Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1) (20 page)

***

“You sure he’s gonna be cool with me showing?” They hadn’t discussed it, but Benny knew Slate had learned about the situation in Marie’s, when it took five men to pull Bear off him. Not that Benny had fought back, but Bear wouldn’t let go, couldn’t seem to once he locked onto Benny, so Gypsy and some of the other Rebels in the bar got involved. Bear ignored their questions, shook off the restraining hands and gestured brusquely towards the door. Then he’d stood, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Benny slunk out to the parking lot. Which meant Benny had put Slate into another position that might have set him against his friends. His brothers. His real family.

That had been the turning point, though. The kick in the ass Benny needed, the push to sort himself and figure out how he wanted to proceed. So he wasn’t simply moving forwards as he had been, pursuing movement for the sake of movement. Instead he had been setting and working towards a goal, not giving up, not playing a scam or game to shortcut his way around the rules. Weeks of working for and achieving that first goal. Then the next. Another, and another, building on success as he went.

Benny had one real objective. Sure, there were sub-goals in there, things that would help lead up to what he wanted. Perquisites so he didn’t—
slip, backslide, fail
—he shook his head, rejecting these gutless ways of telling the truth.
So I don’t fuck up again
.

First up was getting his ass back into the groove of playing. Playing sober, for the first time in his life. From the beginning back in Wyoming, he realized he had always paired the two things. Motivation and reward tied up in music and oblivion. Now when he played without having a drink, the idea was never far from his mind, like his brain believed he needed the advantage of a fogged brain to make music. Doc called it a behavioral trigger.

It was also exhausting to play sober, without the expectation of a buzz on the horizon. He wasn’t sure why but knew this was the hardest thing he’d done so far. A different mindset, far more mental than physical, forcing him to pay attention to technique and making him strategize transitions and chromatics like never before. Rewiring his playing into something better. Good work, but hard.

Next, would be to see about getting the band some gigs. The Rebels had been cool about everything, putting Vic up in a room at the house they had in town. He’d been helping out on odd jobs for them, too, whatever they needed a hand with. Chase said Vic had taken to working out with some of the bikers, and they were bonding. Chase was working with Vic, too, but on instruments. Their drummer had the ability to play nearly anything he could lay a hand to, and he was teaching Chase all he knew. Chase was eating it up, loving not only the attention but also the challenge of mastering a skill, having learned from his old man the power having knowledge provided.

Finally, please God, Lucia. He’d only seen her twice since coming home. Both times Bear was in the room, standing close, and the look on his face so murderous it drove his point home, forcing Benny to keep his distance. Something he could see hurt Luce. Nothing good there, not for either of them. Not until he could win Bear back over.

This might be the first step. No way of knowing, but Bear had asked for a meet. Unlike the last time, routing this request through his brother. Benny turned back to Slate, cocking an eyebrow, waiting for a response to his question.

“His suggestion, shrimp. Probably be more pissed if you don’t fuckin’ show.” Slate yawned, groaning and stretching his hands far over his head, the tattoos on his arms writhing and moving as the muscles under the skin flexed and strained. Benny had studied those over the past months, reading and re-reading them, wishing he could ask about them, but they awkwardly pointed towards a time where he once thought Slate felt relieved to be rid of him.

Knowing now that wasn’t the truth, today he felt brave enough to ask. “Do you remember all your tattoos? Like where you were, what you were doing?” Slate’s head swung around, and quickly Benny ducked his chin, dodging whatever look might be aimed his way. “You’ve got a lot of ink, for sure.”

“Yeah.” Slate’s voice was thoughtful, solemn in a way he didn’t understand. Like so much about his brother, this was a mystery. “I remember them all. Every piece is important to me. Ain’t got no throwaway trash on my body. Every tattoo means something.” Slate unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulder, the movement registering in Benny’s peripheral vision. His voice held a note of intensity when he said, “Benny.”

“Yeah?” Aiming for nonchalance, gaze steady on his hands, Benny rubbed his thumb across the still-building calluses. More work to do there, making it so he could play an entire set without killing his fingers.

“Benjamin,” Slate called his name in a way that meant this was important. Benny looked up and into his brother’s eyes, surprised to see they were wet.

“This one, the first one, was for you.” Benny’s eyes dropped to Slate’s shoulder, seeing an angel with bowed head, naked sword in one hand, gun in the other, arms and body flexed and tense. Ready to react to whatever threat was coming its way. Wrapped tightly in its own gossamer wings, the sentinel was gazing down at the words positioned under its feet,
My Brother’s Keeper
.

“All my life, I wanted to make yours better. I never got over the need, shrimp. This”—he pointed to the tattoo, the inked angel seeming to move as his muscles flowed underneath it—“was how I reminded myself so I didn’t stray from the path. So I could be what you needed.” He pulled his shirt back over his shoulder, covering up the other tattoos he wore on his body. “So when you needed me, I could be in a position to help.” He paused, staring into Benny’s face, intensity building in his expression. With emphasis, he said, “All I am, I owe to you.”

Quick laughter bubbled out of Benny; he couldn’t help it. “That’s absurd, brother.” Shaking his head, he watched as Slate began to button his shirt, hands moving in quick, angry movements. “I mean, I always wanted to be you when I grew up. The idea I had a hand in making you the man you are? Total crazypants.”

“Not so crazy when you’ve been my focus this long.” Slate shrugged, turned away and Benny saw him swallow, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before he very intentionally changed the topic of conversation. “Get your stuff. I’ll run over with you. Bear and Chase should be there, and they’ll be ready to go, waiting on your skinny ass.” There was a muffled noise from overhead, and both men froze in place. Ruby hadn’t been feeling well the past couple of days, and every member of the household was waiting on the twins to come down with whatever stomach bug she had. “Hold on,” Slate muttered, already moving towards the stairs, “be right back.”

Ten minutes later, Slate was walking down the stairs with a baby on each arm. “Ruby’s sleepin’, kiddos are up. You’re on your own tonight, shrimp.” He tipped his head towards the couch, where their silent observer had been waiting. “Except for Mercedes, of course.”

***

“Bibi,” Mercedes launched into her interrogation before he even got the car door closed behind him in the apartment parking. “How do you not know these things about your brother?” She shifted in the seat, seeking a more comfortable position. “You told me he was your hero, and has been from the time you can remember things clearly. How does he not know this about you? Why are there so many unspoken things between two people who love each other so much?”

“For God’s sake,” he muttered, neck twisting to check for traffic. “Goin’ to a bar, Mercedes. Wanna focus on that with me?” Going back to Marie’s would be far harder this time. Three times, three failures, two of those requiring a stay in rehab. “Hard doesn’t begin to cover it.”
I’m not going back just to crash and burn
, he thought, frowning through the windshield, determined.
Not happening
.

“First, tell me about Andy.”
Fuck, she’s persistent
.

“He prefers Slate.” Turning left, he pulled smoothly into traffic, watching as the cars moved around them. Flowing like a river around rocks piled on the bed, fast and quiet.
Life moves fast, till I can’t see things clearly. Bends and curves, they obscure me. Find me, and pull me from the river. Save me, from myself
. “Grab my phone.” She knew the drill now, having argued successfully against him being the one to work the phone while driving. When she had it up near his face, he recited the lyric possibilities into the phone, knowing she would have already launched the notes app he used. “Not great.”

“Doesn’t suck,” she offered, and he knew from the lightness of her tone she was smiling. “It doesn’t suck, Bibi.” A little pause, then in a voice hardened with resolve, she asked, “Why doesn’t your brother know he’s your hero?”

“Because I never had occasion to tell him. You know the story, Mercedes. He was gone, well before I would have been comfortable sharing.”
Two more blocks
. “And pretty much since I dropped back into his life unannounced, he’s been subject to me fucking up in one way or another. Not a lotta time for heart-to-hearts.” Pulling into the parking lot, he slotted the car into a spot near the back door, already considering he might need to make a quick retreat if he couldn’t hack it.
Environmental trigger
, he thought.

“First time I saw him—after years, mind you—the first time I saw him, within six hours I was seizing in the ER from alcohol poisoning.” He twisted, reaching over the back of the seat to grab the guitar. “I nearly died. They had to shock my heart to get it beating right.” She ducked to the side to avoid being hit by the instrument.

“While I was gone, he got a girlfriend, and they got serious. Then he had to rescue her from a terrible situation, all while dealing with cleaning up the massive pile of shit I left behind when I skipped away to rehab.” Voice rising an octave, he finished with, “La-di-dah, fix it for me, big bro. You got this, right?
Jesus
.” Pausing a moment with the case held awkwardly in his lap, he looked at Mercedes, who was watching him, silent and undemanding, her nonjudgmental demeanor exactly what he’d come to depend on.

“I get out. I’m in his way but useful for the first time in my life. He left on a trip, was supposed to be gone three weeks. Turned into months and months. He got back, got married, got a honeymoon trip out of the way, and then got to be a father. His life has been moving forwards at light speed, and me wanting a minute more than is absolutely needed is wrong.” He shook his head. “That’s one of the things fucking with my head. Knowing he’s giving so much to me when he should be focused on Ruby and their babies. He makes room for all my shit, and I just let him.”

He pushed his door open, watching as she did the same on her side. They stood facing across the top of the car for a moment, and he said, “I’ll talk to him soon.” She didn’t move, her expression didn’t change, nothing gave him indication she was anything other than mildly interested, but he felt her disapproval as clearly as if she were shouting it. “I will. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

She lifted an eyebrow, and he laughed. “Promise.” With a slow nod, she granted him a reprieve before taking it away along with all the air in his chest when she quietly asked, “What is the name of the beautiful woman who is looking as if you hung the moon, Bibi?”

***

Fingers working on the strings, Benny quietly warmed up, trying to be unobtrusive in the corner near the stage. God, he’d missed this. Every moment he spent not playing, he missed the music without realizing why he felt crippled. Half the man he needed to be; without music it was as if someone had ripped away one of his senses, and left him alone. Music had been such a constant in his life for so long, all the way back to when he met the old man. “Harddrive.”

“What?” The question came from behind him, and he jumped, shifting position to see an older biker standing behind him. “What’d you say, boy?”

“I was thinking about back when I learned how to play.” Benny strummed across the strings, flexing his fingers for a moment before clamping down on the frets, sliding to the first chord in one of the first songs Harddrive had taught him. It was a terrible tune called “An Irish Ballad,” one specifically designed to capture the attention of a totally fucked-up desperate-for-attention kid first learning to play. He softly crooned the lyrics, downplaying them because the topic matter was harsh, satirical, about a girl who murdered her entire family, never seeing what she’d done as wrong. Interrupting himself, he told the biker, “An old man in Wyoming taught me. Took me under his wing. I went to his bike shop every Saturday for more than a year. Good guy. Harddrive.”

“Fucking shit. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Shaking his head, the old biker twisted his torso and yelled across the room. “Bingo, get your ass over here.” He waved a hand over his head, then called, “Dixie, you too, darlin’.” He turned back to Benny, “I grew up with Harddrive, we served together overseas. Bingo’s his blood brother.”

Within a minute, Benny was surrounded by Harddrive’s family, and found himself sharing every story he could dredge out of his memory and pass along. They were eager for news, thrilled with this new connection with their brother and father, however tenuous it was through Benny. More Rebel members came over, joined in the conversation, and they shared their stories, too. Turned out the man was a legend, which meant with Benny knowing Harddrive and these men knowing them both, Benny found himself drawn a little deeper into the fold. Harddrive’s daughter, Dixie, gave Benny the sweetest, tightest hug before she went back over to sit with her husband, whispering in his ear she couldn’t wait to hear him play tonight.