Page 50 of Guitars and Cages

“Uncle Cole!” Rory declared happily, climbing on his back as he was crushing the life out of me.

“Can’t... breathe...” I gasped, grateful when Cole finally let up.

“You look like shit,” he told me, shoving me over so he could reach back and grab Rory, pulling him around so he could toss him on the bed and tickle him.

“And you’ve grown,” he told a wiggling, laughing, kicking, rolling Rory. I just tried to avoid the feet.

“Yeah, well, good to see you, too,” I grumbled, but it was with a smile because I was damn happy to see him. He flipped me off, and went back to tickling Rory.

“All right, Cole, don’t torture the poor kid to death like you used to do me; let him up.”

He kept at it for a few seconds more before letting him go. Rory lay on the bed, giggling and holding his sides, until Cole reached over and picked him up, setting his feet on the floor and telling him to run along back to his room. Rory pouted, but did as he was told. He’s a good kid that way, most times.

I took a moment to study my brother: the way his hair had lightened in the sun, his golden hair streaked with lighter strands of near-white blond. He was tan, and his face was more weathered than I remembered it, but his green eyes were the same. He’d lost some weight, stretching his muscles taut over his frame. He was still ripped, but now it was from hard work rather than long hours in the gym. I was so busy studying the changes in him that I didn’t see his hand move before he smacked me on the side of the head, hard.

“What the fuck is this I hear about you carving up your goddamned arms?”

I wanted to answer, but I was seeing stars; even openhanded, he hit like an ape on steroids. I was grateful he hadn’t hit the stitches. Whoever had told him about my arms forgot to mention the back of my head.

“What the hell were you thinking, Asher? What’s going on?”

“Maybe if you’d answered your phone I’d have told you,” I complained, rubbing my head where he’d hit me.

“All you said in your messages was that you didn’t think you could manage taking care of Rory and would I please drag my drunk ass out of the bottle to help you with him.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t answer that, either.”

“I was busy.”

“Uh-huh. So which was it, a chick or a bet?”

“Both.”

“Guess your luck went south.”

“Not until after she did, and man was she good.”

We both laughed at that. If I knew my brother, she’d either been someone’s old lady or a street-corner whore. He didn’t do normal relationships any more than I did.

“So then what happened?”

“A run of shit luck. I made some pretty shitty bets on soccer games, and then the woman I was banging told me her old man got out of prison and was gunning for me. Figured it might be a good time to come back home.”

I sat there a moment before I started laughing. “You bet on soccer?”

“Hey, it’s big down there.”

“Yeah, and do you even know anything about the teams or how it’s played?”

He paused then, tongue touching his upper lip, finger pointed in the air. He blinked once, twice, and then he grinned. “That is completely beside the point.”

I would have smacked a hand to my own forehead if not for the fact that my head still hurt from the blow he’d given me earlier. “Really, Cole, I think that’s exactly the point.”

“Yeah, well, you changed the subject. I wanna know what the fuck is up with your arms.”

“I tell you what: you go put Rory to bed, with a story, and make sure he’s asleep, and then you can tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine.”

He grinned. “I’ll do one better.”

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