Page 30 of Never To Suffer

“I’ll help Marybeth pull everything out to set up the guest bed.”

“Marc?” He stops before the door. “Would it be okay if I slept up here? I don’t want to wake the kids up if I… uhm. I get nightmares and?—”

He pulls me in for a bear hug and doesn’t let go until we’ve both had enough time to shed a tear or three.

I can’t sleep. My hands itch, my brain won’t stop buzzing, and no matter how cold the room is, I’m burning up. So, I grab my cigarettes and my phone and creep out onto the back porch, glad they don’t have an alarm system running to this part of thehouse yet. I move away from the house in case they have any of the windows open to the room the kids sleep in. I light up and pull my phone pit, expecting a message or two from my sponsor. It’s been off all day, so tuck it back in my pocket while it boots up.

I’m unsettled by the silence of the backyard. People who enjoy spending time in their own minds baffle me. I don’t mind being alone, but the silence becomes so much louder than any city traffic. It’s also more dangerous.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Princess Beetle

Skylar, we miss you. Come home?

I turn the phone off again and shove it in my pocket. I doubt Xander told her about the rehab, or if she understands why I stopped all contact, but both thoughts turn my stomach. I want to answer her, to tell her I’m trying. But I’m still working up to it.

I stub out the cigarette and head back upstairs to start my nightly ritual over again.

The next morning, Marc and I are both up with the sunrise. Marybeth, my sister-in-law, told us to get out of her kitchen, so he takes me down the street to the repair garage to show me around and spend some time tuning up my bike. He’s curious if I can still do this—I’m wondering if I want to.

“So, how long can we keep you here?” Marc asks after a long spell of nothing but shop noises. “I get that you’ve got to give LA a try before you decide if you’re moving here, but I want to makesure you know we’re serious. There’s always a place for you, and the boys would love it. Hell, we all would.”

“Thanks.” I glance up and can tell by the hint of a scowl he expects more than a one-word grunt. “Marc, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I’m just not sure this place will work for me.”

“Yeah, leave it to Dad to find the perfect piece of property and not notice it’s full of conservative pricks. But we’ve found some decent people, too.”

“You fit in better than I will. Either way, I’d like to head out tomorrow or the day after. A friend offered me a bartending gig while I’m getting my LA legs back.”

“Where will you stay?”

“It’s LA. There are plenty of places.” I concentrate on the part I’m cleaning so I don’t have to see him, but it doesn’t do any good. “I dunno, probably a cheap motel until I can afford somewhere. Couch surf if I still have any friends left down there.”

“You’re not couch surfing,” he sighs, tossing a rag onto the tool bench and picking up his phone. “Marybeth’s sister lives nearby, and you can stay?—”

“Marc, she lives an hour outside the city. I’ll be okay, I promise. If I don’t find somewhere, I’ll call Chase or Laurie.” Mark’s forehead wrinkles deeper the longer he stares at me. “Chase paid for my rehab stint and checks in with me regularly. Laurie sends me dog videos on social media, and that’s her way of telling me we’re okay, even if it’s weird.”

“Promise me you’ll be in touch with them and you’ll tell me where you’re staying.”

“Sure. And I’ve still got Shawn on my ass, too.”

“I’m not trying to ride your ass, Luca…shit… Skylar.” There’s an apology in the way he sighs, but he grew up calling me Lucas. He only does that when he’s annoyed or pissed off at me. It’s emotions, not hurtful.

“You wouldn’t ride my ass anyway, Marc. I’m a top.” I wink. “Usually.”

He mumbles under his breath, “Dick.”

“Asshat,” I return fire. He throws a shop towel at me as we both laugh and get back to work. It’s nice being around him again, around people who care. It’s possible I belong here. Closer to family, someone with a stable life I can look up to. But each person who walks by the shop and sneers reminds me I’d never be myself in a town like this without watching over my shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get back and wash up,” Marc says, putting the tools away.

I snicker at the way he adds an r to wash when his southern twang slips in. Marc was born in Georgia, and between that and years in the military, he picked up a slight drawl that got worse when he married a girl from Oklahoma. Where I ran from the military upbringing, Marc embraced it and followed in dad’s footsteps. It’s always been funny to me that siblings could be so different, with Marc being the macho tough guy and me being some kind of odd-ball sensitive kid.

“Worship?” I tease. “Bro, I’d catch fire in a church!”

“Shut it, California hippy.” We laugh and talk as we walk the bike back to the house. He grabs a couple of hand towels out of the dryer after we wash our hands off with a hose in the yard.

“When you two finish up, breakfast is almost ready, and I’ve heard the whispers of the demons we keep in the attic!” shouts a tiny firecracker with long red hair pulled into a rock-a-billy fashion updo. Marybeth and Marc met in Oklahoma while stationed there, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

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