“I promise. Sweet dreams,” she said before hanging up.
“They’ll all be of you,” he whispered into the silence.
Chapter 12
Brick
Brick mopped the sweat off his face with the bandana he always kept in his back pocket. The plumbers finished up their part yesterday, and he was knocking out the punch list at the Burgundy house with the quiet guy, Matt. Kane worked at the other site, since this part didn’t really require three men. Brick could’ve done it alone, but Robby never scheduled anyone to do stuff by themselves.
The kid had dropped by to check things out and deliver a cooler filled with red sports drinks. “Can you believe this heat? It’s usually June before it gets this bad. How are you holding up, Brick?”
He took one of the offered bottles and unscrewed the cap. “The drinks help. Thanks, kid.” Guzzling down some icy-cold Gatorade took some of the edge off the sweltering heat.
“The forecast says it will be better tomorrow.” Robby shot him a winning grin. “You look like you’re in a good mood this morning, which is awesome. I worried about you a little after the other day. I guess I’m not used to seeing you bummed out. You were kind of like a sad Incredible Hulk.”
Wait. What?
Robby’s thoughts had obviously moved on, his eyes shifting from side to side. “Um. Where’s Matt? I, uh, I thought he might be thirsty too.”
Ah. One mystery solved. “Matt, huh?”
Robby’s expression looked like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What? No. I mean. Crap,” Robby stammered. “I wanted to give the man a drink. No big deal.”
Chuckling, he gestured toward the stairs. “He’s on the second floor.”
Robby pasted a bored expression on his face, but his eyes were still like a deer caught in headlights. Taking a deep breath in, then letting it out, he started toward the stairs.
“Hey, kid?”
Robby looked over his shoulder.
“You might want to bring the drinks.”
Squeezing his eyes together tightly, Robby grabbed a bottle from the cooler and headed toward his target. Too bad the kid was barking up the wrong tree. Robby deserved a nice guy to make him happy.
He hadn’t seen Matt so much as acknowledge Robby’s existence. The man wasn’t rude or anything, simply self-contained. And if the car seat in his sensible sedan gave any indication, he had a baby at home.
Still, Robby couldn’t help how he felt about Matt any more than Brick could about Olivia. Knowing something’s impossible in your head doesn’t really change what’s in your heart. If it did, life would be a hell of a lot easier.
Robby came back down, carrying only a fraction of the high spirits he had before. He also still carried the Gatorade. “He already had a drink,” he murmured as he dropped it back in the cooler.
“Sorry, kid.”
Robby flinched a little with his words, and he resolved never to call him a kid again. “Robby,” he said deliberately. “You can’t take it personally. You’re a great guy. Matt…just doesn’t seem to be looking for a guy right now.”
Robby didn’t quite smile, but something in his face did change. “Thanks, Brick. I know I’m stupid sometimes, but you never make me feel ridiculous. I’m glad you’re my friend.”
For once, he didn’t argue. He let the compliment wash over him as Robby patted him on the back and walked out to his truck a little bit lighter than when the day began.
Maybe he could be a good guy. If he could ever get away from his old life.
***
Liv
It had been way too long since Liv had shared a meal with Carol and her girlfriend. So, when they invited her to Alma Cocina for Mexican to celebrate the end of the school year, declining didn’t even occur to her. Besides, Rosita said their carnitas were to die for.
She rushed home and washed off the stink from her visit to the gym. She made it to the restaurant at exactly seven-fifty-nine. One minute to spare before their agreed-upon time.
Rosita walked up right behind her. “Great timing.” Carol’s girlfriend folded her into a generous embrace. Rosita’s short and round body presented the perfect complement to Carol’s slender frame.
Dozens of other diners crowded the place, but Carol had been smart enough to grab them a reservation online, so they went straight to the table. They ordered margaritas as the server brought out their chips and salsa.
“We picked a busy night.” Rosita crunched on a chip. “Thank God these tables are spread out, or I’d be claustrophobic right now.”
She nodded and took in the atmosphere. The place had a modern feel with dark wood floors and a giant metal spherical light fixture hanging in the middle of the ceiling, which looked like an art piece to illuminate the room. Dozens of ongoing conversations generated a low-level buzz accompanied by an occasional clink from the busboy clearing plates.
She took a sip of her drink, and the tart taste of lime made her taste buds tingle. The aftertaste of the tequila made her shudder. “Holy cow, this is strong.”
Rosita sipped hers and shook her shoulders in agreement. “Woo! The tequila packs a punch for sure. Only one for me tonight.”
“Me too. Don’t even get me started on the last time I had too much to drink. I could barely make it through the next day. One of my students had to lead the class.” She eyed Carol with a trace of embarrassment, waiting for the inevitable teasing, then crammed a salsa-covered chip into her mouth.
Carol didn’t take the bait but rubbed at her eyes instead. Maybe she was working too hard. God made a special place in heaven for social workers.
Before Liv could ask how things were going, though, her friend excused herself for a trip to the bathroom.
“I’m worried about her.” Rosita massaged her temples. “She needs to go get a check-up.”
She stilled, fear climbing into her throat.
No. Carol got a clean bill of health at the same time she did. They had their last round of chemo on the same day, months ago. “I think she must be overdoing it at work. Have you talked with her about it?”
Rosita shook her head. “You think it’s work? She won’t discuss it.” She took a gulp of her margarita. “Sometimes, she seems fine. Great, even. Like when she’s talking about the stupid list you two have. Or when she’s telling a joke or when we dance. But then sometimes, it’s like she’s made of old paper liable to disintegrate if I touch her.” She looked up, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I’m scared.”
Carol approached the table now, her gait slow. But as other diners drifted in and out of her path, Liv couldn’t tell if she would have moved differently without the crowd. “I’ll talk to her. When we go shopping next weekend. I promise.”
The waitress brought out their food, and it smelled so amazing they quit talking for a few minutes to dig in. She had taken Rosita’s advice and ordered the carnita tacos. They were as delectable as promised. Some kind of pineapple salsa happening on top set off the pork to perfection.
They polished off their meal, and she watched Carol smile lovingly at Rosita. Her friend looked happy—tired, but happy. Everything would be fine.
She went home with a full belly and a light heart. Good friends. A sexy guy. A great job. Everything was falling into place, especially now, with her brother out of jail and part of the family again. The flat two-dimensional world she’d been living gained texture every day.
Smiling, she texted Brick.
Liv: Can u talk?
About five minutes later, he sent his reply.
Brick: Give me an hour.
After another minute, he sent a follow-up.
Brick: OK?
How cute.
Liv: I’ll be here.
She changed into a pink cami and white capri pajama pants with little red hearts, then settled in on the couch with her Kindle. The hour flew by as she sank into the story filled with magic and swords, but when the phone rang
, she had it to her ear in a second.
“Hello?” Did she sound breathless? Hopefully, he didn’t notice.
“Sorry I couldn’t talk before. Is everything okay?” He always worried about her.
“Everything is great. I had a fantastic night and I wanted to cap it off by talking to you.”
“What made it so fantastic?” His words came out guarded.
“The company. I went out to dinner with Carol and her girlfriend. We ate and had margaritas. I’ve got a new book, and I’m curled up on the sofa, which by the way, is my favorite way to spend a Friday night. Now I’m talking to you. So yeah, fantastic.” She ignored the temptation to ask him what he’d been doing tonight. She had a feeling he wouldn’t want to share.
“I was…working.”
“I figured,” she said softly. “I know you don’t want to talk about it.”
“No. I want to keep the shit part of my life far away from this. From you.”
She picked up one of the throw-pillows she’d tossed on the floor and hugged it to her. “I feel like you know everything about me, but I don’t know anything about you. Tell me…about your childhood. What were you like as a kid?”
“I was poor.” His response came quick and razor sharp.
She refused to fill the silence afterward. It stretched for nearly a minute.
Eventually, he sighed. His words resumed haltingly. “My mom worked two jobs. Waitressing and cleaning houses. She was a first-generation Machwaya immigrant. Even though she grew up in Chicago, mostly in foster care, she was a Rom born in Serbia. I thought she was beautiful, but she looked different, sounded different from anyone around here. Even with a green card, good work was hard to come by.” He paused. “My dad…was a junkie. Maybe he was less of a piece of shit when she married him, but who knows?”
He continued briskly. “I never saw much of either one of them. Mom did the best she could, but we had my grandma to take care of too. She slept on the sofa. I took the floor. Things were hard, but it was all I ever knew, you know?”
She wished she could see his face for this. Hold his hand. Then again, maybe this came easier for him when he didn’t have to look at her.
“When my mom died, there was no money at all. My grandma has diabetes, and while Medicaid helped with her insulin, there had to be decent food in the house. There was no money for rent. There was nothing.”
He cleared his throat. “Sucre was my dad’s dealer. I went to him. I begged him to cut my father off. He said no, but he did offer me a job—doing little shit for him at first. Pushing pot on the corner. Selling it at school. It was enough to keep us off the street, but it wouldn’t feed my grandma. Her legs were bad, so she couldn’t stand up for very long. She had vision problems too, so she couldn’t work. Eventually, I dropped out of school and got a job hauling lumber during the day and working for Sucre at night. It was okay, until Sucre noticed how big I was getting. Decided I’d be more valuable to him as muscle.”
This was far more than she had expected to hear. It wasn’t merely a story about a birthday lunch like she’d shared at the Majestic. This was how he came to be the kind of man her brother had warned her away from. She felt a pang she’d never told him about the cancer; happy memories were a whole lot easier to share.
His words came faster now. “I told him no the first time he asked me. The next day, my dad’s tab ran out. Apparently, Sucre had only been keeping him alive as a ‘favor’ to me. It’s what he told me anyway, and did I think my grandma had the money to pay off my father’s drug debt? If she didn’t, he was sure we could work something out if I started working for him full-time. It wasn’t so much a question this time as an ultimatum.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she kept her voice steady. “You sacrificed yourself for her.”
“Don’t make me into some saint,” he growled. “I’ve done some really bad shit since then. I’ve worked for Sucre half my life now. You don’t want to know what I do.”
He drew a good enough picture she got the idea, but she pushed it down. “And your grandma?”
“She’s in a nursing home now. I pay for it. The problem is, Sucre knows exactly where she is. He likes to remind me he can get to her at any time. Today, he sent me a picture of a bruise on her arm.” He lowered his voice. “But I’m saving. Saving every cent to get her out of there. Some place where he can’t find her, and he can’t touch her.”
“Until then, though,” she whispered.
“Until then, he owns me, and if he ever finds out about you…”
“I’ll be the person he holds over your head.” No wonder he tried to stay away from her.
“I do fights on the side for extra cash. They’re all fixed. Sucre thinks it’s why I do construction too. The truth is, when I’m building houses, it’s the only time I don’t hate myself. Then and when I’m with you.”
Her heart ached for all he’d been through. “I wish I could take it all away.”
“Don’t you understand?” He breathed deeply and gentled his voice. “You do.”
Wow.
“When can I see you?” she choked out.
“Soon…but not tonight. I’ve got to get back out there. No rest for the wicked.”
Her stomach wrenched at the idea he had to go back out into the night. To do God knows what for a man he hated.
“Be safe,” she whispered. But he was already gone.
Chapter 13
Brick
Brick didn’t see Tre on the job Friday night, and he didn’t ask where he was. Sucre would’ve told him if the kid was dead, which meant right now, Tre only wished he was dead. Brick wanted no part of it.
The first half of the night, he did simple collections. No one was too far in the hole, so it wasn’t rough work. No doubt Sucre had planned it to work out that way because Brick had a fight at midnight.
Talking to Olivia had been a welcome diversion from slapping Fat Kenny around for the hundred bucks he owed. He considered their call as he stripped down for the match. For the life of him, he had no idea what possessed him to spill his guts over his pathetic history. But no one had ever actually wanted to know him before. He didn’t count the people who thought they could leverage a friendship for drugs or protection.
Olivia was genuinely interested.
And he wanted her to know he wasn’t a bad man by choice. Maybe he could have been someone better if his life had gone a different way.
He breathed in the miasma of sweat, cigar smoke, and beer as he approached the ring.
It was a moot point, anyway. This was his life.
Blood.
Brutality.
Climbing between the ropes, he pushed down thoughts of Olivia, locking them away. He reached for the cold stillness inside himself and faced the poor bastard he was about to destroy. His challenger, Paolo, appeared to be of Puerto Rican descent. A big motherfucker, maybe an inch or two taller than him and at least seventy-five pounds heavier. The man had a lazy eye and a mouth full of crooked, grey teeth.
Sucre wanted Paolo to go down in three and a half minutes. A challenge, but not an impossible one. The man swung wide as the bell rang, and as he expected, Paolo’s size slowed him down. On fast feet, Brick danced out of the way.
The next time the man’s meaty hand flew out, he ducked low and jabbed him in the side. It happened twice. Three times.
Sucre gave him the nod.
He had to speed things up. He faked another jab with his left, luring his opponent to step away, directly into the path of a viscous right hook. Before the guy could shake it off, he cracked into his temple again and again, driving him down to his knees, then slamming his head flat onto the floor.
Paolo didn’t get up.
Sucre would make big bank tonight.
Brick walked out without so much as a scratch on him and a few hundred more dollars to add to his Grandma Fund.
***
Magnolia Green wasn’t the swankiest nursing home around, but the staff kept it clean, and they had
become a surrogate family to Brick’s grandma during the years she’d lived there. The nurses waved in greeting as he walked the familiar pale blue halls on Saturday afternoon. He’d brought with him a bouquet of gardenias and his grandma’s favorite sugar-free chocolate muffins from the bakery around the corner, the same place he got the tiramisu he liked so much.
This time, every week, Grandma usually hung out in the music room. She’d never learned to play any instruments, but she loved listening when volunteers came from a local church group to sing and play the piano.
He waited quietly, leaning against the wall at the back of the room as the ladies went through their set-list. He wouldn’t interrupt, not when Grandma had looked forward to the music all week long. The piano player had more skill than the singer, who warbled through “Go Tell It on the Mountain” and a couple other songs he didn’t know, but Grandma never stopped smiling the entire time.
This was why he endured working for Sucre.
He had never been especially close to his grandmother. She didn’t coddle him as a child or protect him when her son got high. She was never cruel, though, and for most of his life, she was the only person who cared if he lived or died.
He waited until the church ladies let themselves out before approaching Grandma’s wheelchair.
“Brick?” She spoke before he even reached her side. “Do I smell gardenias?”
Placing the bouquet in her lap, he tucked the box of muffins under his arm and took the handles of the chair. “Yes, ma’am. Picked them up fresh this morning.”
Her hands shook as she lifted the flowers to her face. “Mighty fine. Smells mighty fine.”
He looked for the bruise on her arm he’d seen in the photograph. He found it, though it had faded to a pale purple now. It wrapped around her slender arm like someone had squeezed her too hard. He thought about asking her how she had gotten it, but he didn’t want to upset her.
Dynasty Page 33
