Savior

by Rhys Ford

  “Those women came in here looking for something to wear for the rest of their lives,” Ivo said softly and pointed at the front door. “Just like everybody else. It doesn’t matter if it’s small or large or if it’s the only tattoo they’ll ever get in their entire life. It’s for them, and it’s special. A good inker isn’t just about being able to tattoo or be a great artist. You also have to respect the person who’s going to walk out with what you’ve done. They’ve got to be happy with it, and they deserve to have a good experience while getting inked. You’re not understanding that. You’re not getting that those women are as important to the shop as that guy who’s going to come in next week for a full back piece. And that’s why I’m telling you to get the fuck out. If you want to call Bear tomorrow to talk about it, go ahead, but he’s going to back me on this. Because you just don’t get it.”

  It was really the most he’d ever heard Ivo say. Most of the time, Ivo spent his hours at the shop with his headphones on or bent over someone’s body or working on sketches in the art room by the back door. There were always brief floods of discussion between the brothers and their clients, but speeches were few and far between.

  Dave didn’t seem to like this one, and he stepped closer, his fists pulled back. He was a gangly knit of elbows and knees, with about twenty pounds less muscle than Ivo, but there was a coiled rage in his stance. Rob dropped the pots into the trash can and waited for Dave to respond.

  “You think you’re just hot shit, don’t you?” Dave growled up into Ivo’s face, his chin jutted forward. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t Bear’s cousin. And no matter how much you guys call each other brother, you’re not. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if the only reason Bear took you out of foster care is so his hump buddy Mason had someone new to fuck because Gus was getting too old.”

  No matter how fast Rob could cross the tattoo shop’s floor, he wasn’t as quick as Ivo’s fist.

  There was blood—lots of it—and Rob hesitated, unsure if he could get involved without getting his head knocked off. But when Ivo dodged Dave’s flailing strike and dipped his shoulder to punch up into Dave’s chin, Rob knew he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. A few quick strides and he was in the middle of the skirmish, taking a glancing blow on his cheek from Dave’s fist as he tried to get between the men.

  Rob’s idea of fighting pretty much started and stopped at sarcastic rejoinders. Dave seemed more like a drunken brawler, uncoordinated and unsure of why or who started the fight, but he was all in. Ivo—complicated, surprising Ivo—fought like he was going in for the kill. Rob knew who he had to stop, and it sure as hell wasn’t Dave.

  “Not in here, man,” Rob pleaded as he pushed his shoulder against Ivo’s muscular chest. “Not in the shop.”

  It was the only leverage he had, especially since he was pretty sure none of the brothers were going to drop by and magically calm him down. Ivo shuddered, took a step back, and shook his hands as he walked in a tight circle, his attention fixed on Dave’s bleeding face.

  “Get the fuck out,” Ivo growled, a razor edge of dangerous riding his voice. “If you’ve got any shit in the back room, you come by when Bear is here and get it. You’re not fit to be inside of the shop, much less fucking working in it.”

  Holding Ivo back wasn’t easy. He pushed with every word and moved Rob back an inch or two with his powerful legs. But Rob held firm and prayed Dave would gather up what little sense he had and leave. Turned halfway, he could see Dave seriously think about not going, but then he spat a mouthful of blood and spit onto the shop’s concrete floor.

  “Fuck you. You’re still just a piece of shit Bear lets scar up people with your crappy ink.” Dave wiped at the blood pouring out of his nose. It was beginning to swell, and his words were garbled, a numb drone of sound that echoed through the shop. “I hope somebody comes in here and kicks your ass.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dave,” Rob screamed at him and wrapped his arms around Ivo’s waist to hold him still. “Will you just get the fuck out?”

  Dave was gone with the rattle of the bell against the door and a brief burst of cold air that he let into the heated shop. Ivo was fairly panting, and Rob could feel the anger thrumming in his body. He slowly let Ivo go and carefully stepped back, unsure if Ivo would strike out at him since Rob was the only one left in the place.

  “You good?” he asked cautiously and gave Ivo some room to breathe. “Because I don’t want to get punched in the face.”

  “I’m not going to hit you.” Ivo sucked at one of his knuckles and then grimaced. “You can say anything you want about Mason, because he can be a dick sometimes, but he would never hurt a kid, not in a million years and especially not me. Not after what his father did to him. So fuck Dave for saying that. Fuck him and anyone else who thinks we’re not brothers. Lock up. We’re done for the night.”

  IF THERE was one thing that kept Mace sane, it was running. Bear had started him on it, more of a way to get Mace some exercise, but then it dawned on Mace that running gave him a sense of freedom, a way of pushing his body to its limits and reminding his obsessive, anxious mind he was no longer trapped in a box. Eventually it evolved into a game of tag, a sprint toward a building or object along the running path, a slalom of landmarks with a set destination and bragging rights. When he introduced the game to Rey, Mace knew he’d found his lifelong running partner, someone as competitive and driven to win as he was but without any ego if he lost. As much as Mace hated losing, he hated winning against a sore loser.

  This time, as he pounded up the hill toward the brothers’ house, he wasn’t playing tag against anyone. Rather, he was running to remind himself he was free.

  Rey was somewhere behind him, probably more than a little bit exhausted, having done a circuit at the zoo with Gus and Chris, but he’d been willing to tie on his sneakers when Mace’s pacing around the living room finally drove Bear over the edge. He needed to burn off energy, to drive himself into the ground until he was too tired to think. There were too many ghosts and too much anger brewing in his belly and mind, so running it off seemed sensible.

  This time it felt less like a race to beat Rey back to the house and more like he was being chased by a monster with his father’s face.

  “Behind you,” Rey shouted up the hill. The desperate yell was weak, punctuated by a short huff of breath, and Mace couldn’t hold back his chuckle when Rey swore a few seconds later. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

  Mace turned around and paced down his run to a slow jog. The slant got easier, pulled on his thighs less, and he let the distance between them diminish. Rey looked worn out. He’d come off a long shift and then rolled into a prolonged visit with a three-year-old. It left bags under his liquid brown eyes, and his dark hair stuck to his forehead, tamped down with sweat. Mace had a few inches on Rey and a bit more width in his shoulders, but Rey had great stamina. Stockier in build, he could take flights of stairs for days without stopping, something Mace envied, especially in the labyrinthine architecture of most Chinatown buildings. But put Rey on a hill and Mace could usually win, especially when he needed to.

  “Shouldn’t have had that corn dog at the zoo,” Mace called back, “or the cotton candy.”

  “Kid only wanted a mouthful of the hot dog,” Rey panted. He quickened his step to catch up with Mace, but it was hard going. “And if he ate all the cotton candy by himself, he would’ve been buzzing. With the kind of prices they charge over there, you think I was going to throw it all out?”

  “Yeah, probably would’ve been a good idea.” Mace lengthened his stride and threw a quick glance backward in anticipation of a bump in the sidewalk that had been there for more than a decade. His heel hit it, and he almost lost his footing, but he recovered before Rey could take advantage of the bobble. “Can you hurry up? There’s a shower waiting for me at the house I want to take.”

  “Fuck you, Crawford,” Rey spat halfheartedly. “I know how that house is, and as soon as you get into that shower, I’m going to tu
rn on every single faucet and flush all of the toilets until your nuts freeze off.”

  REY WAS gone by the time Mace finished his shower, leaving his excuses in a nearly illegible cursive on a piece of paper taped to the main second-floor bathroom. Bear was somewhere in the house, but Mace didn’t go looking for him. He felt like an imposition. He’d moved his things into the smallest bedroom of the Craftsman and left only a few jeans and lounging clothes tucked inside a scavenged dresser. There was barely enough room to walk around the queen-size bed shoved up against the wall, and during the winter, cold air seeped in around one of the window frames and made it impossible to sleep comfortably without a mound of quilts. It was meant to be a nursery or maybe even a walk-in closet, but Mace assured the others it was good enough for him.

  He hated it. It reminded him of every closet he’d been shoved into, every cramped space he’d been imprisoned in, but asking for more room seemed… he told himself it would make no sense to take up a bedroom someone else could use, especially since he lived elsewhere.

  The reality was that Mace was kind of afraid to hear those exact words come from Bear’s mouth. He didn’t want to ask for more than what was given. If he didn’t ask, he would never be told no. And he never wanted to risk his friendship… his brotherhood… with the others over something as inconsequential as a bedroom he’d rarely use.

  With a towel slung around his hips, Mace tucked his clothes into a bundle under his arm and padded to the tiny room tucked in next to the stairs. The floorboards creaked a bit under his feet, and the old runner they’d laid down on the landing felt a bit rough and was probably in need of a carpet sweeping. There was evidence of Earl everywhere—a bit of fur caught on the rug’s burgundy edge and the flattened remains of a once-yellow stuffed duck left in front of Ivo’s closed bedroom door. He opened the door to his room and stood in shock at the sight of heavily packed bookcases lining the walls and a pair of enormous armchairs standing where his bed used to be.

  Mace wanted to throw up on his own feet. He’d been in his room only a few days before, straightening the bed linens until they were practically creased over the mattress and falling straight. There hadn’t been anything out of place. His things were put away out of sight and everything left in an orderly fashion. There was never anything left out, nothing to be held under his nose as an example of his slovenly nature or evidence of the trash he’d come from. There was no reason to erase him.

  “This was supposed to be a surprise, but I told Ivo it was a bad idea to do it without telling you.” Luke’s quiet voice startled Mace, and he almost dropped the towel he held clenched at his waist. “They moved you into Ivo’s old room because it’s bigger and warmer.”

  Mace shook his head but shivered when a brush of cold air hit his still-damp chest. “I don’t live here. I don’t need—”

  “None of us were happy you moved in there. We voted. Ivo went back up into the attic, and once Gus and Rey figure out where they’re going to be, he’ll probably still be in his old room sometimes. Or we can use it for Chris when he comes over.” Luke opened the other bedroom door. “But this was something they wanted to do for you, and you better like it, because I had to take a day off to get all of the wallpaper down. I don’t know how Ivo could stand it, but I knew you didn’t want to wake up to 1950s fruit baskets.”

  Mace didn’t trust himself to look through the cracked-open door. He was caught in the emotional upheaval of his brothers’ surprising regard and their stubborn, willful care of him. “Where’s Bear? Did he call you to come over? I’m fine.”

  “You are about as far from fine as you ever have been, brother,” Luke said as he swung the door open the rest of the way. “Go in. Bear went to go pick up some cheesesteak sandwiches, but traffic got a little thick, so he’s running late. And of course he called me. That’s what we do. We call each other when shit hits the fan. Now get inside of your damned room and tell me the paint I picked out is nice, because Ivo and Gus wanted green and I want to rub it in their faces that you prefer blue.”

  Luke was like him, connected through friendship rather than blood, but he’d been brought in by Gus, and people instinctively loved Gus despite his roguish nature. Luke was a slender, quiet Hispanic kid with a lisp and accented English when he moved into the house. He was still entangled in the system’s red tape, but they eagerly handed him off to Bear, and he’d been shuffled through so many foster homes that he’d been held back a grade.

  They’d all had burdens put on them, but Luke’s seemed to drag at the edges of any happiness he’d found. There was a sadness in his enormous cinnamon-brown eyes, a wistful longing on his sweet-featured face every time Gus and Ivo wrestled and ended up in a laughing clutch of hugs when Bear jumped them. For the longest time, Mace felt like he and Luke were always on the outside looking in, but at some point, Luke was enveloped into that laughter and Mace was alone again.

  Or at least that’s how it felt.

  Bear assured him that wasn’t the case, and Ivo more than a few times declared Mace was crazy, but whenever he met Luke’s sad eyes, Mace knew he was understood. It was hard to let go of his fear. He’d beaten it into shape until it was a set of armor, wrapping him in a steeled distance, something impenetrable to keep him safe. But the brothers seemed to know exactly how to get inside without even trying.

  Like a freshly painted bedroom to remind Mace where he belonged.

  “I like the blue,” he whispered as he hesitantly stepped into the room. It was bright, a cheery sky color rarely seen on most San Francisco mornings, and it reminded him of Gus’s eyes when he smiled. “My books…?”

  “Those are in the small room. We made that your library. Bear said that we would fix that window casing, but let’s face it, that’s been on the to-do list for years now. It was just a hell of a lot easier to give you more space and paint this one than to fix the damn window.” Luke made himself comfortable on the old iron bed that Gus paid five dollars for at a swap meet. They’d coated it with a fresh layer of glossy black, and somehow his two pillows had multiplied into what looked like fifteen. “The dresser was shot. I don’t even know how you could open up a drawer without it falling apart. So you’re going to have to make do with that armoire and those cubes until we can get a new one.”

  “I see Gus has made me a nest.” Mace inspected the stacks of wooden cubes on either side of the art deco armoire and then pulled out a pair of underwear, cotton pants, and an SFFD T-shirt. Changing was easier since he was in a room large enough for him to move without hitting a wall with his elbow, but he wrinkled his nose at the tall wicker hamper set in one corner. “That is too big. There’s no way I’m ever going to fill it. I don’t like letting dirty clothes sit.”

  “Consider that a challenge,” his brother offered. “When was the last time you worked on changing your habits?”

  “See, that’s what I hate about you. I’m not one of your kids that’s got to be fixed,” Mace muttered as he pulled the shirt on. “I wouldn’t put it past you to do all of this just to make me use that hamper. I can’t deal with that kind of thing right now. I’m not….”

  “You don’t have to use it now, but maybe soon.” He leaned back against the bank of pillows, pulled his leg up, and rested his bare foot on the quilt covering the bed. “And I know you’re not one of my kids, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take advantage of the years of my schooling you all helped pay for. I’ve got the degrees. Might as well use them. Do you want to talk about why you needed to run today? Or do you want to continue to pretend like nothing’s happened and bottle it up inside until you pop?”

  “I don’t….” Mace wanted to deny needing to let off steam, but Luke knew him too well. Luke knew them all too well.

  “Do you want to tell me to fuck off?” His brother’s nearly black hair fell forward across his cheek when he tilted his head. “You can if you want to, but it’s not going to make that letter any less real or make you any less angry.”

  “It might make me feel bet
ter.”

  “That it might.” Luke chuckled. “I can tell you it won’t threaten our relationship. You can tell me to fuck off and mind my own business, and I’ll still love you. I’m not the hamper, Mace. I’m not a challenge. I’m your brother, and I want you to know that if you need to yell or cry or just say you’re angry, I’m here to take that.”

  Mace studied Luke through his lashes. They’d taken different paths out of their pain—Mace chose to turn his back on his while Luke confronted his anguish head-on. On the surface it appeared that Luke survived his battles while Mace floundered, but he knew better. They were both still embroiled in emotional skirmishes every day, fighting to get past another hour without taking a step backward and sometimes losing momentum as well as whatever scrap of humanity they’d earned.

  He could talk to Luke and Bear if only he were willing to risk it. They would listen. They always listened. After years of struggling and sublimation, Mace knew his brothers were there for him, but his heart was broken, torn apart, and whispering of past betrayals.

  Luke was wrong. He was a challenge, but Mace was more than willing to take him on.

  “And what if I tell you I’m not angry?” His whisper cracked under the weight of the emotion he was trying to hold in. “I’m afraid, Luke. For some stupid reason, the idea of that fucking asshole being outside of those walls turns me into the little kid again, and I am so damn fucking scared. I wish he’d died in there. I wish he’d die now. Anything so I don’t have to feel or think about him ever again.”

  Luke crossed the room quickly and folded Mace into a hug as soon as he reached his side. For a slender man, Luke had a fierce grip and an even fiercer resolve. Clutching tightly as Mace refused to let his father bring him to tears, Luke whispered, “We can do that. We can make that happen so he’ll never make you afraid again.”