Roughneck: A Payne Brothers Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  “Don’t you care about him at all, Honey?”

  More than was probably sane, right, or proper.

  “I do—and so I respect his privacy,” I said. “If you’re worried, we’ll ask him where he’s going.”

  “He’ll lie.”

  “He said he’d never lie to me.”

  Spencer rolled his eyes. “That’s the thing about Uncle Tidus. Sure, he tells the truth, but he’s never really telling you anything. If you want to know what he’s up to, we’ve gotta follow him. Besides, who else can help him if he gets into trouble?”

  Spencer wedged himself into the corner of the truck and wrapped the tarp over his body.

  I hopped onto the tailgate and swore. “And when you bounce out of here and splatter your head on the highway, I’m making the rest of you into sausage. Get out of there—”

  Spencer grabbed my arm and hauled me into the truck. “Quiet! He’s coming!”

  The tarp settled over us. Spencer hunkered down in the corner of the bed, waving for me to wedge in beside him.

  Son of a…

  The office door closed, and Tidus’s heavy steps slammed across the concrete. The truck door opened. He slid behind the seat.

  He hadn’t even tried to say goodbye.

  That settled it.

  The truck started. My heart revved with it. I clutched the frame and squeezed myself between the kid and a heavy metal toolbox with a corner that happened to be getting a little too fresh with my tushy.

  “Now I know why you get into trouble all the time,” I hissed at Spencer.

  Spencer laughed. “And now I know why you’ve never gotten into trouble.”

  Trouble?

  Ha.

  Trouble wasn’t illegally riding in the back of a truck, crushed between a toolbox and an old crate filled with leaking containers of motor oil, road-side flares that Spencer immediately pocketed, and an occasional empty silver can—just La Croix, thank God.

  No.

  Trouble was riding in the back of the truck with all the automotive fluids, discarded cans, and a pint-sized pyromaniac. I could pretend that I’d only stowed-away in the truck to prevent Spencer from setting off a regatta’s worth of roadside flares while speeding down the highway at seventy miles an hour, but that wouldn’t be the total truth.

  Spencer wasn’t the only one worrying about Tidus.

  Sure, he’d never lied to me, but he also hadn’t revealed his secrets. And for a man who took pride in his vices, hated his existence, and refused to accept the good in any of his accomplishments, revealing such a secret would probably destroy everyone.

  He traveled alone to Ironfield.

  Why?

  He hadn’t told his family he was clean.

  Why?

  Spencer was right. Tidus needed help, but he’d always refuse it.

  And so, I did the most braindead, stupidest thing of my life. I hunkered down, held onto the kid, and winced as Tidus’s toolbox threw a wrench into a rather personal area. The truck rumbled to life and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “This is the stupidest thing we could do,” I said.

  Like a true gentleman, Spencer took my hand and shouted over the roar of the road. “Don’t you worry, Honey. We’re gonna make sure Uncle Tidus is okay. All he needs is to know there’s people who love him.”

  And if Tidus had ever heard Spencer talk like that, he never would have worried about the boy’s future.

  “You know…” I peeked an eye open, watching as Butterpond whipped overhead. “You’re not such a bad kid.”

  Spencer shimmied a little closer to me. “Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Awesome! You should be my girlfriend then!”

  I shook my head. “One felony per truck ride, kiddo.”

  “What?”

  “Just remember that you’re a special kid, okay? You care so much about your Uncle Tidus. People notice that.”

  “They do?”

  “Yep. The more people you love, the bigger a heart you have.”

  Spencer nodded. “You must have a lot of friends then.”

  The kid melted me. “You can never have too many.”

  “Is that why you’ve never been in trouble?”

  I peeked under the tarp. Trees blurred overhead, and the wind whipped my ears. I flattened myself into every cranny of the truck, encouraging Spencer to do the same.

  “Got news for you,” I said. “We’re both in a lot of trouble now.”

  Spencer laughed. “Oh, this is nothing. One time I let the alpaca into the farmhouse, and she ate all of Uncle Quint’s insulin.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “She was okay. Uncle Quint trapped her in the basement and fed her peanut butter cups until the vet got there.”

  “I—”

  “What really got me in trouble was when I let the baby in too.”

  “What baby?”

  “The baby alpaca.”

  “Where are you finding all these alpacas?”

  “Well, sometimes you can find them in Uncle Quint’s room, but only cause I leave them there.” Spencer grinned. “He hates them, but he really hates stepping in poop.”

  “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “I got in a lot of trouble then, but I blamed it on the baby.”

  “The baby alpaca?”

  “Yep.” Spencer looked shifty, leaned in close, and nearly bumped out of the truck when Tidus took a hard turn onto the highway. “The secret pooper was actually Uncle Rem’s niece, Tabby. But I didn’t wanna tell on her cause she’s potty training. Doesn’t know any better than an alpaca. Figured that way she wouldn’t get in trouble.” His face scrunched up. “Do you think I’d get in trouble for lying?”

  “I think you’d get in more trouble for stealing the alpacas.”

  “They like me. They’re like Rem’s nieces. Follow me everywhere.”

  That’s what I was afraid of. “Spence…please promise me you’ll leave the alpacas at the farm.”

  Spencer rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. Can’t have them eating all the barbeque.”

  And suddenly I had a new, uniquely Butterpondian fear. “Exactly. We have a lot of work to do, and I don’t know if the truck is gonna be ready in time. Next time you want to cause trouble, sneak a miracle into the garage for me.”

  Spencer frowned. “Uncle Tidus didn’t fix the truck?”

  “He can’t until I get him money for all the parts.”

  He shrugged. “Why don’t you just ask for help? Wouldn’t your parents give you money?”

  “Yeah, they would…but sometimes we want to do things on our own, even when it sounds silly.”

  “Oh. That must be why you get along so well with Uncle Tidus.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he doesn’t like asking for help either.”

  For an eleven-year-old, he had a good head on his shoulders. Unfortunately, he also had a weak stomach.

  “Uh…Honey?” Spencer covered his mouth. “I…don’t feel so good.”

  “Don’t tell me you get car sick.”

  His face paled. “We’re not in a car.”

  Fantastic.

  “Well, why don’t we just try pretending we’re in a car. A nice big car with plenty of room and no little grooves in the frame that will trap everything if you get sick…”

  Spencer lurched. I flinched backwards, getting even more intimate with the corner of the tool box. One more harsh bump from the highway, and I’d expect the box to buy me dinner. I ripped the tarp off us and wrapped it around Spencer.

  “Think nice, flat, smooth thoughts,” I said. “Pretty please.”

  “I’m gonna puke.”

  “That is not a nice, flat, smooth thought.”

  Spencer groaned. “Oh, it’s not gonna be smooth at all—”

  And I thought getting into an accident was the worst thing that could happen in a truck.

  Nope.

  For as much as I loved my food on the way down, seeing it pl
op back up was not the free advertisement I wanted spraying over the highway and my potential customers at seventy miles an hour.

  I regretted sticking the bumper sticker on the back of Tidus’s truck.

  Honey’s Barbeque—A Taste You’ll Never Forget!

  The convertible cruising behind us with its top down probably agreed.

  I didn’t recognize much of Ironfield—certainly not the backwards, dingy area Tidus chose as his destination. The houses were run down, the streets dirty, and the sky dulled into a perpetual, dreary gray. A breeze sliced through the streets, mercifully carrying the scent of most of Spencer’s sickness away.

  The boy was never getting mustard on anything I cooked ever again.

  We ducked down as Tidus parked. Spencer peeked over the tailgate and made a face as his hands stuck in something wet.

  Tidus crossed the street, turning up the collar of his leather jacket to protect his face from the wind. He met a man on the opposing sidewalk, whispered words I couldn’t make out, and reached into his jacket pocket.

  My heart sunk as Spencer’s stomach rose once more.

  “Gross…” Spencer stared at the sick on his hands. “Oh, no. I’m gonna puke again…”

  “Hold it in.”

  “—Can’t.”

  “Swallow it?”

  Spencer retched. “That’s worse!”

  “Okay, just take a deep breath. Stay calm—”

  “It’s all over me!”

  Spencer freaked, hopping, tripping, and stumbling out of the truck. I followed, promptly losing my footing in a new patch of Spencer’s lunch before crashing to the sidewalk. Spencer shouted. So did I.

  My butt hit the sidewalk.

  His lunch cascaded across the street.

  And what felt like the entirety of Ironfield ground to a halt as traffic stopped, pedestrians screeched, and one elderly lady dropped her groceries and bolted.

  Tidus’s profanity echoed across the city.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  A cigarette fell out of his mouth. He jogged away from the gentleman kind enough to lend him a light and stormed to the truck. His expression darkened with a frustrated—albeit surprised—scowl.

  “Holy shit!” He ran a hand through his hair. “I came all the way to Ironfield to have one goddamned cigarette, and I get a tail. Where the fuck did you two come from? Why is the kid puking his guts out?”

  Spencer wiped his mouth, still a bit green in the face. “You’re a bad driver.”

  Tidus followed the trail of vomit from the kid, across the sidewalk, and into the bed of the truck. He peeked inside, made a face, and swore. “I’m a better driver when you’re sitting up front where it’s legal!”

  “Uncle Tidus, please.” Spencer rushed to his side, patting his pockets and under his jacket. He found only a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Please don’t do drugs!”

  Tidus’s eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I’d left my stomach in Butterpond, and it chose the worst time to slingshot into my belly. “Tidus, did you really come all the way to Ironfield just to smoke? Why are you here?”

  “I should ask you the same question. What the fuck are you doing here—did you ride here in the back of my truck?”

  I knew not to answer.

  Spencer, however, picked that moment to try out that crazy thing called honesty.

  “We were worried about you,” he said. “We thought you were doing drugs and left for a binge.”

  And, as soon as he said it, I realized how utterly stupid it sounded.

  And how much it must have hurt Tidus to hear.

  But the man did a good job at hiding his pain. Always did, or he wouldn’t have survived this long.

  Tidus stared at me, every muscle in his body strained and taut. His eyes darkened. He’d lost the hunter green. Had no need for it when he was the one being chased.

  His words stung. “You don’t trust me.”

  I fumbled for an explanation—any explanation. “We…we just worried. You were leaving in such a hurry, and…”

  “Say it.” His voice hardened. “You. Don’t. Trust. Me.”

  Spencer stood to his full height and interrupted us. “Don’t worry, Uncle Tidus. I wasn’t gonna let you do something stupid. I got your back.”

  Tidus tore his gaze from me. “At least someone does.”

  He pointed to the truck, casting one last glance to the opposite street. I followed his gaze, searching the bright windows of the dingy rowhouses.

  Was he looking for someone?

  Who?

  He pushed Spencer towards the truck and held the door open. “Spence, get in. And if you throw up, I’m using your hair as a mop.

  “But Uncle—”

  “Get in.” His tone shifted, hard and bitter. “You could have gotten hurt or worse. What the hell is wrong with you? You should know better. Get inside.”

  Spencer grumbled, but he did as he was told. He crawled over the front seat and slid into the corner, crossing his arms with a grunt.

  Tidus slammed the door, but his hands stayed on the handle. He gripped the metal until his fingers turned white.

  It was all he could do to stop the trembling.

  “You thought I’d slipped,” he said.

  I didn’t want to admit it. “I was worried.”

  “What else have you been thinking about me, Honey Hudson?”

  “A lot of things, Tidus Payne.” I wasn’t going to take his shit. “I gotta think them up all on my own because you won’t talk to me.”

  “Why bother? You don’t trust me. What good would it do?”

  “Have I ever said I didn’t trust you?”

  His jaw tightened. “You think I’m a worthless bastard, don’t you?”

  I never thought it.

  But he did.

  And I wouldn’t let him put words in my mouth.

  “You listen to me, Tidus,” I said. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been sober. I had no reason to think that you slipped—so don’t give me one.”

  “Obviously you don’t need a fucking reason.”

  I frowned. “All I want is a little honesty. You said you’d never lie to me. So, tell me. What the hell are you doing here? Are you meeting someone? Are you looking for trouble?” I didn’t let him turn away from me. “Do you need help?”

  All logical questions.

  All heartfelt questions.

  And I meant each one with every beat of my heart.

  But Tidus refused to answer. He opened the door for me, but he didn’t bother to stick around to see if I climbed inside.

  And I wasn’t sure I wanted to join him.

  For the first time since we’d met, he’d refused to tell me the truth.

  Christ, how screwed up was our relationship that I would have preferred the lie to silence?

  It didn’t matter what I did, what I said. It wouldn’t ever make him believe me. Not when he was utterly convinced something was wrong with him.

  And maybe he was right.

  Maybe the secrets he kept were worse than anything I’d ever imagined. More frightening than any drug or drink, past indiscretion or future mistake.

  But the past didn’t matter. And I would’ve loved to spend the future with him.

  If he had allowed himself just a moment to listen to me, to understand me, he would have realized everything.

  I’d fallen for him.

  I would’ve given myself to him.

  And, if he’d wanted, I would’ve loved him.

  But it would never work. Tidus hated himself.

  And until he rid himself of that hatred, he’d spare no room for me in his heart.

  13

  Tidus

  “Thirty years ago, my mother had an affair and got pregnant. She begged my father to take her back and to raise the child as his own.”

  I’d never said the words aloud before.

  Wasn’t sure what Honey had expected. Why she’d followed me into the apar
tment. Why she had refused to leave.

  Why she sat on the couch, crossed her arms, and stared at me, demanding a truth that would only cause pain.

  Worst of all—I didn’t know why I told her.

  Honey didn’t trust me. She’d never wanted to trust me.

  And yet she planted in my living room and forced me to speak the words that nearly destroyed my parents, our family, and my life.

  What the hell did she want from me?

  Honey sat in silence, just as quiet now as she was in the truck on the way home from Ironfield. But this time, she stayed still. Rigid. No more sidelong glances and bitten fingernails.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Couldn’t blame her. I’d taken the truth a hell of a lot worse.

  “I went to Ironfield to find my real father.” I turned away. “Didn’t want to tell you with Spence in the truck. He doesn’t need to hear that shit. Couldn’t risk him getting upset…or saying the wrong thing at the farm.”

  Honey’s eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me you’re the only one who knows about this…”

  “My mother sure as hell knew. Dad knew. But they’re both dead and buried.” I clenched my jaw. “Why the fuck would I tell my brothers and sister?”

  “How…how long have you kept this a secret?”

  That didn’t matter anymore, not when I’d been lied to most of my life.

  “Six years ago, my father and I got into a bad pissing match. Screaming at each other. Called me a bastard. Said I was worthless. That was the first time he looked me in the eyes and said the only good thing about me was that I wasn’t his real son.” I shrugged. “I put the pieces together pretty fucking quick.”

  Honey’s delicate fingers covered her dark cheeks. “I am so sorry.”

  For what? Being sorry never helped a goddamned thing.

  “You know what?” I said. “I tried. I really did. I tried to do whatever my dad wanted whenever he asked. Tried to be kind and helpful, responsible and all that bullshit. Never fucking mattered. He beat on me when I was young, and he kicked me into the mud when I grew up. Nothing was ever good enough for him. And I think—deep down—I knew something was wrong. No father ever treats his son that way.” My words tasted bitter. “I was right.”