Page 9 of Guitars and Cages

I cursed, thinking of something Tina had that I did need, very much.

Morgan chuckled.

“That little head of yours is gonna get you in a heap of shit,” he said. “Take the advice of an old man who’s been there, done that; you don’t wanna let her sink her hooks any deeper in you than they already is.”

“Ain’t no woman ever called it little,” I said, with a grin that he wiped off my face with a well-placed toss of a dirty bar rag. I wrinkled my nose in disgust as he laughed. “That was foul,” I grumbled, rubbing the back of my sleeve over my nose. He laughed harder and reached for his coat.

“Think about what I said, kid,” he told me as we headed for the door. “Go home, send her home, and the next time you gotta work, bring Rory here. I’ve still got that Nintendo system you boys loved.”

I laughed, wondering what the hell Rory would think of Duck Hunt. Guess it was better for him than popping zombies, anyway.

Chapter Four

I’d hoped to sleep away my morning after working much of the night before, but sleep was an endangered species rapidly going extinct, much to my regret. I was lying on my back, arm thrown over my eyes, earbuds crankingNine Inch Nailsinto my brain while I desperately tried to ignore the third installment ofNarniaplaying on the TV screen. I’d made it through the first two and paid attention, goddammit; I deserved the respite. Not like I was getting much of one with Rory poking and prodding at me every few minutes so he could comment on all the things he thought I’d missed—which I had, but for good goddamned reason.

I’d managed all of two hours sleep after sending Tina back downstairs and scrubbing off the traces of sex and the scent of her. She’d had bruises forming from where I’d clamped my hand over her mouth to keep her from waking Rory. No doubt someone was gonna think she’d been beaten, the way her face had looked. I’d have sent her home when I got here, like Morgan suggested, but she’d started stripping the moment I stepped through the door, and man, there was no ignoring that. I love the feel of a warm, willing body pressed against mine. Hell, in the right moments, with the right person, I don’t mind wrapping myself around them or being wrapped in flesh and held for the rest of the night, but those people are few and far between. She’s never been one of them—Tina, that is—hell, there hasn’t been one like that in a very long time. For a brief moment, the image of long black hair and brilliant blue eyes flashed through my head, but I was careful to push the thought away before the memory of that face could take hold. That’s the last thing I need, to let my thoughts drift that way again. I’m lucky as hell I didn’t get myself killed the first time, but that’s only ’cause my brothers never knew.

Right now I was plain exhausted and desperate for a couple more hours’ sleep and maybe a pleasant dream or two. Just when I felt myself falling off the precipice between sleep and waking, Rory tapped me again, and I jumped when I opened my eyes ’cause he was face to face, nose to nose, and saying something I couldn’t hear past the earsplitting riff.

He frowned when he caught sight of the cord dangling from the ear opposite where he sat, and reached across me, pulling it free with a plop that spilled sound into the room.

“You were snoring,” he accused. “Andyou’re not even watching, anyway.”

“Kinda hard ta watch if I’m snoring,” I pointed out, and watched his frown turn into a pout.

“You promised you’d watch all three,” he said.

“Will two and a quarter do?Narniareally isn’t my thing. Sort of like a watered-downLord of the Rings.”

“What’sLord of the Rings?” he asked, eyes lighting up with curiosity.

I raised my eyebrows, wheels turning fast like the coyote latching on to his next plan. What the hell wasLord of the Ringsrated, I wondered, and then asked myself if I cared as long as introducing him to it would save me from Aslan and his crew. See, I’d been paying attention; I knew the damned lion’s name. Couldn’t tell ya the names of the kids, but the lion was cool.

“You mean to tell me,” I asked, slipping into a bit of a conspiratorial voice, “that your mom’s never let you seeLord of the Rings?”

He shook his head, looking enthralled.

I chuckled.

“Kid, you don’t know what you’re missing,” I said, happy as sin to load that first tape in.

With rapt attention he sat, nibbling on slices of the pizza I’d made us for dinner, hardly saying a word through movies one or two. Unfortunately, in movie three Grond snarled,“Release the prisoners!”and the catapult launched the heads of the fallen over the castle walls, and my nephew launched all the pizza he’d eaten halfway across the floor. What. The. Fuck. There hadn’t even been any blood! Rory sat there in tears, dry heaving with strings of pizza-tinted saliva dribbling from his lips as the battle scene roared to life in realistically vivid surround sound. I sat there on the couch, waiting for the damned kid’s head to spin around, wondering what the hell to do.

This wasnotgoing to be fun to clean up, not fun at all.

I groaned, looking around in desperation, grabbed the remote, and punched the button, letting silence fill the room. He was crying by then, snot bubbles tinged with pink; was I supposed to comfort him first or clean up the mess?

“Uhh,” I began as he choked out an “I’m sorry,” and then I felt like an ass because the kid was upset and in tears yet apologizing to me, when I should probably have been apologizing to him since it was my choice to show him the movie.

“It’s, uhh, fine,” I said with a shrug, and crossed the room and put an arm around him, cringing as he hugged me tight. I could feel spots of wet things I didn’t wanna think about soaking through my T-shirt, so I guided him to the bathroom and told him to clean up, passing him some clean clothes and a towel while I turned my attention to the mess. It was easier than trying to find words to comfort him.

By the time the floor and the kid were clean, I’d decided that cartoon kung-fu pandas were the safest way to go, grateful for a couple channels of kids’ cable to lighten up the mood. He sat on the far end of the couch, watching me rather than the TV, and I wondered if I still had some of his puke on me the way he was staring.

“Uncle Asher,” he began in that serious tone of his that had a way of making my right eye twitch and kick starting a migraine. Please, please, no more questions about what zebras might be a cross between or anything else I couldn’t possibly know.

“Yes, Rory,” I answered, trying to keep the sigh out of my voice and partially failing.

“How did you get your scars?”

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