven't kicked up too much crap she'd rather not touch.
Still, this issue keeps bothering me more lately. “It's your bracelet to trade with whoever, Nat. Just curious. You must talk with some of the kids at school? Visit with some more than others?”
“I talk with plenty of kids at school, yeah. But it doesn’t mean they're friends.” She gives me one of her Doctor Know-It-All looks. “Just like you talk to a lot of people who aren’t exactly friends.”
I continue trying to be diplomatic. “Nat, Ms. Derby's your teacher. That's all I'm saying. I’m not sure what she'll think.”
“I thought about that,” she says seriously. “But technically, she’s not my teacher. Not for the day classes. And she’s only filling in for Mrs. Wayne for eight weeks because Mrs. Wayne’s son, Forrest, got in trouble this summer. Guess he was court ordered to do community service. Mrs. Wayne has to drive him to his assignments every Tuesday night because Mr. Wayne, besides being the chemistry teacher, is the JV football coach and they play on Tuesdays.” She shakes her head while continuing, “Us Arizonians love our football! Lord knows Mr. Wayne couldn’t drive Forrest around.”
Her gossip makes me smile. I knew Blue was only filling in, but hadn’t heard the particulars. “Juicy. How'd you find all that out?”
“I just told you, I talk to a lot of people at school.” She leans back and crosses her arms. “Which brings up another subject.”
Almost afraid to ask, I glance her way. “What’s that?”
“How would you feel about hiring Ms. Derby to privately tutor me? After she's done subbing, I mean. She’s way better than Mrs. Wayne. I'd learn so much more, so much faster, with private lessons.”
“I’ve already paid for the accelerated art class you're taking.” I try not to bite my tongue.
I'm searching for excuses. It's not the money, honestly, business is great.
It's Blue. Having her in my house. With Nat.
Barely a stone's throw away from teasing my dick seven ways from Sunday.
And a convenient target for Bastard Phil, if the evil prick doesn't listen.
“I know. I don't want to waste your money. I'll do both.” She grins coyly. “I’m sure Ms. Derby wouldn’t charge like the academy does. You'd probably be saving a few pennies after Mrs. Wayne's class ends.”
Fuck. I wish money was the real issue. Then it'd be a hard limit.
Knowing her, she’s too well aware it isn't. Looking for some sort of a round-about answer, I say, “What about something else beyond Mrs. Wayne's class? Something creative – music, vocals, guitar? You love country, baby girl. Bet you'd be damn good at it. All work and no play –”
“Art is my play, Dad. It keeps me from getting dull.” She shrugs. “Don't stress. You don’t have to answer right now. Just think about it. I still have four more classes with Ms. Derby after tonight, so it's not like there's a crazy rush or anything.”
Maybe that's the problem. It's like I'm trapped in a slow moving train wreck.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a person hurled at me from so many directions as Isabella Derby. Need time to process. Figure this crap out. Time to change the subject.
“So, where're we ordering pizza from? Any requests?”
She rolls her eyes. “We both know Mike’s is the only place that makes the crust you like.”
“But you like that other place better. The one with the cheesy-bacon breadsticks?”
“I don’t want any breadsticks tonight. Too many carbs.”
I shake my head, clenching my jaw. Why the hell is my ten year old daughter suddenly freaked about carbs? “You don’t need to worry about carbs, baby girl. You're only ten and you're beautiful.”
My gaze hardens. I wish she'd go on, let me know if somebody's making her self-conscious. So I can hunt them down and have a real fucking friendly heart-to-heart.
“I know. But...you're kinda getting around the age that you should be.”
I snort, my anger drifting away. “You saying I’m getting old?”
“Nope, just aging.” She smiles at me. “But don’t worry. It happens.”
I’m not worried about pushing past my mid-thirties or the carbs. I wish life was that dull.
My anxieties are tangled on mean looking assholes toting guns, up in my face, and a woman I like drawing naked far too much. Every sexy, spitfire shade of Blue knocks around in my brain during the rest of the drive home.
Nat opens her door after I park the truck. “Can we shoot for pizza around five thirty? That'll give us time to eat and get back to school.”
“Perfect.” I climb out and meet her on the step going into the house, wondering why she's waiting. “Anything else, Nat?”
“No.” She wraps her arms around my waist. “Other than I love you.”
My heart melts. I return her hug. “Love you, too, sweets.”
She heads up to her room, and I go to my office, where I call in the pizza and then start working on the billing for this morning’s cleanup. I remember a time, not so long ago, when a dead body was the worst part of the day.
Bastard Phil comes to mind, front and center. His threat against Blue. How close I came to choking him lifeless, leaving him to rot beneath the scorching Arizona sun.
So does Davey, and the last time I’d seen him alive. I grit my teeth, hating it like hell.
Years Ago
“Come on, big bro, one more game.” Davey taps the end of his cue stick on the edge of the table. “I’ll go easy on you this time.”
I laugh, chugging the last swallow of my beer. “You, go easy on me? I just won three out of five. I'm kicking your as
s up, down, and sideways, brother.”
“One more will tie us up.” Davey loads coins in the slots in the corner, wiping sweat from his forehead while the mechanical reels spin. No luck. The dimples he’d been known for since birth appear in both cheeks. “Even Steven. Come on,” he turns back to me.
“We’ll never be Even Steven. We know how this ends.”
I mop the floor with my little brother. He gets pissed. Maybe he makes a scene if he's knocked back too many drinks.
We both storm off pissed, brotherly anger eclipsing our personal woes. It's such a predictable distraction we do it every week or two again.
“Quit wasting time. Let's go, Monk. Even fucking Steven,” he insists while racking the balls, centering the black eight ball.
I cringe a little, hearing my old name from the Grizzlies. Those days are behind me.
“Not only even in pool. This time next week, our bank accounts will be squared up real nice.” He laughs. “Actually, mine will be bigger.”
That hits more than a nerve. My new hazmat company's success annoys him.
I don’t know why. Ever since the time he was born, he’s been trying to out-do me. I’ve let him at times, little things, hoping it'd knock the chip off his shoulder. So far, it hasn’t.
Damn it, Davey. Life's too short for these games.
“What're you talking about? New photo gig?” I ask.
He shrugs and levels his cue stick on the white ball. “Not quite. My ship's about to come in, though. Just you wait.” He shoots. The colored balls smack together, scattering across the table.
Between my business and taking care of Natalie, I don’t have a lot of time for gossip.
Still, I've heard the whispers. Davey, hanging around a crew he shouldn't. One that's too damn close to the underground I left behind.
I eyeball my brother, an electric unease needling the back of my neck.
Just this morning, I’d gotten wind of it again, after asking our ma to watch Natalie, and before I called Davey to join me for beers tonight.
Since he finally touched the subject, I say, “What ship's that? A jet-ski?”
He laughs, still plunking colored balls in pockets one after the other. “A yacht, bro.”
I wrap a hand around his pool stick, preventing him from shooting again. “And where are you getting this yacht?”
His signature grin appears. “Jealous? I figured you'd want in.”
“Fuck no.”
Anger snaps in his eyes. “You should be.”
“What the fuck are you thinking? The Black Pearls?” I don't even know if it's true, but I drop the name.
The nervous glance he shoots around the room tells me what I’ve heard aren’t rumors. Shit.
“Davey –”
“Don't. Don't even get your mouth running. I know what I’m doing, Brent.”
“Bullshit, you do. You can’t.”
He pulls his cue stick out of my hold. The look in his eyes makes me think it's already up his ass. “You think you’re the only badass in this family? Only guy with friends in low places? The only one who gets to make scratch doing shit he really shouldn't, and then go hiding behind the hero-in-uniform and father-of-the-year act? Sorry to tell you, you’re not.”
He’s been jealous of the Grizzlies for years. Again, for no reason.
For fuck's sake, I gave it up, and I'm glad. I got out because I had a daughter to think about and it was damn good timing, too. If I hadn't, I might be long dead from the club's infighting, or maybe another casualty of their California war with the Mexican cartels.
I plant myself between him and the pool table. “Davey.”
“No. It's your turn to listen: you aren’t the only one who deserves a good life. I've fought like hell for years just to have my piece, and now, it's coming.”
Fuck his bad attitude.
It’s gotten out of hand lately. Almost like all his rage and jealousy and quiet venom has hit a perfect storm. I wish I knew why.
I love my little brother. I'm pretty sure he feels the same, but damn it.
Sometimes, I don't know who he is anymore.
“If it's really about money, come work for me. I’ve told you from the beginning we'd make a good team. There’s plenty of work. Plenty of money. Good, clean honest living.”
“I don’t want your table scraps.”
“No leftovers, Davey. I need the help. A partner.”
I'm digging my grave, offering Davey a stake in what I've built. Fucking up is in his blood. But I'll do it in a heartbeat, without hesitation, if it reduces the chances of him winding up in a coffin.
He flashes a sarcastic snarl. “Oh. Yeah, sure. My help.”
Now, I’m pissed. “Dammit, David. What the fuck's your problem? Talk to me!”
“Nothing.”
I know better, but I won’t get an answer tonight. Instead I go straight to the point. “Whether you believe it or not, I'm trying to help. You don’t know what you’re getting sucked into. The Black Pearls are the lowest of the low. There’s no easy out once they’ve roped you in. Back out now. While you still can.” Growling, I yank my checkbook out of my pocket and slam it on the pool table. “Whatever money you need, you've got it. Right here.”
I want to add a stipulation, that he has to guarantee he’s cut it off with the Black Pearls, before I give him a cent.
No, not yet. The contemplation in his eyes, the look that he’s seriously considering my offer, holds me back.
I hold my breath as he reaches for the checkbook, hoping it’s not too fucking late.
There's always more money. It's replaceable. Unlike flesh and blood.
Present
Disoriented by the past, it takes a moment before I realize the doorbell's ringing, echoing through the house. Pizza time.
Rubbing the tension out of the back of my neck, I stand, walking toward the hallway.
Nat runs down from her room while I’m paying the delivery guy. “I’ll set the table,” she says, walking past me.
Needing to leave this stupor, I nod. “Thanks, sweets.”
She has plates and silverware on the table and is filling two glasses with milk when I carry the pizza into the kitchen.
“Yum! That smells good.”
“Yeah,” I agree, giving her a serious look. “Must be the anchovies.”
“Very funny.” Nat giggles, wrinkling her cherub nose.
We both sit and scoop slices straight out of the box.
She bites the tip off her piece before setting it on her plate. “I like it better when it’s cut like this, in triangles, rather than squares, you know?”
I nod and finish chewing. “Unless it’s a square pizza.”
“The only square pizzas are those cheap ones Julia refuses to buy.”
“They used to be round,” I say. “Your Uncle Davey and I would have them as after school snacks. He’d have pepperoni and I’d have sausage. Those were the days.”
Those days are gone.
“You each ate your own pizza?” She blinks in surprise.
The memory makes me chuckle as I take another slice of pizza. “Yeah. Some days it was two each. Growing boys.”
“Jeez! Where'd you guys find the room?”
“I honestly don’t know. But we did.” A memory of my brother and I having friends over and raiding the kitchen flashes in my mind. “Teenagers can eat like a pack of piranhas. Just about anything, and still be hungry. We used to eat cookies as fast as Grandma baked them.”
“Poor Grandma.”
“Poor Grandpa, you mean. There were never any left for him.” I grin, remembering how pissed dad would get over having his sweet tooth denied.
We both laugh.
“If you're talking peanut butter, nobody had a chance.” She knows my favorite cookies all too well. “How about Uncle Davey? What did he like?”
“Chocolate chip. He’d eat the batter before it was even baked sometimes.” My smile vanishes.
She laughs again, but then he
r eyes grow serious. “You’re missing him today, huh? I'm sorry, Daddy.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I miss him some days, what little I can recall. Then I remember what you told me. How missing him's okay, and so is remembering how lucky we were to have our time with him.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Everything after Davey's funeral is still a fucking wash in my brain.
“Right after he died.”
My throat tightens and I reach for my glass of milk. She does, too.
I'm trying to figure out what's different today as I watch her empty her glass. Acting more grownup isn’t unusual, but right now she looks more grownup, too.
It's got to be the hair. “What’s going on up there, Nat?” I ask, waving a finger around my own hairline.
“It’s called a messy bun.” She twists so I can see the back of her head, how her hair piles up and sticks out in all directions. “All the female artists online wear their hair like this. I thought I'd try it out. Do you like it?”
Can't hide my frown. “Give it a few more years, baby girl. It's too adult. Brush it out and put it back in a ponytail before we leave, please.”
“Aww, seriously?” she asks.
I nod. “You're too young. Not joking.”
I’ll be the first to admit she’s spoiled. She’s my only child, and probably always will be, but even she knows the difference between being spoiled and misbehaving.
I’ve made that clear since she was little. Just as she knows the difference between discipline and punishment. If more adults and children understood that, the world might not be such a dark, fucked up place.
She doesn’t say anything more, and though the sadness on her face makes a knot form in my stomach, I remain silent. I hate disappointing her.
Not everything about being a parent is fun, or clean, or easy.
Too bad. I wouldn't trade it for the universe.
We finish eating, shifting gears to lighter subjects. I cleanup and load the dishwasher while she goes upstairs to get ready. By the time I’m done in the bathroom across the hall, she’s back in the kitchen, near the door that leads to the garage, a neatly combed ponytail replacing the bun.
“Need me to carry anything?”
