A few moments later, the gunshots came to a complete halt. A deep exhale escaped both Owen and Ali’s lips, while Austin stayed quiet, save a few moans here and there. Poor kid, thought Owen. No kid in the world should go through this shit. It gave Owen a quick moment to examine Austin’s arm in the darkness. The darkness of blood was noticeable, but there wasn’t much. It was probably just a graze.
Crickets chirped loudly and the sound of owls hooting could be heard in the thick night air. Owen could cut the tension with a dull knife. He waited and waited to hear something from the attackers. Finally, a cough, followed by someone spitting loudly.
“You alive in there?” asked someone with a strong hick accent. The voice echoed in the muggy night atmosphere.
Owen stayed silent. Ali and Austin’s breaths were the kind of inhales and exhales people do to keep silent, but the fear seeping through their blood makes each breath barely audible.
“Come on, you ain’t dead, is ya?” asked a different voice, though with the same country accent.
Owen didn’t know whether answering was the correct choice or not. Unclear of his next move, he decided to ask for advice in a place he never has. “What should I do, Ali?”
“You’re asking me?” Ali whispered in slight shock.
“Yeah, do you even recognize those voices?”
She had to think for a second, while keeping her arms held tight around Austin and lightly brushing his hair with her fingertips. “The second one sounds like BJ.”
“And who’s that?”
“One of Clint’s stupid friends. Follows Clint around like a puppy dog. Usually starting shit.”
Owen bit his bottom lip. His stomach started hurting again, almost making him want to vomit. It was getting harder to hold it together, but he did his best to calm and control his insides from erupting out. Ali noticed the deep and difficult breaths her father was taking, but said nothing.
After a moment, he was able to collect himself enough to speak. “If I answer, they may keep shooting.”
“Do it. Answer.”
Owen didn’t even bother to question Ali’s judgment. “I’m fine! Who are you?”
“We come here on behalf of the Graysons!” said the first voice. “And we jus’ wanna let you know that your death is ushered.”
“Assured, you idiot,” quietly said a third voice.
“Yeah, uh, your death is assured!”
The third voice could be heard whispering insults at the speaker, before taking over the reins and speaking himself. “Consider this night a pretty fair warning of what your life will become if you keep managing to stay alive. It may not be tonight, or it may not be tomorrow, but Owen, your life will end very, very soon.”
“It’s Owen huntin’ season, woo!” said the man identified as BJ. After he whooped and hollered for a brief moment, he took another shot at the house. The bullet went through the window and into a picture frame on the wall of a team photo of Austin’s coach pitch league a few years back. After that, the shooting stopped and the voices ceased. He still gripped his gun tightly, even though he was sure this event had ended.
Hearing a pained moaning sound, his mind quickly rushed back to his wounded grandson. Realizing he couldn’t see much, he got up and turned the light on. While the sight he saw lowered his anxiety a touch, he still couldn’t stand seeing his son hurt like this. Thankfully, his gunshot wound was just a small scratch on his arm. He’d heal from that by next week, but the emotional scar may last longer. But the fact that this was perpetrated because of his actions today ignited a stronger fire than ever before.
After his wound were treated with a wet rag and a bandage, Austin remarkably fell back asleep in the other bedroom that had been Ali’s growing up, though all that was furnished within it was a simple queen sized bed. Ali caressed her son’s forehead as she watched over him, while Owen cleaned up the glass from the floor and any other damage the bullets caused. After the father and daughter had finished their respective tasks, they met in the kitchen and sat down, with Owen pouring a shot of whiskey for each of them. The refrigerator hummed calmly, but other than that, the father and daughter just stared at each other silently.
The silence broke when Owen made a demand. “Call Scar.”
“Wait, what? Call Scar? The man who wants to kill you?”
“Yes, from your phone.”
“What the hell are you trying to pull?”
“Just do it, please.”
Ali pondered Owen’s intentions, squinting her eyes as if doing that would magically make the answers appear.
None did. She grabbed the phone from her back pocket and dialed. Once Owen heard the first ring, he got up from his chair and swiftly jerked the phone away from Ali. At first, she wanted to yell, but she said nothing, shrugging and waving her arms in befuddlement and disbelief.
Owen walked away, putting the phone up to his ear. He heard the rings vibrating into his ear as he waited patiently for an answer.
Chapter 9
Scar lay horizontally on his bed, his face a pale shade of blue in the darkness as he watched his cell phone’s screen dim, then fade to black. It was two in the morning, and while he usually found himself retiring for the night around this time, tonight was different. When he got home, he went to his cupboard, found a half-full bottle of vodka, and then went outside, toward a tree a quarter-mile from his home. This specific bodark tree retained some memories, as he remembered Roy pissing on it as a boy. It was an odd memory to keep in the databanks, but it was something Scar couldn’t forget. Taking a swig of the vodka, he poured the remaining contents on the blackened rough bark. It was the best tribute to his fallen brother he could think of at the time.
For the longest time, he held out hope that his brother Roy was still alive. It was a ridiculous thought, however, and one that he knew was absurd. No man just cuts off contact and leaves at the drop of the hat, especially for 15 years. But this was his older brother, his flesh and blood. Roy showed him the ropes of life and taught him how to be a commanding man. He wasn’t about to give up hope for him.
He could always just take Owen’s words with a grain of salt. After all, it was his younger brother who actually heard the words, and he made it a habit to not always believe whatever Clint said. But these were words that he couldn’t possibly ignore. If Owen had held out for this amount of time before admitting his guilt in a moment of anger, then he had to be speaking the truth. Especially since he was trying to end his little brother’s life.
After pouring out the vodka, Scar moped back to his house, then proceeded to chug twelve ounce cans of beer in continuity. He didn’t even care for cleanliness, throwing his empties onto the floor, then went to the refrigerator and cracked open another. Trying not to think was extremely difficult, but with each beer consumed, it got more and more difficult not to think about Roy. Inevitably, tears trickled from his eyes.
If Roy were there, he would have knocked Scar unconscious with a haymaker after seeing his tears. His brother was five years older than him, and from an early age, Roy was teaching him the ways of the world. Scar was bullied by the elder sibling since four, but each ass kicking and cruel joke played on him was a life lesson. Of course, he didn’t see it that way as a whiny little boy, but Scar could now definitely appreciate it. When Roy was thirteen and Scar eight, Roy discontinued his bullying when he noticed Scar, who hadn’t grown into his large and strong body that he was known for, coming home with bruises and black eyes, all because of his name. While his father told him to use the name he was given to be stronger, he never actually taught him how to do so. Instead, Roy started teaching Scar how to stand up to bullies and become one himself. The lessons got physical, with Scar usually getting roughed up by Roy’s methods of teaching. But each bruise Scar received was a badge of honor. Each cut was an award that he earned. It was with Roy where he gathered strength with his name. But Roy stressed one thing in particular. That was to never show emotion, and sure as hell don’t ever cry.
> But there was no stopping him from crying. Not this time. Although there was still no visual evidence, there was no denying the facts that he had been suppressing all this time.
Roy was dead and had been dead for a long time.
After going through half of a thirty pack of beer in three hours, he flopped down on his bed, not even bothering to remove his clothes. While he was in an alcohol induced sleep, he still perked up enough to answer his phone when it vibrated. He never gave out his number, not even to girlfriends, as he made it a point to only use it when he absolutely needed to. He hadn’t been caught by the authorities so far, and a lot of that had to do with being careful on his cellular phone. Only a select few family members and high ranking officials of the Roaring 20’s had his number. So when he read Ali’s name as an incoming call, he knew it had to be something important. Besides, hearing her voice was always welcome to his ears.
Hearing Owen’s voice, however, was a major buzzkill and only infuriated him more for being woken up. But Owen didn’t give him any time for harsh and murder-filled comments. Keeping it short and sweet, he first accused Scar of sending men to shoot at his house tonight. Scar had a brief chuckle, even confessing he hoped a few bullets found their way into Owen’s body. But he didn’t direct anybody to shoot at the house, declaring his innocence in the matter. That seemed like a sloppy and careless thing to do.
Second, Owen claimed that Austin and Ali were here during it. Scar’s teeth unconsciously started grinding together. He let out a silent groan and let Owen ramble on. But his enemy’s next words weren’t exactly pointless. He lastly mentioned that Austin received a graze wound because of the gunfire. Owen made it a point to mention that it could have been way worse.
A baseball-sized lump filled in his throat, though he refused to allow himself to be angry at himself. He quickly placed the blame on Owen for getting his family into his mess. His actions were the root cause. This was 15 years in the making. No, with the two families at odds for such a long time, this was just another battle in the history of the Grayson-Tomkins feud. He didn’t know why Austin and Ali were over there in the first place. He explained all of that in a more vulgar tone.
Owen ended the call by telling him to quit making bullshit excuses. Scar wanted to throw his phone across the room, but held on to it. Every bone in his body told him to go over to Owen’s house and beat the living shit out of him for trying to command him like that. But he eventually calmed down. In the end, he couldn’t control Ali and Austin from doing what they wanted. Owen was her father and his grandfather. If they wanted to spend some time with that piece of shit, then he guessed that wasn’t his problem. Now he was wondering why Ali even defended him earlier today. She used to despise her father. That thought got his mind racing even further.
As much as he hated Owen, he wouldn’t give a blind and idiotic order to just shoot at someone’s house. That was a waste of ammunition and a good way to get police involvement in the mix. He was already making diabolical and torturous plans for that punk ass Tomkins, but that would have been on his own time. That’s why he told Clint to not do anything, and…
Clint. Of fucking course. It’s always him. Anytime he told him not to do something, he would inevitably do it. That kid never cared for authority, especially not his older brother’s directions. It didn’t make a lot of sense why he had such a distaste for those in charge. He didn’t grow up with a rough father, as he was already incarcerated when he was just a toddler. Clint barely even remembered Roy, so why he had such a lasting attachment to someone he hardly knew was beyond him. Their mother was nurturing and loving, though she could be a little strict in her desire to keep her children on the straight and narrow. She didn’t want any of her children becoming drug addicts or even dealing to those addicts. Only one of the siblings made it out without that stigma on their record, and she had left the Adrienne area for good to stay away from it. Everyone else ended up down the path of her husband. It was probably that stress that made their mother volunteer to live in an assisted living home.
Rolling over to lay flat on his back, Scar groaned loudly for the hell of it. His head pounded something awful. He was an experienced drinker, but he definitely felt the pain of drinking a large amount of beer in such a quick amount of time. He pondered if this was attributed to his age. 33 wasn’t exactly young anymore. He’d been suffering through hangovers more frequently and for longer periods of time. But he couldn’t totally attribute this headache to just beer. All of his family issues and that Tomkins asshole was a head splitter in itself.
Finally willing himself to get up, Scar rolled off of the bed and into the darkness. His first steps were disastrous. He didn’t realize he was still drunk until he stumbled into his dresser, knocking over some picture frames and a signed football from Troy Aikman. Normally, he would scramble to place the prized ball back on the dresser, but there were bigger things to worry about.
After grabbing a bottle of water and his keys, Scar hopped into his truck and drove off. With one hand on the wheel, he used his other hand to call his brother. He didn’t expect Clint to pick up. Even during hours that one would deem a person available, he tended not to answer. Or maybe he just didn’t like answering. Ali had once told him that he drunkenly threw his phone out the house once, just because he was tired of people calling him. When Scar called, it was either to chew his brother out or something work-related. Clint always hated being criticized, and he hated contributing to the Roaring 20 cause, but had no problem reaping the benefits. He definitely had a lazy streak to him. Scar wondered how his brother had even made it this far.
Clint, as Scar figured, didn’t answer. But Scar already had a good idea where he would be. Ever since he was fourteen years old, any time Clint was frustrated or angry about something, he would always go to an abandoned trailer out in the middle of a forested area a mere mile away from the home they grew up in. It was debatable who owned the trailer or even who owned the land that it was on. It was a place of refuge for Clint and his friends, when he wanted company. Normally, they would get drunk and smoke there. It had also been used as a small sex den whenever Clint tried his hands at being a pimp. But Clint mainly used it when he needed to get away from everything, and he tended to get away quite a bit.
After a slow ten minute drive, Scar turned off onto a minimal dirt road and arrived at a crudely welded together gate locked with a rusted padlock. The gate was supported by two old telephone pole posts, cut at about six feet. The rest of the fence was barbed wire, which also showed signs of corrosion. Parked outside the gate was Clint’s truck, along with a couple of other cars that Scar recognized. He hopped out of his vehicle and propelled himself over the gate. The moonlight was bright enough to allow him to see just enough without the need of the flashlight application on his phone.
With each step in the humid Adrienne night, voices from the trees ahead became louder. It wasn’t a long walk from his truck to the trailer, but Scar had to watch his step. There was a little mire that he couldn’t remember where it was located. The last thing he wanted to do was to step into a sludgy water moccasin den, or to get muddy. That had always been a pet peeve of his. He wasn’t afraid to get dirty, but if he got muddy for no reason, it irritated him to no end.
A few minutes later, he could see the faint glow of a lantern in the window of the trailer. The voices were now booming. There was no electricity in the shoddy-looking shack, so those that dwelled within had to bring their own light sources if they were to do any nocturnal business. Scar stood slightly behind a tree about twenty feet away from the trailer. He wasn’t purposefully hiding, but he wanted to remain unseen for a moment. He listened to every voice to ascertain who exactly was in there. He recognized Clint’s quickly. An extreme accent and high tone allowed him to comprehend that Clint’s friend BJ was also in there. It took him a tick to figure out the other two, but he recognized them as Bird Dog and his least favorite person in the world, Bubba. BJ was probably Clint’s best friend, as he hung aro
und him the most. The guy was his younger brother’s size, but unlike Clint, couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper sack. Bird Dog also had a thick southern accent. Size wise, he was a little portly. Brain wise, he was dumb as shit.
Seeing no reason to dawdle any longer, Scar walked up to the trailer and pounded on the door. He wasn’t about to just walk in. That was an invitation to get shot by drugged up idiots. Instead, his knocking created silence, followed by the sound of a gun being loaded.
BJ was the one who answered the knock. “Who the fuck is it?”
“Scar.” He didn’t feel like making a sarcastic response.
Some muttering could be heard before Clint opened the door. His eyes were shallow and unfocused. “What’s up, brother?”
“Not a whole lot. You mind comin’ outside? I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Just come outside.”
Scar stepped a few paces away from the door. A howling of a coyote could be hard way off in the distance. He put his hands in his pockets and tried to stare up at the moon, but the high trees blocked his view. Only snippets of the white light could be seen through the leaves. It was a picture perfect night, but his aching head and annoyance with this situation muddied its allure.
Sighing loudly in subtle irritation, Clint shut the door behind him before following Scar. “So, what do you want?”
“You know anything about Owen Tomkins’ house gettin’ shot up tonight?”
Clint smirked, but quickly returned to a straight face. “I might’ve heard somethin’ about it.”
Scar scratched at his stubble, not letting on that he already interpreted that Clint had a part to play in it. “I ain’t asking if you heard anything. I’m asking if you know anything.”
Comin' Home to You Page 20
