Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1) (19 page)

Fingertips to his forehead, Benny attempted to rub his headache away, but it was being stubborn and refused to leave the hangover party taking place in his head. It felt like a hangover, which it couldn’t be. He cut a gaze to his right, taking in the tiny woman seated next to him, her ass scooted far back from the edge—because his fucking sober companion wouldn’t let him have even a single drink tonight.
Thank God
.

He leaned back, putting both elbows to the roof, stretching out. Legs crossed at the ankles, he stared past his feet and out at the Fort Wayne skyline, what there was of it. Fort Wayne was nice, decent sized for the Midwest. But a Denver, it wasn’t. Not even a Cheyenne, not when it came to what he wanted. Craved. Every single fucking day.
Again, thank God
.

Twisting slightly, he looked over at Mercedes.
Who the hell names their kid Mercedes?
That thought flitted across his mind for the hundredth time. Over the past few weeks, she’d proven herself an adept companion, talking him down and through several episodes of a craving so hard and painful he didn’t know how he kept breathing, much less walking and talking. Petite, her angular face was partially hidden behind the fall of green-streaked yellow hair.

Benny wasn’t sure what to think when she'd showed up for the interview, apparently without giving one fat fuck about what her appearance screamed about her. Eyebrows, nose, septum, and lower lip pierced, gems and metal glittered in the overhead lights. Big, fat, shiny flat disks in her ears, huge gauges stretching the lobes. Beyond casually dressed, it looked like her style was stuck deep in boho-cheap. She’d sat there across the desk from Slate and, after the initial greetings, waited.

Serene, she rested, at ease in the straight-backed chair. Giving the impression there wouldn’t be any end to her brand of patience, she waited in silence, without fidgeting or moving. His brother was a bigass biker dude, who had worked his way up and into the higher echelon ranks of the Rebel Wayfarers. They were in Slate’s office at the house the club owned in town, which meant she braved a gated and razor-wired parking lot as well as any number of other bigass biker dudes to get inside. Then she sat, unruffled and quiet, waiting for the interview to start.

Her quietness ate at Slate. His brother was used to negotiating with so many different kinds of folks, he wouldn’t let it show for the casual viewer, but Benny caught glimpses of it in his posture changes, the cadence of his speech. That very stillness that disturbed Slate stirred something different inside Benny. For months, he’d felt like a gigantic watch spring that had been overwound, sprung and tight, driven nearly to breaking. Been held in a single, strained position for a long, long time, and in the reflective silence of her waiting, that spring began to ease, uncoiling.

Benny was always in motion. If he weren't playing the guitar, he would be walking, talking, even jittering in place if he had to be still for too long.
Always in high gear
, his GeeMa used to say, back before he fucked her over and quit talking to her, ashamed and embarrassed by his own behavior. Benny winced at the thought, and the chick’s eyes swung to him. She tilted her chin slightly, so slightly that if he hadn’t been looking at her, he would never have seen it. But she’d seen his pain, and her movement acknowledged it.

The tension in his gut eased the slightest bit more, and he drew in a long, slow breath.

“I like her,” he said, propping one thigh on Slate’s desk, leaning against the edge.

“What’s to like?” his ever-blunt brother asked, stretching backwards in his chair, putting his muscles and tattoos on display in the sleeveless vest worn over a bare chest. “She ain’t even talkin’ yet, Benny. How can you figure she’s someone you want to spend a lotta time with? And make no mistake, little brother, whoever
I
settle on,” he emphasized the pronoun, making his point this wasn’t under Benny’s control, “will be spending a fuckton of time up your ass.”

Using a mocking tone, Benny said, “She sees things.” Her lips twitched the barest amount, then settled back into the neutrally pleasant position they’d occupied since she seated herself.
I could be a fan of someone who didn’t go for over the top all the time
, he thought. “So many things.”

Slate sat forward, elbows to the desk and twisted his neck to look up at Benny so he could ask, “What kind of things?”

Benny studied her for another moment, thinking about the instant she walked into the room, how she had assessed him in a second, figured out his brother in another one, and then effortlessly made herself a safe place inside what should be a frightening situation. Safe enough she could sit there without speaking, listening to them talking about her. “Everything, I think.” He sighed, “Doesn’t bode well for any possible renewed partying, tell you that much. I think she can handle me, Andy.”

“Slate.” His brother said this idly. The same correction he’d made every time Benny said his name over the past six months. In Benny’s mind, Slate was Andy’s biker persona, the man who busted everybody’s balls all the time, who ran this whole enterprise here in Fort Wayne, the one who would hire Mercedes if they came to an accord. Benny hadn’t found it in himself to give in to the nickname for a long time, and was still on the fence at times, and today, he felt like once again ignoring his brother’s wishes.
Poke the bear
. He winced at the unsubtle reminder to himself of why he was doing this as Slate continued, “She can handle you? Can you even handle yourself, brother?”

The blonde’s mouth opened, and she said, “She has a name.” Pointing to the application and resume lying on top of a folder on Slate’s desk, she reminded them, “Mercedes Gruffudd.”

“Griffald? Griffwald?” Benny laughed aloud, continuing his absurd pronunciations of her last name. “Griswold?” She was shaking her head, but he powered over whatever she’d been about to say. “Please, God, tell me that’s a maiden name. Tell me you didn’t pick it. Griswold is a terrible name, and if you have chosen to bear that particular burden of your own free choice, then it’s a deal breaker on my side of things. Plus, you’re named after an ostentatious car.” Shaking his head, he said, “Sorry, toots. Deal breaker.”

Enunciating slowly, as if she were speaking to a child, she said, “I took my wife’s name when we married. And it’s pronounced grih-fith. G r u f f u d d. Grih-fith. Mercedes is unfortunate, I agree, and have told my parents so repeatedly. However, I will not refuse the gift of the name given me, because I was named after the Virgin Mary, our Lady of the Mercies. And I wanted to make my wife happy, so I chose to let her know I was all hers, something I reaffirm daily.” Without seeming to need breath, she continued, segueing into a frontal attack. “Benjamin is an interesting name. Do you know what it means?”

He shook his head, wanting to laugh but she seemed to be taking this all seriously, so he was afraid he would offend. A year ago, he wouldn’t have given a fuck, but Mercedes seemed to be nice.
So there you go, already a good influence
, he thought.

“Benjamin is a biblical name. Benjamin founded one of the twelve tribes of Israel, the youngest son of Jacob and Rachel. It means son of the right hand. You’re intended to be someone’s right-hand man, supportive and strong. You simply haven’t found your way, yet.” The top of her head tipped to one side, and she stared at him. “Hebrew, good strong roots. Wyoming, good strong roots.” Proved she’d done her homework, at least. Most people thought he was from Denver, where the band had spent so much time. “I don’t like Benny for you, it feels…throwaway. You’re not a throwaway person. To me, you’re going to be Bibi.”

“You start now,” Slate stated firmly, pressing bunched fists to the desktop as he pushed to his feet. “Paperwork will be emailed to you by end of day. I’ll need it back soon as you can find time, but you begin now.”

“What? Just like that?” Benny’s laugh was abrupt, and he hated the way the loud sound echoed around the room. He liked being smooth, had made an art form out of smooth, dealing with fans and managers, sponsors and venue promoters. That laugh, like most of his laughter lately, was not smooth.

“He said I got the job. You said I could handle you,” Mercedes responded, turning to face him, effectively dismissing his brother. “Therefore, I’m your new sober companion.”

He thought she wouldn’t last a week, and because she didn’t miss seeing anything, within a day had hoped she’d quit even sooner. She didn’t, and that brought them to here.

Breaking the silence, Mercedes asked him, “What will make it better? What do you need?”

“Booze. Blow,” he responded immediately. “Or, smack. Smack would numb things. Sting and bring tears, then make me feel alive and buzzing for a moment. Music blazing through my body. And, after the first magnificent flash, the numbness is bone deep and satisfying. Smack would fix everything.” He shook his head, rejecting the idea. “Wouldn’t fix anything.”

He shifted to his elbows, lifting his gaze to the nighttime sky. Stars twinkled overhead, and the flashing lights of jets crisscrossed the sky. Different trajectories and heights, taking the same pathways but never meeting.
Hmm
, he thought,
might be something there
. He muttered, “Pathways…our pathways are so different, but the journey is the same. Awash in the beauty around us, immersed in the same pain. Same, pain, strain, plain, chain, insane, mundane, chow mein…”

With effort, he fell silent, attempting to quiet his train of thought. The lyric idea was on the cusp of escape, and he knew from experience one wrong breath would send the thought skittering away.

Humming, he softly sang, “The pathways are so different, be they high above or down below. Unsettled changes steal our dreaming, saved memories in faded photos. Our gazes never meeting, but our journey feels the same. Awash in beauty surrounding us, drowning in a maestro’s pain.”

He sucked in a breath, scared. Excited. This was something that hadn’t happened for a while. A while being weeks, maybe even months. He’d been locked in his own mind, unable to find a way to put to words anything he was feeling. “That doesn’t suck,” he whispered, lying on his back and pulling out his phone to tap the words into the notepad program.

“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.”