Steady Madness (Steady Teddy Book 2)

by Mike McCrary

  You learn a ton traveling with someone.

  The good, the bad and the annoying. I’ve learned Skinny Drake talks only when he wants to. Guess I knew that already. He rarely talks about himself, his past and certainly not about his feelings. Guess I knew that too. He snores like he’s an old man. He’s got a long fuse, but when he gets pissed, stand the hell back. Trust me. He also closes his eyes when he laughs—I love his laugh—and he knows a lot of useless things about Los Angeles even though I think he’s been here a total of an hour in his life.

  There’s more to Skinny Drake I know, too much to list, but I’ve gotten to know him more and more. This is my brother, and I couldn’t be happier to have him. Warts and all.

  He hasn’t said much about his childhood.

  About his mother.

  Hasn’t said anything about her and Jonathan. He probably doesn’t know much. This is all so new to him too, but there has to be something he wants to talk about. I’ve spilled my guts all over the damn place, all about my situation and Jonathan. But Skinny Drake hasn’t said a whole hell of a lot about it. I’ve learned not to press him, but I am curious. Damn curious. It’s starting to eat at me. As we exit heading south I glance toward him. He’s excited like a puppy looking out the window. I know he’s dying to point out all the insanely priced cars, and probably a few hot girls, but I want to ask him some serious questions.

  I want to know if it all bothers him.

  I want to know if he’s hurting like I am.

  I want to know that I’m not alone in this empty feeling I’m dragging around, wondering who I am.

  I start to ask, then stop. I begin again and hit pause again. Forget it. There’s no upside. It will either start a fight or cause him to retreat back to the corners of himself. He’ll tell me when he’s ready, and not a moment before. That’s my brother. I either accept it or fight it, and I’m thinking fighting it can lead to some things I really don’t want.

  “What?” Skinny Drake asks me.

  I must have been staring at him a little too long.

  “Nothing.” I smile. “You see that Bentley over there with the old dude and the big-tittied hottie?”

  “Yeah.” He snickers like he’s ten.

  Chapter 7

  “That’s it,” Skinny Drake says with a bounce. “That’s Rondo’s place.”

  Down the street is the little ocean bungalow I remember. Seems like we were here not all that long ago. Maybe a few days. Maybe a week. Could be a decade, given the weight that’s been laid down on us lately. A lot has happened since Gordo brought us here. Since he took us into that twenty-four seven beachside party hut of Rondo’s.

  Rondo was stoned, drunk and whatever else when we got hold of him and dragged him out. He wasn’t even awake when we grabbed him. Didn’t snap out of it until much later, with him only screaming out curse words at random while he was out cold. Funny looking back, but there were no giggles at the time. We needed him to draw out Mama McCluskey.

  We were betting big on a narrative.

  That he’s her first son, but not one of Jonathan’s. He’s the bastard boy from a little fling she had prior to Jonathan. Part of me enjoys that little slice of tawdry information. I want to drive all the way back to Texas and rub it in Jonathan’s face.

  Say something like, “Hey, your dead twat of a wife has another son spawned from someone else’s demon seed.”

  Sure, it needs work, but the pieces are there.

  Now, we need Rondo to tell us how to find Gordo. He might not know, but he’s the closest thing we have to a lead. He has to know something. A place Gordo likes to go. A city he hides out in. A girl somewhere. Something, dammit.

  “Okay then,” I say, gripping my bat, “let’s get his ass.”

  Skinny Drake slips a gun into the waistband of his jeans, looks to the beach house then nods. I can see it in his glazed eyes. It’s starting to show. This is all starting to take a toll on him. Hell, on me too. The heaviness of it all. The stress that comes from death. I can’t explain. I’m thinking the stress gives way to numbness, and that I don’t want. I don’t want him or me to get to the point where we don’t feel anymore. The mind can do some strange shit to defend itself. I know this all too well, I get it, but I don’t know what to do.

  “Hey, we don’t have to do this,” I say with my eyes locked on the house. “We can take what we’ve got and take off. Find somewhere to be. I don’t need that house. I don’t need that box. I don’t need—”

  “To remember who you are?” he says, interrupting, then turns to me. “You’d like to keep not knowing shit about shit?”

  The look on his face is one I haven’t seen yet. It’s compassion wrapped in determination. In his mind, we’ve already done all this and I’m back in the house opening that box from Jonathan. Like I’m opening my memories for Christmas. I think about telling him that doesn’t mean anything to me, but the look in his eyes has me thinking he’d know that’s utter horseshit.

  He cracks a grin.

  So do I.

  He opens the door.

  So do I.

  Chapter 8

  I have no idea what to expect.

  Last time we came around, Rondo was a puddle of goo in the back room, the rest of the place littered with tanned, post-sex, pre-overdose bodies on the floor. I expect more of the same, but you never know.

  Skinny Drake places his ear to the door. Pulling back, he shakes his head. No noise. No nothin’. I hide my bat behind my back and knock on the door. Skinny Drake checks to make sure his shirt is covering up his gun.

  Seconds crawl by.

  Still no sound coming from the house. Only the ocean breeze blowing around us with the occasional seagull yapping. I steal a peek at the clear blue sky. The sun kisses my cheeks. The smell of the salty air. I remember the last time I was here. I remember thinking California would be a nice place to relocate to. I was right then, and I’m still thinking this place is a little slice of all right.

  Skinny Drake moves closer to the door, readying his shoulder for a knockdown. I shake my head no, calling him off. He steps back, bouncing on his heels as if getting ready to kick it in.

  This kid.

  I love him.

  A few days ago he was a terrified little boy. A skinny, creepy kid in an elevator I thought was strange and perhaps a little rapey. Now he’s a badass, ready to kick in doors and abduct a beach boy to save my broken brain.

  Life moves fast, boys and girls.

  Plan accordingly.

  The door opens.

  A tall, naked man stands in front of us with an erection that you could swing from. It’s like his baby arm is saluting Hitler. I’m not turned on necessarily, but I am mesmerized. It’s actually pulsating, as if it had its own heartbeat.

  “What?” he asks me. “What do you want?”

  He must get people staring at his junk all the time.

  He’s got a bit of bite to his tone, but what really has me off guard is the fact his hard-on bobs even more when he speaks. I have the perverted desire to keep him talking so I can enjoy the flesh-puppet show.

  Skinny Drake elbows me. He can’t possibly know what I’m thinking, but I guess he gets the gist.

  “Rondo around?” I say, fighting to establish eye contact.

  “Yeah,” he says, scratching his head. “Who wants to know?”

  “His brother and sister.”

  He blinks, looking over the two of us. We might have broken his brain with that one. I sneak a peek downward then look up immediately.

  “Didn’t know he had any family,” he says, scratching his nuts perhaps a little too long. Now I’m a little disgusted. We were doing so well.

  “Well, he does. He does and we are it,” I say. “So, if you and your big dick could take a couple of steps back we’d appreciate it.”

  He only stares back. Blinks.

  Might have really broken his brain this time.

  Mr. Big One opens the door wider and takes a step back. It’s very tempt
ing to cop a feel on the way by, but I show restraint. Sexual assault isn’t my thing. Of course, if a guy answers the door naked with a hard-on the size of a sapling I’d think all bets are off, but I guess that’s all up for debate.

  Skinny Drake comes in behind me, but keeps his eyes on Big One at all times. Despite the feature I’ve focused on, he’s also about six-five, tan, carved out of steel and covered in tats. Considering he has no problem answering the door buck naked, there’s no telling what the guy is capable of.

  Good thinking, Skinny. Keep an eye on him.

  First thing I notice is that the place is devoid of other naked bodies. There’s no orgy, post- or pre-, in progress.

  No sign of anyone.

  The place actually looks clean and well kept. I scan the living room and kitchen. It’s as if a maid or someone’s mother was recently here and took care of shit. I know it wasn’t Rondo’s. She’s dead. A flash of that violent scene rips past my mind’s eye. I shake it off.

  “Who’s that for?” I say to Big One.

  He cocks his head at me. “What?” he asks. His penis bobs.

  “That,” I say, pointing to his crotch. “That raging tiger you got there. I don’t see anybody around. You getting in some private time or what?”

  “Oh that. They left.”

  I look to Skinny Drake.

  He scrunches his nose back at me. We don’t get it.

  “I’m confused,” I say. “There were girls here, or at least one, and they or she left you”—a nod down—“with that?”

  Big One claps his hands and starts to laugh as if he just got what I was saying to him.

  He’s pretty, but dumb as shit.

  “No, no.” He points toward the back. “Rondo and them saw you coming down the street and they hauled ass down the beach.”

  Skinny Drake and I share a look, then fly to the back of the living room toward an open sliding glass door. I noticed the curtains blowing off the back patio but didn’t think anything of it. I just thought they were letting in some ocean air, for Christ’s sake. Damn. Blinded by a bobbing penis.

  Throwing back the curtains, we fumble out onto the deck. The beach is peppered with people enjoying their day. Towels out. Baskets with snacks. Drinks with straws. Smiles and fun. Normal, except for one detail. A major one. About fifty yards out from us, five bare-assed folks are running like hell down the beach. Four women and our boy, Rondo. They look like they’ve been enjoying a substance of some sort, given the lack of skill with their moves and the fact they haven’t covered much ground since we got here.

  “We going after them?” Skinny Drake asks without breaking his stare of the ladies’ bouncing backsides.

  I put my lips together and blow out, releasing a frustrated fart-like noise for no real reason. It earns a brief glance from my brother. I continue with the noise. Perhaps it’s the ridiculousness of this situation we’re in, or the fact I don’t know what to do. Regardless, I know I can’t just stand here on the beach making fart noises. I need to make a call. A ruling on this situation.

  “Yeah,” I finally say, “I guess we do.”

  “I’ll get him some clothes.”

  “Yeah, pack dear Rondo a bag of some kind, if you could.”

  Skinny Drake nods while keeping watch of the naked, stumbling mess of humanity that is working its way through the sand. People stop and take note of them, but aren’t nearly as freaked out as you’d think. No one seems fazed at all.

  California, man.

  Yeah, I could live here.

  Big One sidles up, taking a stand next to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. Not aggressive, more like resting it there or suggesting something. I turn to him, meeting his eyes. He raises his eyebrows and glances down to his still standing monument to blood flow. As if to ask if I could help him out.

  “Thanks, Big One,” I say, shaking my head. “Flattered to be sure, but I gotta run. Another time?”

  He frowns, then nods as he walks away, defeated.

  Can’t help but sigh. Despite all that’s happened, I’m still a human being with needs and wants, and a good-looking slab with a rager at the ready checks the boxes of want and need. It’s been a while for me and he sure is pretty, but alas, I’ve got shit to do.

  Dammit.

  Chapter 9

  Running in sand sucks.

  It’s hard.

  Really hard.

  My thighs are on fire. My labored lungs want to collapse, tap out and call this whole thing off. I tried, I really did, but the hell with it. Skinny Drake is up a few feet from me, so damn competitive that kid, but we’re still a decent distance from our target. Rondo and his groupies are still rumbling down the beach like a drunken pack of Labradors looking for a meat treat.

  I think I hear a couple of the girls giggle.

  Unbelievable.

  They’re naked as the day they were born, have a woman with a baseball bat and a guy with a gun chasing them across the hot-as-hell sand, and they’re cutting up like school kids.

  Yes, I know they’re probably whacked out of their skulls on a chemical compound that’ll take days to unwind, and they probably weren’t that smart to begin with, but damn man, know your surroundings.

  Skinny Drake has a workout bag slung over his shoulder filled with some stuff he grabbed for Rondo’s little trip he’s about to take with us. That is if we can catch the slimy bastard. I can only imagine my brother agonizing over what to pack for him. He may not seem like it, but Skinny Drake is the kind of guy who would worry that he didn’t pack what Rondo would want to take.

  I’m more concerned that I might have to land my bat upside one of these chicks’ heads. Hope it doesn’t come to that, but you never know how a sex-crazed doper girl is going to react when faced with a woman with a baseball bat taking her man down on a sunny day.

  Shit.

  Just realized something.

  We’re moving farther and farther away from the car. Quick math tells me it’s a long-ass walk back to our ride from where we are. I’m not enjoying this little jog we’re on right now, so I’m pretty sure the stroll back with a kicking and screaming Rondo is going to suck even harder.

  We’re within spitting distance of them. Not far at all. Still too far to dive tackle, but close enough to make a move. I can’t tell if they’ve noticed us yet or if they consider us a hallucination, hard to tell from here, so the surprise element may still in our back pockets.

  I can’t feel my legs.

  I look to the perfect ass on the blonde on the left. It’s sick. Ridiculous.

  Enough of this.

  I stop.

  I spread my feet wide and fling my bat end over end with all I have, like a lumberjack tossing an axe. The bat flips and sails, almost in slow motion. Skinny Drake watches with his mouth wide in shock. I lean to the left ever so slightly as if trying to guide the bat’s path with body. The bat lands with a thunk. Nails the back of Rondo’s head. His legs say fuck it as he drops to the sand in a fast, almost immediate, slump of a move.

  My arms shoot up as if I just kicked a fifty yarder to win the Rose Bowl.

  The girls stop cold, like their feet got stuck in the sand.

  They look to one another with eyes wide, but say nothing.

  Skinny Drake reaches them first. He, of course, has nothing to say because he’s been rendered useless by the bare chests, perfect skin and pretty eyes. I move up fast to grab my bat, just in case the girls get any wild ideas. Rondo is facedown in the sand, but he seems to be breathing.

  I snap my fingers an inch from Skinny Drake’s nose to snatch his attention away from his wide-eyed, boob-induced trance. I grab a robe from the bag Skinny Drake packed and shove it in his chest.

  “Get that on him,” I tell him, then turn, waving my bat at the girls to get my point across. “You ladies need to fuck the fuck off back to the house. There’s a pretty man back there who needs you.”

  They look at me.

  They blink.

  Then blink some more.


  “Go,” I bark. “Before he takes matters into his own hand.”

  Looking to one another, they start running back toward the house with a bounce and a giggle. I can’t help but be a little jealous of them. Must be somewhat nice to be gorgeous, dumb, stoned, have people take care of you all the time and be constantly sexually fulfilled.

  Bitches.

  I think about flinging my bat again.

  Gotta hand it to Skinny Drake. He put aside lust and pussy-staring long enough to do a good job getting Rondo in a lime-green bathrobe and standing upright. That takes discipline for a kid like him. I’ll have to point that out to him later. He’s holding up Rondo with an arm around his waist and his other arm locked over his shoulder. Doesn’t look comfortable at all.

  Skinny Drake looks to me like he wants me to do something.

  “Really?” he says with a tone. “He’s not a tiny dude.”

  “Fine.”

  I throw Rondo’s other arm around my shoulder. We start walking him back down the beach. Now it looks like we’re helping out a drunk friend rather than kidnapping a naked dude.

  Much better.

  It’s not lost on me, the absolute strangeness of this situation. I’m walking along the Pacific Ocean with my brother and my naked stepbrother. I think he’s a step. I’m not good at family trees. Never had to be before now. Not long ago I was just an only-child bartender who arranged good times for people and, oh yeah, I blacked out occasionally.

  “This is kinda weird,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Skinny Drake agrees.

  We shuffle our feet in the sand, huffing and puffing as we go.

  “That all you’ve got?”

  “Yeah.”

  We move along in silence, while struggling to move Rondo along the beach. Neither one wants to be the first to complain, but we both know how much this sucks. We have no idea what our next move is or what we’re going to do, but we have the beginnings of a plan. Which is more than I can say for when I woke up on the porch with Jonathan staring at me. Was pretty sure I was going to get into a morning firefight that day. One with bodies, bullets and blood littering my yard. One I wouldn’t walk away from. Don’t get me wrong, this is better, but still...