Page 36 of Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself)
“No, Bibi,” Mercedes' voice came from the dark, but he could hear a smile in her words. They’d talked about this, how the writing, which had been a part of his life for so long, had stopped. Dried up like a wet weather spring in the hot summertime. When he tried to force it, the flow wouldn’t come. It became stiff and awkward. The unbearable agony of something that at one time, was so effortless, had become impossible. “That doesn’t suck.”
“Nope,” he muttered. Locking his phone, he slipped it into his pocket, lying flat on his back on a slightly sticky rooftop of the apartment building his brother’s friends owned. Now, if he could manage to stay on track, keep things under control. “I want Slate to be proud of me again.”
He winced, not intending those words to be spoken, but the dam was cracked, and words kept spilling out, the breach growing wider with every word. “I want him to be a brother, not a caretaker. He’s taken care of people his whole life. Still is. Look at him with me. Did you know he basically learned how to be a nurse? Back when Daddy was dying of Hep-C, we couldn’t afford home care. So Slate learned how to start a fucking IV. He wasn’t old enough to drive, but he nursed our daddy as he lay dying. I remember looking up at him, thinking he could do any-fucking-thing we needed. My hero.
“Daddy died, and Slate stayed larger than life. He never let me down. Not once.” Closing his eyes, he hid in the blackness behind his lids, letting it cocoon him.Safe. “Mom did, fuck.But not Slate. Then he had to take care of our mother.” He shook his head, bringing his arms overhead, shoving his hands underneath his neck, fingers tangling on his too-long hair. “She’s an alky. First one I ever knew. Most influential one, too.”
He laughed, the harsh sound echoing off the buildings around them shocking him. Eyes open, he stared at nothing, looking up into the darkness hovering overhead, barely pushed back by the streetlights. “She’d come into my room, stinking of booze and cigarette smoke. Sweaty and stinking of men’s cologne, some nights.” A softer laugh this time. “Hell, most nights.
“She’d lean over my bed, talking to me. Talking to me like I couldn’t see what she’d become. Like I couldn’t see my big brother behind her, steady hand on her arm so she didn’t fall down on top of me. Like I didn’t see the stagger as he guided her out.” The laugh came again, tearing out of him in a way that left pain lodged deep inside.
“I hated it for him. Hated her. I was relieved when GeeMa got custody of me. I was about seven. It meant I lost my mom, and I was okay with that. But, I lost him in the mix, too. He stayed with her, and I never understood why. Not until now, at least.” He gestured to himself, a self-deprecating sneer on his lips he hoped Mercedes couldn’t see in the darkness. “Look at me. He never gives up on people. Never. He’ll bend and break himself, ripping who he is into smaller and smaller pieces to make sure the people he cares about are good.
“Did the same for Mom. Gave until he didn’t have anything left for her. Gave until she sucked him dry. Ran him out. Not only out of her life but out of town. Meant I lost him for good, then.” Digging his fingertips into his scalp, he tried to work the pain out that way, pressing and rubbing. It was too deep, ran through him like blood and he knew it. No way this kind of pain could be eased from the outside. So he went with it, letting the flow of words continue, talking far into the night. “I found my own way to cope, though. Booze and Benita.”
***
“You sure he’s gonna be cool with me showing?” They hadn’t discussed it, but Benny knew Slate had learned about the situation in Marie’s, when it took five men to pull Bear off him. Not that Benny had fought back, but Bear wouldn’t let go, couldn’t seem to once he locked onto Benny, so Gypsy and some of the other Rebels in the bar got involved. Bear ignored their questions, shook off the restraining hands and gestured brusquely towards the door. Then he’d stood, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Benny slunk out to the parking lot. Which meant Benny had put Slate into another position that might have set him against his friends. His brothers. His real family.
That had been the turning point, though. The kick in the ass Benny needed, the push to sort himself and figure out how he wanted to proceed. So he wasn’t simply moving forwards as he had been, pursuing movement for the sake of movement. Instead he had been setting and working towards a goal, not giving up, not playing a scam or game to shortcut his way around the rules. Weeks of working for and achieving that first goal. Then the next. Another, and another, building on success as he went.
Benny had one real objective. Sure, there were sub-goals in there, things that would help lead up to what he wanted. Perquisites so he didn’t—slip, backslide, fail—he shook his head, rejecting these gutless ways of telling the truth.So I don’t fuck up again.
First up was getting his ass back into the groove of playing. Playing sober, for the first time in his life. From the beginning back in Wyoming, he realized he had always paired the two things. Motivation and reward tied up in music and oblivion. Now when he played without having a drink, the idea was never far from his mind, like his brain believed he needed the advantage of a fogged brain to make music. Doc called it a behavioral trigger.
It was also exhausting to play sober, without the expectation of a buzz on the horizon. He wasn’t sure why but knew this was the hardest thing he’d done so far. A different mindset, far more mental than physical, forcing him to pay attention to technique and making him strategize transitions and chromatics like never before. Rewiring his playing into something better. Good work, but hard.
Next, would be to see about getting the band some gigs. The Rebels had been cool about everything, putting Vic up in a room at the house they had in town. He’d been helping out on odd jobs for them, too, whatever they needed a hand with. Chase said Vic had taken to working out with some of the bikers, and they were bonding. Chase was working with Vic, too, but on instruments. Their drummer had the ability to play nearly anything he could lay a hand to, and he was teaching Chase all he knew. Chase was eating it up, loving not only the attention but also the challenge of mastering a skill, having learned from his old man the power having knowledge provided.
Finally, please God, Lucia. He’d only seen her twice since coming home. Both times Bear was in the room, standing close, and the look on his face so murderous it drove his point home, forcing Benny to keep his distance. Something he could see hurt Luce. Nothing good there, not for either of them. Not until he could win Bear back over.
This might be the first step. No way of knowing, but Bear had asked for a meet. Unlike the last time, routing this request through his brother. Benny turned back to Slate, cocking an eyebrow, waiting for a response to his question.
“His suggestion, shrimp. Probably be more pissed if you don’t fuckin’ show.” Slate yawned, groaning and stretching his hands far over his head, the tattoos on his arms writhing and moving as the muscles under the skin flexed and strained. Benny had studied those over the past months, reading and re-reading them, wishing he could ask about them, but they awkwardly pointed towards a time where he once thought Slate felt relieved to be rid of him.
Knowing now that wasn’t the truth, today he felt brave enough to ask. “Do you remember all your tattoos? Like where you were, what you were doing?” Slate’s head swung around, and quickly Benny ducked his chin, dodging whatever look might be aimed his way. “You’ve got a lot of ink, for sure.”
“Yeah.” Slate’s voice was thoughtful, solemn in a way he didn’t understand. Like so much about his brother, this was a mystery. “I remember them all. Every piece is important to me. Ain’t got no throwaway trash on my body. Every tattoo means something.” Slate unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulder, the movement registering in Benny’s peripheral vision. His voice held a note of intensity when he said, “Benny.”
“Yeah?” Aiming for nonchalance, gaze steady on his hands, Benny rubbed his thumb across the still-building calluses. More work to do there, making it so he could play an entire set without killing his fingers.
“Benjamin,” Slate called his name in a way that meant this was important. Benny looked up and into his brother’s eyes, surprised to see they were wet.
“This one, the first one, was for you.” Benny’s eyes dropped to Slate’s shoulder, seeing an angel with bowed head, naked sword in one hand, gun in the other, arms and body flexed and tense. Ready to react to whatever threat was coming its way. Wrapped tightly in its own gossamer wings, the sentinel was gazing down at the words positioned under its feet,My Brother’s Keeper.
“All my life, I wanted to make yours better. I never got over the need, shrimp. This”—he pointed to the tattoo, the inked angel seeming to move as his muscles flowed underneath it—“was how I reminded myself so I didn’t stray from the path. So I could be what you needed.” He pulled his shirt back over his shoulder, covering up the other tattoos he wore on his body. “So when you needed me, I could be in a position to help.” He paused, staring into Benny’s face, intensity building in his expression. With emphasis, he said, “All I am, I owe to you.”
Quick laughter bubbled out of Benny; he couldn’t help it. “That’s absurd, brother.” Shaking his head, he watched as Slate began to button his shirt, hands moving in quick, angry movements. “I mean, I always wanted to be you when I grew up. The idea I had a hand in making you the man you are? Total crazypants.”
“Not so crazy when you’ve been my focus this long.” Slate shrugged, turned away and Benny saw him swallow, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before he very intentionally changed the topic of conversation. “Get your stuff. I’ll run over with you. Bear and Chase should be there, and they’ll be ready to go, waiting on your skinny ass.” There was a muffled noise from overhead, and both men froze in place. Ruby hadn’t been feeling well the past couple of days, and every member of the household was waiting on the twins to come down with whatever stomach bug she had. “Hold on,” Slate muttered, already moving towards the stairs, “be right back.”
Ten minutes later, Slate was walking down the stairs with a baby on each arm. “Ruby’s sleepin’, kiddos are up. You’re on your own tonight, shrimp.” He tipped his head towards the couch, where their silent observer had been waiting. “Except for Mercedes, of course.”
***
“Bibi,” Mercedes launched into her interrogation before he even got the car door closed behind him in the apartment parking. “How do you not know these things about your brother?” She shifted in the seat, seeking a more comfortable position. “You told me he was your hero, and has been from the time you can remember things clearly. How does he not know this about you? Why are there so many unspoken things between two people who love each other so much?”
“For God’s sake,” he muttered, neck twisting to check for traffic. “Goin’ to a bar, Mercedes. Wanna focus on that with me?” Going back to Marie’s would be far harder this time. Three times, three failures, two of those requiring a stay in rehab. “Hard doesn’t begin to cover it.”I’m not going back just to crash and burn, he thought, frowning through the windshield, determined.Not happening.
