Page 28 of Guitars and Cages

I sighed.

“None. I know it makes none. I know I have no right to judge him; hell, I guess it’s gotta be hard enough daring to be that different in a world that ain’t necessarily gonna accept it,” I conceded, letting my last dart fly, and unlike the others, it found its way onto the board, even if it was the edge. “I told him it was gonna take some time for me to accept it, but I wouldn’t kick him out of my life. He’s waiting for me to come talk to him, but dammit, Morgan, forty-eight hours ain’t enough time to wrap my head around why the hell someone would wanna do that to themselves!”

“Tell me something, Asher. Why does it matter why?” Morgan asked, effectively silencing me as I stood there trying to think of an answer. “Think back to when you boys were younger,” Morgan said, pulling up a chair and straddling it.

I sank down onto the floor, still leaning against the post, closing my eyes against the sudden tilt of the room.

“Alex was always the showoff, always the center of attention. Hair dye and nail polish and eye makeup and streaks—that damned kid was into everything weird, everything different; how is it hard to believe he’d do this?” Morgan asked. “And weren’t you the one who caught him in that leather mini and hose?”

I’d forgotten about that, or maybe I’d blocked it out. That, or I really was beginning to drink too much, falling into the family curse and letting the booze drive the memories away.

“Yeah, but that was once,” I said stubbornly, and sighed. “I don’t know, Morgan; I always figured, you know, that he liked being a little odd, not that he’d… I mean, that’s...” I ground to a halt, once again at a loss for words.

“Is it wrong ’cause you think everyone else will think it’s wrong, or is it wrong ’cause you think there’s something wrong with it?” Morgan asked.

I sat there, head against the post, eyes closed, trying to find the answer in my drunken haze.

“It freaks me out that I couldn’t tell the difference until he turned around,” I admitted. “I’m uncomfortable with the thought of hugging my brother, with the thought of putting an arm over his shoulders.”

“Why?” Morgan asked, arms crossed and looking at me with as close to anger as I’d seen since he caught me trying to tattoo myself with his tattoo gun when I was ten. I wished I hadn’t opened my eyes; I hated that look.

“You toss females outta here every other night; you never had no problem with putting hands on them,” Morgan pointed out.

“Yeah, but...” I began, and threw up my hands. “He’s got breasts—guys aren’t supposed to have breasts, Morgan!”

And Morgan just threw his head back and laughed at me while I threw up my hands and damn near fell over from the effort. He was still laughing as I struggled to right myself, glaring at him even as I struggled to keep my eyes open. I was gonna pass out soon; I knew it, I could feel the room tilting and the buzz in my head getting louder.

“And fat bastards ain’t got man boobs?” Morgan threw back, laughing at me more. “You’re scared of a bit of fatty tissue in the wrong place; that’s all it is, plain and simple. That don’t change who Alex is, and you know it. You’re scared because this thing he’s done can’t be hidden, and you don’t ever like to face anything complicated. You think on this, while you’re busy passing out on my floor. You ask yourself if Alex would have done it if it wasn’t something that made him happy, and then you decide if you’re gonna wreck his happiness with your hate like you’ve wrecked your own!”

“Why the hell doesn’t it bother you?” I demanded, lashing out with desperate words even as the room kept slipping. How did he know; how the fuck did he always know?

“’Cause kid, you boys are like sons to me. Long as you ain’t doin’ nothin’ that’s gonna land you dead or in jail for any length of time I ain’t gonna judge ya. It would bother me a great deal if Alex was unhappy, if he was hurt or mistreated in any way. Now that,thatwould bother me, and I’d have ta hurt the one who’d hurt him, even if I loved the hell outta him, got it?” Morgan growled, watching me with dark eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” I conceded as I slumped against the floor, a heap of uncertainty and whiskey-drenched confusion. The last thing I heard before I closed my eyes wasNeil Youngon the jukebox singing, “Don’t Let It Bring You Down.” It fit, and somehow Morgan had known it and did as he always did, leaving me to wallow in the mess I’d made until I came to my senses and fixed it.

Chapter Twelve

Iwas on my way to see Alex, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of the conversation to come. It wasn’t gonna be easy, keeping my lies while hearing his truths, so as much as I wanted some liquid courage or something, anything to blur my brain for a while, I’d left it all alone out of fear that in my haze I’d reveal secrets better left buried. I envied Rory the afternoon he was spending with Morgan down by the docks watching the boats come in. I’d rather be there than here. I’d rather be anywhere but here, on this street with the motel just a block away.

He’d mentioned Gage; what the hell had he known about Gage? He couldn’t have known anything more than that we’d been the best of friends. No one could have known anything more than that. I’d been careful to make sure of it. I tried not to remember Gage’s hair, wet and slicked back from a dip in the swimming hole, his brilliant blue eyes shining from his deeply tanned face. That tan was the biggest difference between him and Conner—and the height; Gage had been a bit taller than me. Taller and broader, his body boasting definition that only came from long hours spent working hard, the way Gage had done on his father’s farm. Hell, back then I hadn’t ever needed a gym to keep in shape. Working out was what you did when you stacked hay or handled the animals. A part of me missed that; a part of me missed the simplicity of the life I’d left behind—the safety of those fields and farms and stables, the warmth of family and the safety of a lover’s arms.

It sucked that I had gone and thrown that lover away like all the rest. It made no difference now; it was in the past, and most days I never admitted it to myself anyway, blocking it from my mind and covering it up with only those moments when I was paid to bethat way. Those were the safe moments, those were the times I could explain away if I’d ever had to. I tried real hard to make sure I didn’t have to, that my brothers never knew what my life on the streets had really been like; the things I’d done to survive.

I’d never told them about the fear and the desperation, or how I’d become a thief and a whore. I told them about the fighting ’cause that was something they’d be proud of, that and the cash I’d made standing on corners playing my guitar.

I’d never told them about the nights I’d gone to bed starving after a day or two without food. I never told them about the days I’d sat shivering in the park, the meals I’d picked from garbage cans, or how many times I’d cried myself to sleep, wishing like hell I had the nerve to go home. I never talked about the loneliness or the times I’d missed their hugs, shoves, and roughhousing, simple touches that reminded me I was human and alive. I never told them how close I’d come to finding death, and how often I wished I had.

Sometimes I lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if Gage had ever bought that ranch he’d talked about getting or if he was still slaving away for his dad. I wondered if his life was better than the life I’d found out here, and I sincerely wished it was, because he deserved something good after me. I missed the easy friendship we’d shared in childhood, the camaraderie of our youth. Even high school, for all its angst, had only seen us grow closer. If only I hadn’t tried to go back home after running away. If only I’d never let that friendship spiral into something more...and less than it could ever be. Maybe then I’d know the answer to my question, and have another place to visit if I ever went back home.

Too bad there was no taking back what I’d done, that final, desperate betrayal when I’d sold Gage out to save my own skin. I cringed, trying not to remember my father’s eyes glaring down at me, demanding an explanation for something he was never supposed to see. One damning lie later, a long string of harsh words, and the feel of fists bruising flesh, cracking bones, I’d saved myself and buried myself all in one brief moment in time.

Now I stood outside the door to my brother’s motel room, wondering if I was about to make yet another grandiose mistake, and exactly how many of those we got to make in a lifetime. Was there ever really a chance at forgiveness or redemption, or were fuck-ups like me just destined to burn in a hell of our own making, drowning in empty lives until we mercifully wasted away?

I knocked on the door; then I shoved my hands in my pockets, waiting for Alex to open it, glad that when he did he was dressed in something close to normal. His blue jeans were a bit too tight, but at least his T-shirt was baggy enough to hide the extra bits so I wouldn’t have to think too much about them.

His eyes widened when he saw me, and I saw a shimmer of tears that I hoped wouldn’t fall because I really didn’t want to deal with them. I’d had all the emotion I could handle when he visited my place, thank you very much.

“You came,” he said.

---