I meet my brothers at Louie’s, the local dive bar I’ve been going to with some members of the Desert Dogs Motorcycle Club. I ride my motorcycle there while my brothers drive their cars.

Glancing at the Sandia Mountains up ahead, I’m glad to be free from jail. The sun is just starting to set, turning the mountain shades of purple and red, which is why the Spanish settlers called it “Sandia,” which means watermelon.

I was stationed in San Diego during much of my time as a SEAL, and I loved the weather and the ocean. But I missed the mountains here in Albuquerque so much. Not to mention the food and the laid back atmosphere.

The judge had told me not to frequent any establishments that sell alcohol but in my daily life that’s an impossible task. I’ll just lay low and stick to places I know are safe, such as here.

“You thinking of joining up with this motorcycle gang or what?” asks my younger brother Harlow, as he looks around the bar.

His face is perfectly chiseled and perfect— almost too perfect, really— except for some telltale scars if you know where to look up close.

“It’s a club,” I tell him. “Motorcycle club.”

“Whatever.”

I don’t expect him to get it. I was a little interested in bikes but now that I’m out of the SEALs, they’re quickly becoming my favorite past time. Desert Dogs MC is made up of former military members such as myself— many of them former Navy SEALs, as well as fighter pilots and pararescuers due to Albuquerque being home of Kirtland Air Force Base— and it’s like a second family.

Harlow likes to rip on me for wanting to join what he calls a "motorcycle gang" no matter how many times I correct him. But I think he's just jealous because I’ve never done anything without him.

After high school our older brother Ramsey joined the SEALs and then I followed suit. Once Harlow was out of school he joined us too. Basic Underwater Demolition/ SEAL training is hard and most of the candidates don’t make it through. But we were all three determined to do it and did.

It was great to all be SEALs together. And now it's great to all drink together. The regular bartender, Shelly, comes to take our orders. Her perky tits spill out of her low-cut uniform, and her curly blonde hair bounces with youthful energy, just like the rest of her.

“What’ll it be, boys?” She winks at me. “Hello there Jensen. The usual?”

I nod a greeting at her and say, “Yep. Whiskey and coke for me, and for my brothers here too,” but then I look away.

She’s the main bartender here so I see her all the time, and until last week I thought she was hot. Totally my type. But now I can’t seem to get the mysterious Riley out of my mind, ever since I met her at the jail.

I don’t know what happened to the old me but now it’s like no girl compares to the one I can’t have. It’s knocked me off my game, and I don’t like it.

“I assume since you’re walking around a free man that your bail hearing went well?” my older brother Ramsey asks me.

“It was fine. Apparently, I’m an upstanding citizen.”

We all laugh at that one.

“But I don’t like the lawyer I have.”

“Get a new one,” Harlow shrugs.

“I probably will. Even though this one’s free, through the VLA.”

“What’s so bad about him?” Ramsey asks.

He’s always been the practical one.

He doesn’t have a nice curvy ass and big juicy tits like Riley, I think.

But I say, “He’s trying to say I have PTSD, to use as my defense. I think that’s all they teach them over there at the VLA. PTSD, PTSD, PTSD.”

“Well, if it works...” Harlow shrugs as Shelly brings our drinks.

Ramsey doesn’t say anything, which isn’t like him.

“I never knew there were two more boys just as handsome as yourself,” Shelly says, and smiles at me.

“Whoa now,” says Harlow, as she walks away. “She’s clearly into you.”

I shrug.

“I’m just so sick of my VLA lawyer saying that I have PTSD, when I don’t.” I want to get this conversation back on track, rather than focusing on Shelly— or Riley. “That kind of shit going on my record could really mess up my career.”

Ramsey’s head jerks up, interested.

“How so?”

“It’s just a mark against me, is all,” I say, because I really don’t know what would happen if my new job would get wind of my alleged PTSD.

In the military, I stayed far away from the mental health counseling office, for fear that I’d get lumped in with others who have PTSD and be forced into retirement due to a perceived lack of mental fitness. My new job— the private contractor one which I’d just agreed to take— is much more relaxed about most things than the military was— it’s one of the benefits of having a private contractor essentially run military operations— but I’m sure they wouldn’t like the liability of having someone with PTSD in charge of training recruits.

Ramsey looks lost in thought, and I’m surprised by his lack of usual focus and candor. He often gives me good advice but today he appears to just want to enjoy his whiskey.

“Have you heard from Mom at all?” he asks, completely changing the subject. Well, not completely, but mostly. “I’m worried about her. One of us should go check on her.”

“No, I haven’t heard from her,” I shrug. “And it’d better stay that way.”

“You’d think she’d want to know how you’re doing,” Harlow says, with his normal anger about our mom peeking through. “Why are we the ones who are always supposed to take care of her instead of the other way around? She should contact you and try to help you out if she can. Especially since she’s the one who got you into this mess.”

“Just like every other mess we’ve ever been in,” I respond. “And we always manage to get ourselves out just fine.”

Neither statement is exactly true, and I wish I had shut my mouth. Ramsey sneaks a worried glance at Harlow, but he’s downing his drink as if he didn’t even hear us.

“Look, I know we’ve all had our issues with Mom,” Ramsey says, in a slight change of subject. “But I’m worried about her. She’s getting older and in my opinion a little senile or something. We know she’s always struggled with addiction issues and now I really believe there are some mental illness issues going on as well…”

“Why are you so full of excuses for her?” I spit out, in disgust. “She’s the one who’s supposed to be there for us."

Both Harlow and Ramsey look at me as if I have a good point but that point should remain unsaid. Undeterred, I continue, because I'm tired of the bullshit.

"She’s the mom and we’re the kids," I say. " Or at least that's how it's supposed to be. But it’s never been like that. She’s chosen her no-good boyfriends and her booze and pills over us every single time she’s had the chance. So now you want us to care about her? Maybe it’s not ‘mental illness’ but just plain not giving a fuck who she hurts or how, whether it’s herself, or us, or Dad, or anyone.”

“Jensen, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Ramsey says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately—”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“I just… I can’t help but care about her because she’s our mother. It's true that she's definitely not the greatest mother, but how can we just sit by while she destroys herself?”

“Let’s go to Closed Door,” Harlow says suddenly and decisively. It’s a rather seedy strip club that he likes to frequent.

“Nah.”

I blow off the idea. I’m glad he changed the direction of the conversation, but I don’t want to go to Closed Door.

“What? No scantily-clad dancing ladies for you tonight?” asks Harlow. “What’s gotten into you, brother?”

“It’s called conditions of release,” I lie. “I’m not even supposed to be in here, but a strip club is just asking for trouble.”

“Ah man, that fucking sucks,” Harlow complains in a whiny voice.

Sometimes it seems he hasn’t changed much from when we were kids. Except that he has, a lot. And he's been through a lot— even more than even Ramsey or I have.

Emotionally, though, Harlow is still our little brother, and it’s hard to separate my vision of this grown man who has been through so much— too much— with my vision of the 11-year-old kid brother who wants to steal all my video games from my room and then pretend he didn't take them, or tag along as I try to go make out with a girl for the first time.

“I’ll go with you to Closed Door for a while,” Ramsey volunteers.

He’s very protective of Harlow— of both of us actually, but ever since Harlow’s accident he’s been particularly fatherly to him.

I’m glad to be let off the hook. And glad that neither of them called me out on my bullshit. It isn’t really conditions of release that have gotten into me. I've never been a rule follower and I'm not about to start now. Instead, it’s a lawyer named Riley, who isn’t my type, who isn’t even in my realm of possibility, but who won’t get out of my goddamned head.