Bossy Brothers: Alonzo

by JA Huss

  “He’s not fugly. Not at all. He’s not even ugly. He’s… I dunno. Intriguing.”

  “Intriguing?” She guffaws. “That has nothing to do with his looks, Tare.”

  His looks are… confusing. One moment he’s totally rocking that nerd accountant thing. But then something about him will change. This only happens during a FaceTime date. He’ll laugh. Or make an expression. And everything about him changes. Just a little. Just enough to make me like him more, actually.

  It’s weird.

  But I don’t want to bring this up to Belinda because she’s already suspicious. She thinks he’s full of shit. But why would anyone lie about the life he has? He’s in a dead-end job as an accountant for some random charter service captain called Pete over on Sugarloaf Key in the Florida Keys. It’s nothing spectacular. It’s barely interesting, if I’m being honest. If a person was going to lie, they’d make up something good. Something cool.

  But then… I’m totally lying about who I am. And my lie is pretty boring too. Who would want to be a librarian in Fort Collins, Colorado?

  “Hello? Earth to Tara?”

  “His looks are fine, Belinda. He’s not ugly.”

  “So show me a pic.”

  She has asked to see pics of Lonnie lots of times. And she’s always pumping me for information about him. Where does he live, what’s the name of his work, what’s his last name? Shit like that. But I’m not comfortable sharing this stuff with her. It’s the inner detective in me. Because if my best friend was phone-fucking some random guy I’d be all up that biz. I’d go looking for all kinds of reasons why she should stop. And I’m sure she would find plenty of them. All kinds of reasons why I should block this dude and never speak to him again.

  I just don’t want to know those things. Lonnie and I are having fun. Why complicate it with the truth?

  I didn’t even want Belinda to know about him at all. But she got it out of me when I was drunk one night about six months ago.

  I really need to stop drinking with Belinda.

  “I don’t have any pics.”

  “Liar!”

  “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow after work for lunch?”

  She waves me off and clicks through the appointment book on the counter. “Same Bat-Time. Same Bat-Channel.”

  I slip into my elegant, shawl-collared wrap coat, cinch the belt tight at my waist, and wave my fingers over my shoulder as I push through the door of Sick Boyz and come out into the cold, January afternoon of Fort Collins. Sucking in deeps breaths of frigid air, still trying to process what Belinda just told me.

  I did not ask her to ask Clay about what it takes to be a private investigator in Colorado.

  Even if I did, I did not.

  I’m going with did not.

  La-la-la-la. I’m not thinking about this.

  La-la-la—ah, fuck it. I look over my shoulder, cross the street, slip into the big City Burrito alley, and lean against the wall as I type in my search.

  How to get a private investigator license in Colorado.

  Enter.

  A handy checklist pops right up.

  Fee. OK.

  Twenty-one years of age. OK.

  Background check.

  I suck in another deep breath, the cold stinging my lungs as the air fills them. This… is not really a problem. I have a clean background now. That was part of the deal. Everything about who I was got erased.

  Poof. Gone.

  So I could—no, I would—pass the background check and the fingerprints.

  Then there’s an exam. No problem there. Other legal shit. Social security number, signed affidavit of employment eligibility. And a ten-thousand-dollar surety bond.

  All this is doable. I would have to scramble to come up with the bond. Good old Aunt Whoever is OK for covering my rent and some of my expenses, but the monthly stipend doesn’t allow for much extra.

  “This is stupid.” I say it out loud to shake myself out of the fantasy that’s now playing in my head, unfolding like a movie on fast-forward. “I cannot think about this.”

  But… I can’t not think about this, either.

  My old life. My wonderful, exciting, old life in LA, filled with danger and dodgy clients. My stuffy office in that third-floor walk-up sixteen blocks off Sunset. I had a view. It wasn’t a great view, but… it was mine.

  I loved my job. So much. I might not remember talking about my childhood career aspirations with Belinda last weekend, but I have always wanted to be a private detective. And the minute I graduated out of the foster system I set out to make it happen. It’s a lot harder in LA. I worked my ass off for three years for practically no pay before I had enough experience to submit my application. You only have to be eighteen in California. So by the time I was twenty-one I had it. I had everything. I had my firearms permit. I had experience. And I had clients.

  They were just… the wrong kind of clients.

  And now I’m here. Dressing up in my costume every day as I pretend to be a librarian.

  Even after two years, I barely speak Dewey Decimal. I misshelve books all the time. The old bitties are always complaining about me behind my back.

  In fact, the only cool things about this new life are the clothes and Belinda.

  I do kind of adore the pencil skirts and tight blouses. And I make it all look good. That’s not easy. You have to have the right shape to rock a pencil skirt.

  And Belinda. My new BFF. I adore her too. She’s the worst best friend ever. And I mean that in the most positive way. She’s a bad influence and moral compass in the same small package.

  But… I would give back the clothes and find a way to take Belinda with me if I could get my old life back.

  I would. I’d blow this stupid pot-head state and never look back.

  Stop it. Just stop it, Tara.

  Oh, my God. It finally happened. My inner voice has bought into the lie. I’m not even Tara!

  I’m Phoebe! I’m sexy-as-fuck Phoebe! Not book-up-her-ass Tara!

  Phoebe doesn’t date guys online! Phoebe doesn’t even date! Phoebe does erotic encounters. Phoebe does sex toys, and scandalous lingerie, and…

  Holy shit.

  I am still Phoebe. I mean, Tara is trying to be Phoebe!

  That’s why I do the Lonnie dates. He might be a subpar accountant with no real future, but that man can walk the dirty talk when he’s in the mood.

  I’m still in there. I didn’t disappear.

  I’m still Phoebe.

  And I am so, so desperate to break out of the prison the witness protection program put me in two years ago.

  CHAPTER THREE - ALONZO

  I take a shower. Just stand there under the spray of the water, a little bit numb, a little bit satisfied, a little bit… empty.

  It’s not Tara. She’s the best thing about this day.

  But at the same time, it is her.

  I’m a little bit everything. A little bit rich. A little bit smart. A little bit handsome. A little bit content. And I feel like this is my new normal.

  I hate that phrase. The new normal. It’s practical and hey, I’m the first to admit that adapting to a new situation is definitely a survival skill one should cultivate. But there is something deeply sinister underneath the words ‘new normal’.

  People use these words together when something terrible has happened. You never say, “Well, winning that lottery was amazing and now I’m just adjusting to my new normal.” No. It’s more like, “The earthquake devastated the town and now everyone is just adjusting to the new normal.” Or, “A drunk driver killed my wife, husband, kid, insert-your-loved-one-here, and now the house is empty and I’m adjusting to my new normal.”

  This new normal is always about adjusting. It’s always about loss. And if a politician starts talking about the new normal it’s about money.

  I hate money.

  I figured this out a long time ago. I’m sure people wonder about me and my brothers. Why we still live here on this street with our parent
s. Maybe they think we’re losers or maybe they think we’re underachievers. But that’s not why. Well, I don’t really know why Luke hangs around. I’m sure he’ll move on eventually.

  But Tony and I stay because we’ve seen what’s behind the curtain called real life and it’s ugly. We stay because even though the world outside our pseudo Dumas compound is always adjusting to the new normal, being here, close to everyone—that keeps things the same.

  There are no walls around this street. No gates. There’s no extra police protection. We don’t have a cache of guns buried in the back yards. There’s no secret bunker under the cottages.

  But being here, surrounded by Tony, and Luke, and Mom, and Dad—it feels like we have all that extra protection.

  That’s why I stay.

  This street of Dumas family cottages is just… my normal.

  But I had dreams once. I grew up in what is probably considered a big family these days. Two brothers and a sister. Mom and Dad never got divorced. Hell, they don’t even really fight. My mom nags a little. And she’s always yelling, “Jack! Jack! Are you listening to me?” But she’s just bossy like that. Her nagging is really more along the lines of endearing sass.

  I thought maybe one day I’d have my own little Dumas clan. But then… everything changed. The new normal took over and… yeah. Here I am.

  I sigh and turn the water off. Grab a towel, wrap it around my waist, step out of the shower, and stand in front of the mirror.

  It’s all foggy so I reach up with the flat palm of my hand and clear a small circle in the center so I can see my face. Stare into my own hazel eyes. Then squint at the guy behind them.

  He had dreams once.

  I have always wanted to be a fisherman. Us kids grew up in the old dive shop with my parents. We were always on or in the ocean. We always had a boat and my father’s idea of a good time was either diving around the Great Florida Reef or casting a line over a calm, blue sea.

  This life was my dream. I’m literally living my dream. But I always wanted to share it with someone else.

  I’m not immune to the new normal. It always catches up with you eventually.

  This is where Tara comes in. Because she is my new normal. She is how I process the turn my life took back when I was eighteen. She is how I avoid potential traps and pitfalls. Her, and the others like her who came before.

  See, I have this thing for mermaids.

  Not Ariel, the Disney mermaid. No, I’m talking mermaids like the siren-esque creatures of Greek mythology. Or the melusine in Europe. Or the Rusalka in Eurasia. I have always been fascinated by dangerous women. I think that’s why I’m obsessed with mermaids. So obsessed, I have them tattooed all over my body. Every different kind of mermaid you can imagine. And they are beautiful and demonic. Frightening, but like the siren, they call to you. Tricksters who ruin your life and leave you for dead.

  Look, I’m not saying all women are like this. My sister isn’t a mermaid. My mother isn’t a mermaid. I’d say ninety-nine percent of women aren’t mermaids.

  But the ones I gravitate to… I don’t know why I go looking for these girls. But they are the mermaids. They are there to trick me, and ruin my life, and expose my secrets.

  I get it. It’s my fault. I’m the one attracted to that kind of woman.

  That’s why I stopped dating a while back and got into the online thing. That’s why I have Tara now.

  I used to date girls in real life. And I’m not gonna lie. Every once in a while I go find myself a good one-night stand to take the edge off. A tourist who has no expectations. A spring-breaker who thinks I’m her conquest instead of her being mine. But they’re just booty. It’s just fucking.

  Tara and I started that way. Just booty. Just a way to take the edge off. But it’s been two years now. Two years we’ve been talking.

  I feel like I know her intimately. And I get it. That’s stupid. We’ve never even met in real life. I’m fucking catfishing this girl. Almost everything I’ve told her about myself has been a lie. But maybe Lonnie the accountant is really the better way to go? Maybe I could change my path? Become that dude. Leave my Dumas secrets behind, get a dead-end job, and have a real life?

  So fucking ironic that living my dream is starting to feel like a prison sentence.

  Or maybe it’s always been a prison sentence? Maybe I was just so resistant to the new normal I didn’t even notice when that earthquake devastated the town or that drunk driver wiped out my family?

  I dress in a pair of jeans, opt out of a shirt, and stand in front of my screen door to watch Luke and Tony as they lay a new roof on the cottage two doors down and across the street.

  It’s slow season for them too. Tony runs Dumas Boat Tours. He takes people out into the Gulf in his sailboat, puts them all in kayaks, tours them through the mangroves, and then serves them a champagne dinner at sunset. Luke runs Dumas Water Adventures. Think jet skis, water skis, flyboarding, parasailing, jet-packing… high-octane adrenaline shit like that.

  But in the winter, they spend most of their days doing maintenance work on the cottages because it’s the only time we’re not fully booked up. My fishing business slows down too, but not nearly as much as the diving and boating.

  Tony and Luke aren’t the only ones out on the street today. There are three groups of housecleaners, a whole crew of landscapers, and our newest addition, Zach Boston.

  I don’t see him until I step outside because he’s kicking it on the porch two cottages down to my right.

  He lifts his chin up in greeting when he notices me. “Lonz!” he calls. “I just got off the phone with Jesse. He’s heading down here tomorrow.”

  I don’t know why he’s telling me this. I give no fucks about the Boston family. I don’t even care that Jesse is my new brother-in-law. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just another outsider who needs to be managed.

  But when I say nothing, Zach feels the need to explain. “Emma’s in Europe for some business thing.” Zach shoots me one of those trademark Boston brothers grins. “He’s lonely.”

  I sigh and go back inside.

  Here is my problem with the Bostons. And Zach is my exhibit A right now. They don’t do anything. They don’t have jobs—and I know that Joey Boston is like part owner of some encryption company, but everyone knows the dude doesn’t actually work. Everyone knows his partners, Huck and Wald, are the heavy lifters in that arrangement.

  Jesse Boston says he works. But come on, OK? Yachting lessons? And he only has one client. One client? Are you kidding me? That’s not work.

  Johnny Boston doesn’t work either. He practically retired last year to some lake house north of the city. Must be nice, ya know?

  Zach Boston isn’t any different. He’s staying with my brother Luke at the moment. Or, rather, Luke is staying with him. Luke’s cottage, which is directly next door to mine, is now a rental.

  I don’t get these Boston people.

  And here’s the other thing that just rubs me the wrong way. All their women work. Johnny’s new baby mama, Megan, works as a chemist for my sister Emma’s cosmetics company. Joey’s girl? Brooke? She works for Emma too! And of course, Jesse’s girl is Emma. So… what the actual fuck, ya know? These boys need jobs. I just can’t take them seriously.

  When I look at the clock, barely an hour has passed since my phone call with Tara. Jesus Christ. This is why I hate having days off. Time just slows down to this almost unbearable sluggish pace.

  We have a call every night in the winter months. But the two-hour time difference between Florida and Colorado means this won’t happen until she’s in for the night and that’s usually ten or eleven my time. In the summer we talk a lot less because I’m busy from sunrise to well past sunset. So the extra call with Tara is the only good thing about winter as far as I’m concerned. It definitely takes the edge off the extra stress that comes with all the secret things Tony, Dad, and I do in the winter.

  But again… Tara is the real reason for my discontent and malaise
today. I feel like we’ve played this out. It’s not boring. It’s still fun as fuck, actually. But how long can you long-distance-date someone before you both realize you’ve got no future and cut bait?

  Well, it turns out that number is about two years.

  Fuck it. I pull on a t-shirt, slip my feet into a pair of old sneakers, and head for the dive shop to see if my dad has any updates on this month’s secret mission.

  I have a truck but I rarely use it when I’m just going around the neighborhood. I walk to work every day. The marina is only a few blocks north of Dumas Street and that’s where the main offices for the Dumas brother businesses are located. The dive shop is half a block away, near a few trendy shops to catch more tourists.

  My mom and dad are the coolest people on the planet. My mom, Silvia, is a petite little lady with a big personality. She pretty much runs things. At least she thinks she runs things. And everyone else does too.

  But my dad, Jack? He’s sneaky. He’s actually the patriarch of the family. It’s just only he, and I, and Tony who know this.

  To everyone else—to Luke, and Emma, and Mom, and the people who work for us, and the Bostons—to them, he’s just the guy in the background saying, “Yes, dear,” when my mother shouts his name.

  But my father is smart.

  No one realizes this either. He went to college but didn’t finish. His family owned a dive shop too. They lost it after some bad investments. But he made a name for himself as a salvage diver for would-be treasure hunters. Then he met my bossy mom, they got married and started their family and the dive shop in the same year.

  Everyone who hears the story told like this thinks… Ah, that’s nice. Families are always rising and falling in America. So says Hawthorne. And he was right. You win some, you lose some, you win some again.

  That was the case with my father. My family, too.

  Before Emma went off to become a cosmetic billionaire, we had some rough times. I didn’t understand why until after I turned eighteen and my father started telling me some of the secrets he’d been keeping.

  It all makes sense now.