Harder (Stark Ink Book 1) (13 page)

Adam looked around the lobby, which was still in shambles, and cursed as he nursed a set of bruised ribs. Dalton was bigger, but Adam was generally meaner, and every fight they’d ever had (Adam could count them all on one hand) had always ended in a draw. He had managed to bruise not only Dalton’s face, but also his ego. Adam still had a broken front door, though. Dalton’s troubles had managed to bring Adam down with him. Adam shuddered to guess who might be next. If he hadn’t cleared the debt, would the Buzzards have gone to the house? Would they have shaken down Pop? What if Ava had been there? He tried not to think about it too hard.

The sun had set now and Adam was dead on his feet. He surveyed the mess and decided he’d deal with it in daylight. He’d cancel his appointments, hire a contractor for the door, and ignore the fact that money was now headed entirely in the wrong direction at this point. As much as he wanted to trudge upstairs and crawl into bed, he instead locked the back door and drove to the house. The living room lights were on and the place wasn’t on fire. Adam put that in the “win” column tonight, because it was looking pretty sparse these days and he’d take any small victory he could get.

He pulled up to the curb, killed the Charger’s engine, and hauled himself out of the car. He hadn’t even closed the driver’s side door when he heard shouting. Startled, he looked up at the house. He couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized Pop’s voice. Somewhere a neighbor’s dog barked. As Adam’s boots took to the front lawn, his cellphone started to ring in his pocket. He ignored it and darted up the steps of the porch. He threw himself into the front door and it crashed open. In the living room, Pop had Jonah by the shirt, arm raised, finger jabbing at the kid. It didn’t take a genius to see that the finger was going to turn into a fist at any moment.

“Get out of here!” Pop shouted.

“I live here!” Jonah insisted.

Jonah didn’t appear angry. Adam could tell he was doing his level best to talk the old man down. The kid’s voice was low and reasonable and he was keeping his distance.

“Adam,” Ava cried as she clutched the cordless house phone. She jabbed at it and his cellphone stopped ringing.

“Pop?” Adam said loudly.

The old man turned to him, but didn’t let go of Jonah. “Who is this?” he demanded. “Your friend? Well, he won’t leave! It’s past supper time.”

“I’m your son,” Jonah argued, startling everyone in the room. Pop because he obviously didn’t recognize the kid and Adam because he’d never actually heard Jonah refer to himself as part of the family before.

Pop glared at Jonah. “That’s my boy!” he countered, pointing at Adam with his free hand. “And Dalton! Where’s Dalton?”

No one replied. Pop looked at Ava. “Miriam, where’s Dalton?”

Ava burst into tears.

“Dalton’s out, Pop,” Adam answered calmly.

Pop scowled. “Getting late.”

“Football,” Adam replied, scrambling for an explanation. “Away game.”

Pop considered this then nodded to himself.

“Let go of Jonah, Pop.”

Pop looked from Adam to Jonah, then let go of his shirt. “Oughta be home!” He stood, glaring at Jonah, waiting for the kid to leave.

Thinking fast, Adam said, “Let’s go out. You and me, Pop. Huh? I’m starving.”

Pop’s jaw clenched repeatedly then he finally gave in. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered. He shot Jonah a final dirty look and walked toward the front door. “Your friend—”

“Dalton’ll take care of it,” Adam assured his father as he closed the front door behind them.

Pop looked dubious but thankfully didn’t argue.

Adam led him to the Charger and opened the passenger door. “Where’d you get this?” Pop asked.

“Borrowed it from a friend.”

Pop frowned. “Fancy friend.”

Adam didn’t reply. He shut the door and jogged around to the other side of the car. He slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and pulled away from the curb before Pop could change his mind. As Adam headed to the end of the street, he asked, “You want anything, Pop?”

Pop stared out the tinted window. “I could eat.” They drove in silence for a while before the old man said, “Breaking your mother’s heart.”

“What’s that?”

Pop’s tired eyes met Adam’s from across the car’s interior. “She’s worried about you. Worried you won’t be anything.”

Adam’s jaw twitched and he turned back to the road. “I got my art,” he said quietly.

Pop snorted. “Art. What good’s that? What’ll that get you?”

“I’ll open up a shop, maybe,” Adam replied. “A tattoo shop.”

Pop shook his head. “You should enlist. Grow up. Be a man. Art’s not real work. Won’t put food on the table.”

Adam’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I want the shop.” He said it not so much to Pop, but to the universe in general, he supposed. Like a prayer, which in light of how things were going, might not be such a terrible idea.

Pop stared out the window. “Boy, you don’t take anything serious. A tattoo shop is a shit idea.”

“I don’t think so,” Adam said, reminding himself that Pop was having a bad night. He didn’t mean any of it. He thought Adam was still in high school, for fuck’s sake.

“You’re not disciplined enough,” Pop warned him. “You’d just lose it.”

As Pop tucked in to his burger and fries, Adam excused himself and stepped away from the table. Careful to keep the old man in his line of sight, Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of paper. Calla’s handwriting was a perfect representation of the woman herself, smooth and curvaceous but not too flowery. Looking at it made him miss having her around. His thumb swept over the face of his phone. He wished it were her he was calling.

It wasn’t until the second ring that he realized it was a bit late in the day to make a call like this. He was about to hang up and wait until tomorrow when he heard a male voice on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” Adam said. I wasn’t thinking about how late it was. I got your number from Calla Winslow. She’s my younger sister’s guidance counselor. My name’s Adam Stark.”

Adam realized he was rambling a bit. He was in unfamiliar territory, though. Asking for help wasn’t exactly his forte and caring for an aging parent was completely beyond his experience. It felt a bit like being lost at sea. He prepared himself for a lecture on manners, like one his mother used to give, but no lecture came.

“Mr. Stark. It’s good that you’ve called. Things like this can be a bit… overwhelming. Especially in the beginning.”

Adam frowned at his father, who was well out of earshot. He dropped his voice all the same. “We had an incident this evening.”

“Are they getting more frequent? More severe?”

“I don’t know,” Adam admitted. “I don’t think so.” Then again Adam hadn’t exactly been around that much lately. “I haven’t seen that many. I thought my siblings and I could share the responsibility of keeping an eye on him. But now I’m not sure. At least not all day, every day.”

Adam wasn’t quite ready to resign himself to a nursing home. Surely Pop had a few more years left before they had to resort to that.

“I understand,” said Mr. Dennis, gently.

Adam didn’t know what the man looked like or how old he was, but he had the impression of an older man, one who’d maybe spent years helping others through their hardest times.

“I have a list of resources,” Mr. Dennis assured Adam. “Programs, facilities, covered all or in part by insurance.”

Adam hated to admit money was a serious issue. He’d give every dime he had for his family, in fact he already had. That was the problem. As he glanced again at his father a few feet away, Adam figured if he was in for a penny…

“Do you only coordinate services for the elderly?” he asked quietly. He gripped the phone tighter.

“Why?” Mr. Dennis asked. “Are you in need of other services, as well?”

Adam hesitated, but only for a moment. “As a matter of fact,” he replied. “I think we do.”

Adam rose early the next morning and dressed in the dark, which was to say that he’d barely slept at all. He had not so much woken up as given up on the idea of sleeping altogether. He’d heard once that lack of sleep for an extended period of time drove you crazy. He was probably more than halfway there. His boots were propped up in the corner. He tugged them on and swiped his car keys off the counter. Coffee sounded like a good idea, but he was too tired to make it. He headed down the wooden stairs and out the back door. The sun’s first rays fell across the parking lot and glinted of the Charger’s windshield. He paid little attention. He couldn’t have taken the bike for this trip anyway, so it wasn’t like he missed it. He slid into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.

He had hours until he had to open the shop. The customer booked was a regular and Adam knew he wouldn’t mind having to enter through the back door. Adam needed to pay the bills, and Jeannie. Life couldn’t stay on pause forever. There might not be enough hours in the day, but there were plenty at night. He’d make do. The Dream was dead, but now he had The Plan. And The Plan would get him through, get all of them through, more or less.

He pulled onto the street and headed across town. Normal nine-to-fivers weren’t awake at this hour. Calla was asleep, safe and warm in her bed. It did no good to wish he were there with her. He gunned the engine and crossed the train tracks, tracks he felt he’d been straddling his whole damn life. Warehouses gave way to gas stations and fast food joints. Condos and apartments appeared on the opposite side. In the bright dawn light, he parked in the driveway. As he set the brake, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was hard to tell the dark circles under his eyes from the bruises. The cut was healing, though, without needing stitches. Maybe that was a good sign. Resting on the brake knob was his own large hand, knuckles split and bruised. Maybe he was fighting a war he couldn’t win.

But no. He couldn’t think that. He had to stick to The Plan.

He levered himself out of the Charger and headed to the door. Dalton answered, eventually, looking more ragged than Adam had ever seen him. His T-shirt was ripped and stained, his five o’clock shadow looked more like five-months, and Adam could smell the stench of beer even from a few feet away. Dalton’s bloodshot eyes narrowed on him. “Come to apologize?”

Adam sighed and shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Then he wound up and punched his younger brother in the face.

“Fuck!” Dalton bellowed. He started to stumble back but Adam grabbed him by the shirt. There was a distinct tearing sound and he pulled hard. Adam assumed the damage was the least of the shirt’s problems. He dragged Dalton off the tiny concrete entryway and threw him against the Charger’s front fender. Dalton bounced off it and stumbled onto the lawn he hadn’t cut in about as long as he’d been neglecting his face.

Adam reached around the door and engaged the doorknob lock. He pulled it shut behind him, then stalked toward his prostrate sibling.

“The fuck?” Dalton repeated and tried to roll out of the way. “I don’t need this shit!”

Adam smirked down at Dalton as he grabbed his arm. “Why?” he sneered. “You got work to do?”

Dalton glared up at him.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Adam told him, “skipping work so much that they can your ass or showing up hammered so you can ruin your other hand!”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Dalton shouted as Adam pulled him to his feet and slammed him into the car again.

It was a low blow and Adam knew it. The accident hadn’t been Dalton’s fault, but nothing that had happened since then could be considered an accident.

“Get in the car,” Adam ordered.

Dalton drew up his shoulders. “Screw you.”

“We have to deal with Pop,” Adam declared. “So get in.”

If Dalton had been ready to return the swing, Adam’s words made him think twice about it. He visibly deflated. “What’s wrong with Pop?”

“He’s not good.”

Dalton put his hand on the door and opened it. Wordlessly, he slid onto the passenger seat. Adam rounded the front of the car and slid behind the wheel. As he pulled out of the driveway, he said, “I sold my bike to cover your debt. The least you could do is not puke in my car.”

“No one asked you to,” Dalton snarled as he rolled down the window.

“You’re so fucking grateful.”

They rode in silence a moment before Dalton said, “It’s not the end of the world. I’ll sell my truck. You can get your bike back.”

Adam almost felt heartened at the offer. It was as close to a real apology as he’d gotten from Dalton so far. It wasn’t the right time to say they’d definitely be selling the truck. But Adam wouldn’t be using the money to get his Harley back, unfortunately.

He turned the corner and pulled into the lot of a low-slung, utility-gray painted building on the edge of downtown. He’d managed to roll past the sign that read “Daybreak” without Dalton paying it any attention.

Dalton finally realized they were at their destination and leaned forward to study the place. “What the hell?” he said darkly. “A nursing home?” He turned to Adam, his eyes full of accusation. “Pop’s got to go to a nursing home? Already?”

Adam shook his head slowly and put the Charger in park. He killed the engine. “No.”

“Then what? Why is he here?”

“Get out.”

Dalton froze and seemed to study Adam’s face as if searching for an explanation. “What the hell?” he repeated. When he got no response, he turned his head and glanced back at the building. Finally he turned back to Adam. “Oh, this is bullshit!”

“It is what it is.”

“Oh, screw you! Screw
this
! I don’t need rehab, Adam!”

Adam ignored him. “Walk through those doors and get straight.”

Dalton’s face twisted with rage.

In the cab of the Charger, Adam could smell the alcohol on his breath as he seethed with rage.

“You don’t know me,
bro
!” Dalton hissed. “You’re
never
around! You checked the fuck out of this family
over a year ago
and never looked back! So don’t think you can come back now and start telling me what to do, like you’re some kind of—”

“Big brother? That’s what I am,” Adam replied. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing. Get. Out. Of. The. Car.” Without waiting for Dalton to comply, Adam opened his own door and hauled himself out of the vehicle. He crossed to Dalton’s side and yanked open the door. Dalton hesitated a long moment before levering himself out of the passenger seat.

Instead of heading toward the front doors, Dalton lifted his chin defiantly at Adam. “I’m not going in there.”

“Yes, you are. And they’re prepared to hold you if you don’t.”

Dalton gaped at him. “That’s… that’s bullshit.”

“You’re drunk,” Adam pointed out. “And violent.”

“
Horse shit
!”

Adam leaned in. “Drunk, violent, lazy, gimpy, waste of fucking space and if I could take the name Stark from you, I would. Because you don’t deserve it. I hope Mom can’t see you now. She’d be
ashamed
.”

Dalton surged toward him arm already cocked for a swing.

The punch hurt, but not nearly as much as it had hurt Adam to say those things to his brother. As Adam hit the pavement, he silently acknowledged that Dalton may never forgive him. Adam wouldn’t blame him. Dalton may never forgive him, but at least he’d be sober. Adam played up his injury, a dive if there ever was one. Dalton kicked him in the ribs and went in for another shot. Before he could land a third blow, two large orderlies burst from the building. They shouted at the two brothers until they got close enough to wrestle Dalton away.

As they dragged him across the parking lot toward the rehab facility, Dalton looked back over his shoulder at Adam. Even at that distance, Adam could see the hate in his brother’s piercing gaze. “
You’re a shit brother!
” Dalton screamed.

Adam silently agreed.

One of them definitely wasn’t worthy of being a Stark right now.