by Linda Kage
I wasn’t helping things, either. I was still miffed because he’d so adamantly shut me down and not only refused to help me with a girl I wanted to meet more than...probably any other girl I’d ever seen before—probably even Incubus shirt girl—but he’d then gone and cock-blocked me, telling me he didn’t want me near her at all, so now I couldn’t even try to get to her on my own. Felt like a pretty shit move to me, frankly. He knew better than anyone that my intentions were actually honorable. I wouldn’t fuck her and drop her. I legitimately wanted to get to know her.
The jackass.
And if it was because he wanted me for himself, he needed to cut that out too. I mean, I liked the guy. He’d probably become my best friend in the few weeks we’d known each other, but I wasn’t going to trade sides, not even for him. I couldn’t help it that I preferred women. Damn it. The whole fucking thing irritated me to no end. Kind of made me want to drop him and his drama completely.
Except I missed hanging out with him. He was entertaining and competitive, had similar tastes as me so we always had plenty to talk about, and I knew I could rely on him for probably just about anything. He was the perfect friend, except for the part where he wanted my dick. But I could look past that.
There’d been so many times in the last few days I’d picked up the phone to call him up so we could hang out, only to stop myself. Because he was avoiding me too. He’d left straight after practice on Thursday without bullshitting with me like usual. And we always hung out together after our Friday night gig at Forbidden. But he’d gone home as soon the show was over, pleading a headache.
Total chick move.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was a girl.
“You’re quiet today.”
I glanced away from the window I’d been staring out to glance across the car toward Pick.
I also was getting tired of always being in the passenger seat, riding bitch. I needed to get my own set of four wheels so I could be in the driver’s seat every once in a while. I don’t know if it was lack of sex lately, or what, but I could almost feel my nads shriveling up into ovaries. I was sitting here, stressing about my friendship with another guy and upset because I hadn’t even been able to just talk to some girl. I had the sudden urge to rip a loud, foul fart or belch or something equally guy just to prove I wasn’t losing it.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, and immediately realized I’d just pulled the purely feminine I’m fine line. Not cool, so I quickly added, “I need to get laid.”
Pick chuckled. “The way the women flock to you after all your shows, I wouldn’t have thought you had a problem with that.”
“Yeah, but all they want is some singer in a band. I’m just…I’m over that shit. You can only handle so many meaningless, empty hook-ups before you want...” I didn’t bother to finish the sentiment. It sounded lame and whiny to my own ears, and besides, two guys did not talk about this. But not only had I confided in Sticks about it, but now Pick too. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Aww....is my baby brother growing up?”
I scowled at Pick, not sure what he meant by that. “Huh?”
“It’s a sign of a maturing male when he’s ready to stop sowing his wild oats and settle down with a good woman.”
Maturity? Huh. Was that what this was? Because I still felt like a clueless, bumbling kid most of the time. But maturing did sound better than becoming a chick.
“Got you all restless and edgy, doesn’t it? Feeling lonely and kind of pathetic because you keep turning down sure things that you really have no reason to turn down at all?”
Holy shit. How did he know that?
The stunned expression must’ve revealed my feelings because he sent me a knowing smile. “Been there. Suffered through that. And damn glad I found my Tinker Bell when I did.”
“Lucky bastard,” I mumbled, scowling.
Which only made him laugh. “I know, right?”
When he pulled into the entrance of an auto repair shop, I sat up straighter, forgetting about my own issues.
We’d just come from my uncle’s place. He was the only family member I had any contact with, even though it’d been three or four years since I’d last visited him...or called. After my mom had died and my dad was arrested, the authorities had gotten hold of my mom’s family to see if they would take me in. None of them were interested in raising Polly’s little crack baby, except her older brother Stan.
He hadn’t been the loving, nurturing type. In fact, he’d rarely been around. Since he had worked for a trucking company, he would be gone for days on end. The most interest he’d ever shown in my life was a “how’s it going?” whenever he’d see me. But he never hit me or even yelled at me. He was just kind of there...sometimes. If it wasn’t for him, though, I would’ve been put into foster care and who knew where I would’ve ended up.
Anyway, since Stan had been Polly’s brother, that made him just as much Pick’s uncle as mine. So when I’d asked Pick if he wanted to meet Stan, he’d been all for that idea. And that was why we were hanging out today.
The visit with Stan had gone about how I’d expected with one small surprise.
I hadn’t called before visiting. He wasn’t a fan of answering his phone, so I hadn’t even bothered. So he’d been mildly startled to see me when he’d opened the door of his trailer house.
“Asher? Is that you? Shit. How long’s it been? You’ve finally filled out some. Thought you were going to be a stick for the rest of your life. Well, come on in. Who’s this?” He eyed Pick warily before glancing at me. “You turn to men, or something?”
Jesus. Not Uncle Stan too.
“No. This is Pick. Patrick Ryan. He, uh...well, he’s your nephew too.”
Stan’s perusal of Pick’s tattoos and piercings turned into a scowl before he glanced at me and hitched up an eyebrow. “Come again?”
After I explained how Pick was the baby Polly had left at the hospital and how we’d stumbled across our discovery of being related, Stan scratched his fraying beard stubble. “Well, hell. I didn’t even realize that kid had survived. I just assumed Polly’d had a miscarriage.”
“Well...” I shrugged. “She didn’t.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Pick held out a hand, and Stan stared at it as if he didn’t know what to do with it, before he finally took hold of Pick’s palm and returned the shake.
“You do have the Ruddick chin, I guess,” Stan murmured thoughtfully.
“We came not only so he could meet you, but to see if you had any information about his dad, so he could maybe research his paternal side too.”
“Your dad’s dead,” Stan announced abruptly, making me cringe. Thank God I’d already told Pick this so it wasn’t too startling, but fuck. Our uncle had never bothered with subtlety, and he sure didn’t now, either.
“Didn’t know his real name, just what Polly called him. Chaz.”
“Yeah,” Pick murmured, disappointment at the dead end glimmering in his eye. “That’s what Asher told me.”
“There wasn’t much worth knowing, anyway; he was a no-account drunk,” Stan went on. “He was never going to go anywhere past that repair shop where he worked on Bullview Road.”
Pick suddenly perked to attention. “You mean Murphy’s Repair Shop?”
“Yeah.” Stan snapped his fingers. “That place.”
The oddest expression entered Pick’s face. “Holy fuck,” he murmured, sounding stunned.
“What?” I had to ask. “Have you heard of it?”
He turned to me, more looking through me than at me. Shock made his pupils dilate and lips part. “I used to work there,” he said.
So that’s why we’d driven to Murphy’s Repair Shop. Pick told me the owner had run the place for nearly forty years; he’d probably remember an employee named Chaz.
As we exited the Mustang, I followed Pick to an opened bay door where Luke Bryan’s voice wailed from a radio about stripping it down and returning to the simpler life. Pick
nudged a pair of ragged boots that were sticking out from under an old Chevy truck.
“Hey. Murph around?”
The boots moved and rolled out until we could see the grease-stained face of the worker. “Well, hey. The prodigal son returns. You coming back to work for us again, Pick?”
Pick merely shook his head. “Just looking to chat with Murphy today.”
The mechanic tipped his head to the right. “In his office. Go on in.”
“Thanks, man.”
Pick strolled that way, so I followed. The door to the glassed-in office was open, and even though it was cold outside a small oscillating fan whirled slowly on top of a paper-stacked desk. The man sitting behind it looked to be slimmer and taller with stooped shoulders. He had his glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he read something on a clipboard in his hand.
Rapping his knuckles on the doorframe, Pick called, “Hey, Murph. You got a minute?”
The older man looked up, his bushy gray brows arching in surprise. “Hey! If it isn’t Patrick. Come on in, kid. I always have a minute for you.”
Pick stepped in far enough to allow me room inside with him. After glancing at me, he turned to his old boss. “You’ve owned this place a long time, haven’t you?”
“Forty years next summer, why you asking? Want to buy it from under me? Hell, shoot me a decent price, and I’ll consider it. Eh?”
“Aww.” Pick chuckled and waved a hand. “No. I’m too busy with the club to tinker with cars anymore.”
A fond smile layered itself across Murphy’s face as he sat back in his seat. “You used to love tinkering with cars if I remember right.”
“Still do. But just my own now. I don’t want to make a business out of it.”
“Then what’d you come down here for if you don’t want to work for me again, or buy me out, and you can take care of your own automobiles?” He glanced at me, and leaned back deeper in his chair as he considered me. “You want me to hire this thing here?” When his gaze landed on my hands, he snorted. “Doesn’t look like he’s had grease under his fingernails a day in his life.”
“No. He...” Pick glanced at me. “This is my brother. He’s been helping me with a little research, finding someone, and oddly enough, our trail led us here to one of your employees back...twenty-five, twenty-six years ago.”
Something odd flashed across Murphy’s face before he sat forward, suddenly interested. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Pick wiped his hand off on his thighs. “All I know is the guy went by the name Chaz, and he was killed here, or near here, by a drive-by shooting possibly.”
Murphy’s hand fluttered to his mouth as he stared at Pick with a sudden intensity. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured, blinking as if tears were clouding his eyes.
“Do you remember him?” Pick asked softly, but eagerly stepping forward because it was obvious Murphy did remember Chaz.
After clearing his throat, Murphy answered, “Chaz was short for Charles. Charles Edward Murphy...Junior.”
When Pick sucked in a breath I glanced at him, but he was busy staring at his old boss. “You mean...are you saying he was your son?”
With a nod, Murphy said, “He was. Why’re you asking about him?”
My brother turned to me, and I think he was too stunned to talk, so I tried to smile at Murphy. “He, uh...well, we just discovered my mom, Polly Ruddick, was also Pick’s mom.”
“My God,” Murphy croaked, unable to take his eyes off Pick. “I thought you looked like him. The first day you came here, looking for a job, I could see so much of Chaz in your eyes. Probably why I hired you without a reference to your name, but I...I never would’ve dreamed you were that baby.”
Pick blew out a shuddered breath before shaking his head and asking, “So you knew...you were aware my mother was pregnant with Chaz’s—”
He broke off when Murphy nodded. “Sure. They were shacked up together, living in my garage while she was pregnant with you. She’d come into the kitchen every morning, and I’d feed her a hearty breakfast so you’d grow nice and strong.”
“Did you know she gave birth to me the same day—”
“I did,” Murphy said on a choked nod. “Took me a couple days, after the funeral, before I got around to go see you. Polly had already taken off by then, but they let me look at you through a window.”
“And you didn’t...” Pick shook his head, his eyes glazed with shock. “You didn’t try to get custody of me?”
Guilt lined Murphy’s eyes before he glanced away. “Shit, Pick. I’d just lost my son. My wife had been gone for years. I was trying to run my own business by myself; there was no way I was equipped to take care of an infant.”
Both Murphy and I watched as devastation lit Pick’s features. But he gave a noisy swallow and nodded. “I understand, Murphy. It would’ve been tough.”
As if realizing what a mistake he’d made, Murphy’s face took on a pleading expression. “They told me they’d find a real nice foster home for you, people who’d gone through classes and been trained on how to take care of a baby. I thought...I knew it’d be the best thing for you.” A wavering smile lit his face. “And hell, look at you now. You turned out just fine.”
With another nod, Pick mumbled, “Yeah. Just fine.”
I kicked at a spot on the floor, nearly biting my tongue in half because I wanted to tell Murphy so bad that Pick had not been fine...not for many, many years. But I figured if Pick had wanted him to know that, he would’ve said something himself. It wasn’t my place.
“If it’s any consolation,” Murphy went on. “Your mama loved you something fierce.”
I glanced up and watched the fond smile on the older man’s face as he nodded to Pick. “She was young—shit, they were both too young, but her in particular. And yet...none of that mattered. She talked and dreamed and envisioned the day you were going to arrive. She would’ve made a damn fine mama for you if Chaz hadn’t...” After another clearing of the throat, Murphy went on. “They were going to name you Dugger.”
“Dugger?” Pick murmured, glancing me with a slight wince. “Dugger Murphy.”
“Nice.” I flashed him two thumbs-up, refraining from telling him what our mother had actually named me.
Pick flipped me off before turning back to his grandfather.
Even as I chuckled, I tried not to let the bitter jealousy in, but it stirred within me, anyway.
I wanted so bad to tell Pick what a gift it was that our mother had loved him. Because she’d never loved me. She’d hated me, and told me so often. She’d gone on and on numerous times, complaining how much she’d wished I had died, how she resented Miller Hart for making her keep me, how she wanted her true baby boy back. I’d always known she’d loved Pick and not me, but listening to his grandfather back that fact up only dug the pain in deeper.
“I think we’re done here,” Pick said, tapping my elbow to get my attention. Then he nodded stoically to his former boss...his grandfather. “Murphy, thank you for your information. I’m going to...I’m just going to mull this over awhile, then I’ll probably be back to catch up on...things, if that’s all right with you.”
Murphy nodded immediately, and a smile lit his face. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
As Pick turned away abruptly and strode off, needing space, or to think, or whatever, his grandfather glanced at me. After a long blink, he said, “Now you...you have your mother’s eyes.”
Then he smiled fondly as if that was something I should’ve been proud of.
I nodded, twitching my lips to make him think I was smiling, but all I could remember was how much Polly had hated the fact I’d gotten her eyes. Almost as much as she’d hated me.
When Pick returned home, I was done being an insecure coward. If maturity was what Pick was calling this, then I was going to do the mature thing and just call Remy. Besides, I wanted to kill zombies with my friend again.
But as soon as I pulled my phone from my pocket, it rang. When I saw Sticks on
the screen, I grinned.
“Hey, loser,” I answered, relieved to talk to him again. “I was just about to call you.”
“You were?” He sounded surprised, which made me laugh.
“Hell, yeah. I don’t have to go to work until five this evening, so I was curious if you were up for some Call of Duty.”
“Sure. I was actually going to see if you were around because…I have something for you.”
I nodded and waved him on, even though he couldn’t see me over the phone. “Well, then get your ass over here, man.”
Ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door, and you’d think I was waiting for a hot lady to visit, I was a bit too eager to answer it. But I didn’t care, and as soon as I pulled it open, this ball of relief eased inside me.
“This is for you.” Sticks held out a small brown paper sack as soon as we jogged down together into my apartment. When I only arched an eyebrow, curious, he jiggled the bag impatiently. “Well, go on and take it. It’s not poisonous, I swear.”
I took the sack and unfolded the top so I could peer inside.
“What the hell?” Staring incredulously, I gaped at the new box of condoms that had the words “Use Me Please” written out in thick black marker along the side.
“And I remembered to get the non-latex kind too.” Remy sounded way too proud of himself, so I squinted an incredulous glance his way.
He sighed as if disgusted that I wasn’t happier. “This is me proving to you that I’m perfectly okay with you going out and having sex with...whomever.”
“Just not your cousin,” I had to add, trying not to sound bitter and hoping I hadn’t just stuck my foot into my mouth and made things worse between us. But I was sort of hoping he’d say he was okay with me pursuing Elisa after all.
He didn’t. Of course.
He scowled a second before shrugging. “Yeah. Just not her.”
I wanted to mope and scowl and argue, but...this was Sticks extending an olive branch. Strange method, but he wanted to make amends, so I accepted it.
“Well...thank you, I think,” I said, tossing the box onto my bed. “So you want to kill shit now?”
