“I told him already that Jorie ain’t gonna let anything happen to Lula.” Tanner sighs, “But you know how Jud is, he don’t want me tellin’ him a damned thing. I’m the baby and he’s the boss, remember?”
“Jorie’s a protective one,” Merle agrees. Rising from his chair, he continues, “Seriously, Tanner, make him keep low. Sterling brings more than his past with him, and it would do us all some good to remember that.”
“Yessir,” Tanner agrees, the old screen door creaks on rusting hinges as Tanner opens it. Then bangs shut as it springs closed behind him.
The warm night of late spring brings the damp heat along with the sweet song of cicadas and Merle savors the moment. Taking in the mature trees and the pink horizon that makes the area around them glow like something from a fairy tale. Merle wishes life would have such obvious rose-tinted endings. He wishes that his children could always know a peace like this one.
The screen door across the street bangs closed behind Beaufort Savage causing Merle to sigh.
Never thought we’d be here again.
He moves from his spot on the porch and makes the short march across the road. The distance between their homes always feels greater than it is in reality.
Beaufort spits off the porch when Merle stops before the gray wood steps, the sharp scent of his dip seems to ripen on the muggy air. “Merle Grace,” Beaufort says with that gritty voice Merle has never forgotten. Ingrained in the darker places of his memories. “Not often you foul up my yard with your stench.”
“I’m not here because I enjoy your company, Beaufort.” Merle replies with a faux easiness. In truth, he’s tensed to fight at the slightest provocation. How some things never change.
Beaufort crosses his large arms across his massive chest. Beaufort stays active, same as Merle, his body strengthened by hunting, trapping, and fishing. Merle knows that he and Beaufort stand of equal height when they are on the same ground, and despite that knowledge Merle fears this man.
“Out with it, son, some of us have places to be.”
“Sterling is comin’ home,” Merle says, cutting right to the matter at hand.
“Sterling doesn’t have a home here,” Beaufort replies with a growl. His teeth bared and darkened from the dip he chews. “That mutt was cast out long ago.”
Merle grits his teeth, grinding down the words he’d rather say. “Where’s Vivian Mae? Maybe she’ll see sense when I tell her about her son.”
“It’s not you business to know where my wife is, Mister Grace.” There’s a sinister edge to Beaufort’s gaze.
“Don’t start that again, Beaufort. I’m not interested in your wife and I never have been.” Til the day Merle Grace dies he will remain faithful to the memory of his loving wife Rose. That was a promise he swore before Judson came to be, and it is one Merle will hold to until his bones turn to dust.
“Dog in heat, Merle, that’s all you’ll ever be to me.” Beaufort spits again, dangerously close to Merle boot covered feet. “All those bastard pups runnin’ around in that den of yours—makes me sick.” Merle doesn’t rise to the obvious provocations.
“Just tell Vivian Mae her son is comin’ home and that I don’t want any trouble from him, ya hear?”
“Tell that bitch daughter of yours to stay off him then, and we won’t have a problem.” He spits more of his foul tobacco-laced saliva near where Merle stands. Beaufort’s actions akin to an annoying toddler who insists on prodding at an old, rabid dog.
Merle’s nerves are fraying, but he manages to keep his rage in check. Doesn’t need to give Beaufort any reason to try and put him down.
The curtain in the kitchen twitches. Through the gauzy lace he can see hints of Vivian Mae—Merle sends her a kind smile and a friendly wave. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t return the gesture.
With a sigh, Merle turns to go back home.
Coming in the door he finds Lyric sitting on the sofa—playing some sort of handheld game—and his heart feels less heavy. “Hey, son, why don’t we go fishin’?”
Lyric looks up from his game, a thoughtful frown tipping down the corners of his mouth. Merle can sense his anxiety—it’s a pungent, acrid scent that is sharp. Causing the paternal instincts in Merle to flare up with the need to fix whatever is wrong.
Too bad it’s a hurt I cannot heal.
“I finished my readin’ for class, so I guess I can go,” Lyric says with a smile that isn’t as bright as his usual grin. Merle wants his mood to be a result of teenage hormones, but he’s almost certain that’s wishful thinking. Lyric’s phone has never been so active before this evening, and there’s a sign of trouble if Merle’s ever seen one.
“Load up the tackle and poles. I’ll grab the ice chest and drinks.” He instructs, hoping an evening on the water will wash away the chaos that Merle can feel coming.
“Yessir.” Lyric jumps up, and it always astounds Merle how much he’s grown through the years.
Lyric is between childhood and manhood now. His young body big and awkward while his heart remains clumsy from childish needs that war with an influx of testosterone and feelings adults can hardly comprehend. A hard enough time for anyone in their teens. Yet, from experience, Merle knows it’s harder for a boy named Grace.
Especially when that boy also has Savage blood in him.
Merle watches Lyric bang out of the back door with a heart that’s conflicted. He’s always wanted a father for his grandson, but Sterling was never meant to father a wolf.
5
Beau
Jorie’s dive bar—The Howling Lune—is too small for the amount of bodies that are crammed inside. From past experience, Beau knows there’s usually a large crowd. Yet, this crowd is something else, or so he finds as his eyes scan around the room. There’s a lot of unusual sorts. People with cameras and that distinctive west-coast persona—he frowns, pushing through them on his way to the long bar. Beau’s large frame makes that an easy feat, and the new patrons get out of his way quickly.
At the bar, Tallulah appears wan—bruises beneath her big gray-green eyes, as if she hasn’t slept in days. “Miss Lula.” He says; cutting off the barrage of questions some shrimp of a celebrity reporter is firing off.
Relief isn’t the expression Tallulah Grace wears, rather her face is full of rage when her gaze falls over Beau. “Get outta here, Beau Savage. I got nothin’ to say to you.”
“Savage?” One of the men with the cameras asks another, “Like Sterling, you think?”
Another one says, “Got the same hair and face structure, maybe they’re brothers.”
Beau snorts, cutting a glare in the direction of the people speculating about his life. “I don’t have a brother any more.”
“You know Sterling?” One asks, taken by the lure of a story. A parasite drawn to the life-force of another. Beau finds them disgusting.
“If you want to know about Sterling Savage, you need to bother the man himself. No one in these parts will tell you about him.” Beau informs them with a stern tone.
“Why’s that?” Stupidly, the man speaking reaches for his wallet. “I can pay you.” An offensive gesture to Beau whose pride is higher than his price.
“Son, no one wants your dirty money.” Beau hisses. Stepping closer, towering over the shorter man, he adds, “No one will go against Beaufort Savage. And you’d do well to not make that man angry.” Only ignorant fools are willing to upset a bomb like Beaufort. Sterling was such a fool at one point in time.
Something in Beau’s expression and tone must show the severity of that threat about Beaufort. The flies back off—most of them leaving the bar while casting dubious glances Beau’s way.
Jorie comes over to him—her ample chest dangerously close to spilling out of her low cut top—and her hand connects with his cheek. Hard. “I told you not to come in here causin’ trouble, didn’t I?”
“Yes’m,” he grumbles. Beau’s cleaned her bar out often enough with his issues that he’s surprised she doesn’t shoot him the moment h
is boots hit the gravel of her dive’s parking lot.
“Yet, son, here you are,” Jorie crosses her arms. He gets distracted by the way her chest moves even more with that motion. Her long, strawberry blonde hair falls over her shoulder—shining even in the dim bar light—and his fingers twitch, wanting to touch the silky strands. Jorie’s smile is sharp, as if she can tell what he’s thinking but is unimpressed with those thoughts. “Go home, Beau.”
“Can’t do that, Jorie,” he tells her with a low rumble. Tired of being corralled by a woman so much smaller than himself. “Got business with Lula.”
Jorie’s big brown eyes glitter dangerously as she steps closer—the floral scent of her infiltrating his lungs. “I said go home, Beau. You can have business with Lula when she’s not on my dollar, ya hear?”
He cuts a glance at Tallulah—she’s steadily ignoring him. Looking busy at the bar despite the fact everyone in here is giving them a wide berth. “When you get off work,” Beau calls her way. “Text me, number’s still the same.”
He leaves the bar with an angry stomp, going out into the muggy night with a scowl on his face. One that deepens when he spots the vultures still lingering in the gravel strewn lot. Beau’s thinking about saying something to them when his phone goes off with a text notification. Grumpily, he digs the phone out of his pocket and reads an unfamiliar number on the screen.
When he unlocks the screen, Beau finds a simple message from the unknown number: Tell mama I’m comin home.
Beau doesn’t need a name to know it’s Sterling. He grits his teeth, striding over to his pick-up and yanking open the driver’s side door. The tires kick up gravel as he tears out of the parking lot. After he narrowly misses slamming his truck’s grill into one of the camera wielding snakes Beau lets out a chuckle.
On the dark road leading towards home he thinks about Sterling, about their last altercation. One where they wound up throwing fists at each other outside this very bar. Before the place was Jorie’s, during those days when their young lives were a constant state of hell. Beau still has a small scar running through his eyebrow from that night. “Jesus,” he mutters to himself when that damned popular song his brother sings comes on the radio.
Told me I should aim higher, but Loup…oh Loup…nothing brings me higher than you.
Beau frowns at the radio, “You’re a damn idiot, little brother. A damn idiot.”
His phone rings. Beau fishes it out of his pocket, swerving a little into the empty lane beside him as he does so. A glance at the screen fills him with dread.
Another ghost he doesn’t want coming back to town.
“What’s the word,” she asks as soon as he answers.
A bemused snort leaves him, as Beau replies, “Hello, Birdie, how’re you?”
6
Sterling
The dark, two-lane highway is familiar as he winds over the gleaming asphalt in his rented pick-up, and the humid air has that unique taste of home when he breathes it deep. A beautiful memory realized. Los Angeles never tasted quite the same as home, and he snorts to himself as he takes a curve faster than he should. The trees that tower over the road make the night seem darker, more treacherous, but Sterling grins—thrilled at the thought of what danger awaits him at home.
Always a good day to die, he thinks to himself. Cranking up Charlie Daniels on the stereo. His phone is buzzing continuously—from Jake, from Derek and the other guys in his band. Sterling ignores them all. He doesn’t turn off the phone for fear that he’ll miss a call from his darling mother or another from his annoyance of a brother. He’s lost all hope that his father will ever call. Thirty-two years old and Sterling’s still capable of being hurt by a man he’s always hated. Sterling pulls out his last joint, lighting it to help numb the nerves crashing through his body.
I’m going home. Fuck. I’m going home.
Sterling doesn’t park his rented truck at his folks’ place. He isn’t looking for an ass kicking before he gets to see Tallulah. Instead he pulls into an old B&B—one that is deep gray now rather than the bright red he remembers from yesteryear—where a familiar figure steps out onto the humidity warped porch. Still rocking long dark hair, and that old hammered earring that Sterling made in metal shop during high school. The one that matches his own earring.
“I’ll be damned again.” Memphis’s accent is Cajun rich, and it still fills Sterling with comfort. As does the mere sight of Sterling’s oldest and best friend. “I reckon you’s here cuz your pa’s hard for a fight with ya.”
“That’s right,” Sterling laughs. Running a nervous palm across his short facial hair, he asks, “How much for a room?”
“Seein’ as how you’s kin, double the nightly rate,” Memphis grins. Teeth sharp even in the gloom of the night.
“I reckon that’s fair.” Sterling releases an amused sound, as he reaches inside the cab to grab his backpack of clothes. The ones he shoved into the only bag he could find before he caught the first flight out of Los Angeles.
“Mama got jambalaya in the kitchen, getchu some an’ we’ll talk while ya eat.” Memphis says in that slow, soothing way of his.
He waves Sterling away, a signal for Sterling to hurry on inside while Memphis stays outside to light a cigarette. Just after the screen door bangs closed behind Sterling, Memphis says, “Smells like rain’s comin’, son.”
As if summoned, thunder rattles the sky.
Lynette Boone is a short, squat woman who is as beautiful of face as she is kind. She sets a plate of steaming dinner before him. Sterling’s hunger barrels into him at the rich, spicy scent. It has been so long since he’s last eaten andouille sausage—Sterling doesn’t plan to leave any of his food uneaten.
While he’s shoving the mix into his mouth, Memphis comes back inside. Calling out in his mother’s tongue for her to leave Memphis and Sterling alone to talk. Or so Sterling thinks—it’s been a long time since he’s been exposed to Louisiana Creole. Some things don’t come back to him as easily as others.
One of Lynette’s old, soft hands pat Sterling lovingly on the shoulder before she makes her way out of the kitchen. She hums an old tune, but Sterling doesn’t have time to recognize it—Memphis pulling out a creaky old chair muffles the sound. He doesn’t say anything, just watches Sterling with those knowing brown eyes until his mother’s steps can no longer be heard.
“Did you hear the news?” Sterling asks, even though he knows news travels faster in The South than it does in Los Angeles. Despite what some might think.
Memphis nods, wearing that slight smirk he always used to wear when Sterling got himself into whatever shit Sterling swore he’d avoid. All of his shit situations seem to revolve around one family—The Graces. Or more specifically—Tallulah Rose Grace.
Now and then, seems to Sterling that things don’t ever truly change.
Sterling rubs the back of his neck, suddenly exhausted from his journey and what all of this means. He’s thinking about the boy—the one who Tweeted at him—about what he looks like, about how old he is, about everything. The hours since that show with Ron—up until this moment—Sterling has been running on fumes. Chasing a feeling he hasn’t stopped to examine.
As if reading his mind, Memphis says, “He’s all Savage, Sterlin’. All Savage, he is.”
Sterling thinks of his brother Beau, of his sisters Birdie and Violet, and of his father. Of those strong genes that paint them all pale-golden in their skin and wheat gold in their hair. With kaleidoscope eyes that shift from blue to green and to something in between.
“All Savage,” he mutters to himself with an odd feeling fluttering in his chest.
“Well,” Memphis says, correcting himself after a pause. “He’s all Savage, ‘cept for the hair. That’s all Tallulah Grace and dark as the devil.”
Wouldn’t be Tallulah if she didn’t leave some of herself on her child, there has to be more to it than the hair, and Sterling tries to edge around the questions he wants to ask. Though he’s never been good at being
subtle—stumbling into every part of his life and making a mess all along the way. “Is that all he got from her?”
Memphis’s dark eyes regard him as he sits silent—his face gives nothing away. Sterling starts to wonder if he shouldn’t have asked. Then a smile breaks across Memphis’s deeply tanned face—his teeth are bright as he laughs. “Did ya think the curse would only stay with her? Son, you’re mistaken. Wolf spirits hold tight to the blood and it damn sure lives on in the young’un.”
A sigh leaves Sterling, one that’s full of hurts and the memory of his father’s abhorrent rage. A hostility that’s still etched into Sterling’s ribs—his family crest and a hunter’s credo. He settles back against the chair he’s sitting in. “As long as my dad is alive I can’t be the father of a wolf.”
Disappointment is obvious in the way Memphis watches Sterling.
“One day, son, ya’ll be your own man.”
Sterling isn’t so sure he’ll ever outgrow the shadow of his father, or the fear of disappointing the man. Yet, Sterling’s even more terrified of what Beaufort would do if he understood the depths of Sterling’s betrayal to their code. That’s why Sterling left for so long—the reason he was too afraid to return to his own home.
“Maybe,” Sterling muses. A coward who can’t even muster up brave words for someone who cares about him.
“If ya ain’t ready to be your own man then ya need to run on home to that soft life out west.” Memphis stands, going to the rickety cupboard by the fridge to pull out the whiskey and two old glasses. “If ya don’ got the guts to be with Tallulah Grace, then leave her as ya left her all those years ago.”
He’s almost tempted to ask how he left her, but Sterling knows that wouldn’t go over too well with Memphis. So he sits, in silent reprieve, and drinks his whiskey with a wan expression. Sterling hasn’t been home home a day; already he’s starting to wonder if it was a good idea to have come back here.
The Grace of a Savage Page 3
