Page 51 of Guitars and Cages

“Yeah? What?”

“I’ll put Rory to bed, story, music, the works, and I’ll go to the Chinese place up the street and grab us some dinner. Sound good?”

“Hell, yeah,” I said, grinning.

Cole nodded and slipped out the door, leaving me happier than I’d been in a very long time.

Chapter Nineteen

After Cole left to grab the food, I couldn’t help but check on Rory. I didn’t need to; I knew Cole had spent more time with him than I had. Plus he’d gotten the kid tucked in and fast asleep far quicker than I would have managed to do. Still, I went in there anyway; made sure the music was on the right station and there were enough blankets to keep him warm. The stuffed armadillo he’d just had to have was dangling off the side of the bed, so I tucked it in next to him before I left the room. I was sure if anyone could have seen me they’d have told me I’d gone soft, but dammit-all he was a kid, and I remembered when Chase used to take the time to check on me.

I went back to my room and unpacked as I waited for Cole. Most of the stuff fit easily into the dresser or onto the bookcase shelf, and the guitars I propped in the corner. I’d need to sell them eventually anyway, either before I left town or once I decided I wasn’t going to bother trying to play anymore. They were nothing special anyway, just ones I’d picked up from the pawnshop so I’d have a way to earn some cash playing on the streets before I’d gotten hooked up with my old band.

I remembered the Fender Chase had given me for my fourteenth birthday, its black, shiny surface airbrushed with green-and-blue flames. I’d loved that guitar, far too much to take it when I ran away. Chase had kept it, in the room he’d always left made up for me and Cole, and I’d played it whenever I’d gone home. I think he was waiting for us to stop being stupid and come back there to live. I’m sure Kimber sold it after he died, and everything else of ours that we left behind. That was one of the few times in my life I’d wished I’d had a home of my own, so I’d have had somewhere to keep it, to remind me of him and the good times we’d had.

I shook off the memories and walked over to the desk, unpacking the box of paper, pencils, lyrics, and music; hiding the poetry in the back so no one could stumble across it. I only ever showed that to two people in my entire life: Gage, because I’d known I could trust him, and Eve, to help worm my way into her pants. Of course the ones I’d shown her were nothing like the poems I usually wrote; they were sappy and hastily composed, designed for one thing and one thing only. Looking back, I should have left her alone; like so many others, she hadn’t deserved my lies.

Cole shoved the door open, and the smell of wontons, pepper steak, teriyaki beef, and fried rice wafted into the room, snapping me back to the present.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

He snorted and looked at me like I was speaking some foreign language before he started unpacking the cartons onto the desk. There was crab rangoon, too, I noted, and sweet and sour shrimp. I grinned as he pulled out some paper plates, forks, and napkins, handing me one of each. We fixed plates buffet-style, grabbing a bit of everything before sitting down on the bed. I took a bite of sweet-and-sour shrimp and almost moaned with pleasure.

“Damn, this is good.”

Cole did moan. “You can say that again. It’s hard to get good Chinese food in Mexico.”

I laughed. “I would think so. Was the fighting so good down there that you had to stay so long?”

“I made more fighting down there than I did up here, and shit’s cheaper there, too, plus I would bet on myself, so that sweetened the deal.”

“Damn, man, what the hell did you do when you lost?”

“I didn’t lose.”

“Not even once?”

He cocked his head, his eyes darkening for a moment, reminding me of the other side of my brother. No, I suppose he wouldn’t have lost a fight; he would never have allowed himself to.

“So how often did you fight, anyway?”

“Twice a week most weeks, occasionally three. It wasn’t like here, where you gotta know someone who sets them up and makes all the arrangements, and then takes a cut of what you’d get paid. Down there, if you wanna fight, you just go to any one of a hundred places that holds them and you’re in. Sometimes it was in a pit, sometimes it was in a cage; it all depended on the place. Saw a guy fight a pit bull one night, now that was something I’d never do, but yeah, it was easy, far easier than here. I told you, you should have come with me.”

“I’m not as good a fighter as you. Not good enough for Mexico and that shit, anyway. I’d have gotten my head taken off.”

“Maybe, or maybe it would have toughened you up some. You always were too soft, little brother.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He laughed then. “Oh, come on, I know you can be a giant pain in the ass when you wanna be, but when it comes down to it, Asher, you ease up on people when you should be goin’ for the kill.”

“Man, you ain’t back a day and you’re already lecturing me about killer instinct. What next, you gonna give me the whole ‘Never stop moving, never get attached, never let ‘em see you bleed’ speech?”

“Is it needed?”

That threw me. I scowled, a bit of food halfway to my mouth. I set the fork back down on the plate and glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I want to know why the hell you took a razor blade to your arms. It better not have been over some stupid bang-tail, either, or I swear to fuck, Asher, I’ll kick your ass.”

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