~Duane~
I walked home.
I left Jessica wrapped in a sheet.
I left Jessica.
I left.
And I left part of myself in the cabin. I sensed the emptiness in my middle, in my gut, as soon as I crossed the threshold and entered the cold night. Her suggestion—that I leave with her, travel the world and share her life, her adventures—sounded like a fairy tale. A perfect fairy tale. And I’d been so surprised by the proposition that my mind actually considered the possibility.
But then I remembered the shop, my brothers, my obligations, the shit with the Order, and how everyone had been affected when Ashley ditched us years ago. I remembered my father, and how he took what he wanted, without a care for his family. He came and went as he pleased.
Leaving with Jessica was a fairy tale. Perfect in theory, but completely impractical in reality. Beau and Cletus relied on me, needed me. They couldn’t handle the workload on their own. My savings were invested in the auto shop, and I wasn’t going to travel the world using Jess’s aunt’s money.
Was I too proud? Fuck. Yes.
I was too proud to take money from Jess or anyone else without working for it.
So I left before I reconsidered, before I heeded my siren call.
But even then I’d been undecided. I kept seeing her face, the tears shining in her beautiful eyes as I walked out. The image of her called to me, to the depths of my soul. Each step was a burden. I turned back to the cabin at least three times and the tightness in my chest made breathing near impossible.
That was until I spotted her car. Jessica’s new-to-her car was a brand new, F-Type Jaguar. 5-liter V8. Manual transmission. All-wheel drive. 495 horsepower. I knew my automobiles like most people know their ice cream, so I knew the MSRP (manufacturer’s suggested retail price) was just under a hundred thousand dollars.
I stared at it for at least a full minute.
Then I walked the remainder of the way home without looking back, taking satisfaction in the sound of every twig that snapped violently under my boots. By the time I arrived at the house I was in desperate need of breaking something, no way was I going to be able to sleep.
Getting drunk was an option, but I’d been drunk for most of the last five days. And it was our first Thanksgiving since Momma died. Besides, getting shitfaced an hour before dawn wasn’t my style anyway. Concluding the only option available to me at present was splitting more wood we didn’t need, I decided to veer toward the woodshed once the house was in view.
But as I cleared the trees, I stopped short. Jethro, my oldest brother, was walking up the porch steps to the front door, carrying a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. I was too surprised by the sight of him, and too caught in the momentum of my misery, to call out before he entered the house. But the sound of our front door shutting pulled me out of my stupor.
My mind was a mess as I quickly jogged to the porch and rushed through the screen door. I needed to speak with him, bring him up to speed. But I was also five different shades of pissed off with my oldest brother. Somehow, likely because violence was already on my mind, the five shades of pissed off won out over being sensible.
Thus, when I entered the house and he turned around—a big, care-free grin eating up his face—and he said, “Hey, Duane. Did you miss me?” I punched him in the face.
I pulled my punch at the last minute. I didn’t want to knock him out, I just wanted to beat him up a little. Maybe get knocked around myself.
He staggered back—more from surprise than from the force of my fist—and threw a completely perplexed frown at me while clutching his jaw. “What the hell was that for?”
I didn’t answer. I let him read the intent in my eyes, gave him a few seconds to prepare, then I charged at him. Jethro was a good fighter, we all were, but he was better than most of us. Being the oldest and spending a good part of his youth fucking around with the Order, he learned to fight fierce and dirty. But he’d taught me all his tricks long ago; and his fight now wasn’t fueled by weeks of frustration, of dealing with biker threats and Jessica James’s confession I could do nothing about.
Perhaps he was trying to defend himself against my assault, but that didn’t deter me any.
We crashed around the living room, banging into walls, sending picture frames falling to the floor. He had me in a headlock and I used the position to elbow him in the ribs, then administer a kidney punch as he struggled to contain me.
My nose was bleeding and I took satisfaction in the sight of his split lip when we were interrupted by a harsh whisper. “What are y’all thinking?”
We glanced up in unison. Cletus’s furious expression had an instantly sobering effect. He stood on the steps, looking as upset as I’d ever seen him, and loud-whispered down at us. “Making a big ruckus at five in the morning? Making a mess of things? On Thanksgiving? Today is turkey day! Plus you know how Billy needs his beauty sleep, otherwise he’ll be whining at us ’til dinner. I don’t want to listen to that swill on my day off. And besides, you interrupted my quiet time.”
Jethro grimaced, shooting me a dirty stare—which I returned—and loud-whispered his response, “Sorry, Cletus.”
Cletus’s hands were on his hips and he gave us both a hard look, his eyes sticking to me a bit longer than Jethro. “Take your fight outside.”
I nodded, staggering to the front door and whispering contritely, “We will.”
“And now you owe me pancakes, Duane Faulkner Winston,” Cletus added with a reprimanding whisper. “Blueberry pancakes.” Then he pivoted and disappeared down the upstairs hall.
I didn’t know what Cletus did during his quiet time, but Beau seemed to think it was yoga.
I opened the front door, then turned and gestured for Jethro to exit the house.
“You first.” He lifted his chin, covered with three weeks’ worth of unkempt beard. His hands were still balled into fists. He’d never been the trusting sort; then again, I had just attacked him in our living room.
I shrugged and exited to the porch, walking to the far corner. I waited until he followed and shut the door before saying, “You’ve always been a selfish asshole.”
Jethro nodded once, working his jaw back and forth; his steps were measured as he crossed to me. “Everybody knows that. And you always could start an argument in an empty house. Now why don’t you tell me specifically what I did to inspire such an unforgettable welcome home?”
“Traps,” I growled, closing the remaining distance between us and keeping my voice low. “You installed traps in four cars, for the Iron Order, so they could run drugs without getting caught.”
Jethro’s eyes widened even as his brow pulled low. “How do you—”
“Because, dummy, they videotaped the whole thing. And now Repo is exploiting your shitty decisions as blackmail. He wants to use the Winston Brothers Auto Shop as their new chop shop, or else he’s sending you to federal prison.”
“Oh shit…” Jethro said on a shocked and defeated exhale, then sunk to the rocking chair to his left. I watched dispassionately as his elbows came to his knees and he buried his face in his hands.
I was quiet, something I knew how to do well, and waited for my brother to process reality.
“Did you do it? Did you agree?” He didn’t lift his head, so his words were spoken to the wooden porch floor.
“No. We’ve been stalling.”
Jethro’s shoulders rose and fell, and he nodded. “Good. Good.” He was silent for a beat, then asked, “And Cletus doesn’t have a plan?”
“No. Cletus doesn’t know.”
Jethro lifted his head from his hands, his eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean Cletus doesn’t know? You didn’t tell Cletus?”
“No, Jethro. I didn’t tell Cletus. Why would I want to bring him into this godawful mess of yours if he can keep his hands clean? Isn’t it bad enough that Beau and I have to deal with it?”
My oldest brother jumped to his feet. “Duane, Cletus installed the traps.”
Now he’d surprised me. I straightened from the wooden beam where I’d been leaning and stared at him. He was half smiling.
“Come again?”
“Cletus was the one to install the traps in those cars, not me. Do you think I’d be able to install those contraptions? Did you see how they work? You have to…” He appeared to be searching his memory for the description. “You have to wire them just so—where they won’t open unless the car is off, but the key is in the ignition, and the seatbelt is fastened, and there’s a hurricane in Florida, and no beer left in the fridge, and everyone’s favorite dessert is banana cream pie—or some such complicated nonsense.”
I was still stuck on the fact that Cletus—not Jethro—had been the one to install the traps, too stuck to admire the genius of how they worked.
“So…Cletus knows? He knows all about this? How you got out of the Order?”
Jethro nodded. “Yeah. When I decided enough was enough, and those biker boys told me what I needed to do, the cost of my freedom, the first person I thought of was Cletus.”
I frowned at my brother. “Was he there? When you showed them how the traps work?”
“No. He installed the traps, showed me how to use them. I went to the Order on my own, took credit for the installations. I was trying to minimize his involvement.”
“So he doesn’t know they’re being used to smuggle drugs?”
Jethro made a sound in the back of his throat and shifted on his feet. “I mean, he probably guessed it. I knew, of course, even before the Order told me so. Why else would they want secret traps?”
“But on the video you start cussing them out when they tell you.”
“Because I had plausible deniability up until that point. Once they told me, and I knew for sure, I became an accomplice. That’s why I was so pissed off. If they didn’t tell me, then I could always claim ignorance.”
Jethro was good at that, claiming ignorance, shifting blame. Or he used to be, before he got himself straight.
“We need to tell Cletus,” Jethro said with a kind of certainty that gave me my first glimmer of hope. “He’ll definitely know what to do.”
***
We took turns in the downstairs bathroom wiping blood from our faces.
I walked into the kitchen once I was finished assessing the damage and rehanging fallen pictures. I found Jethro making coffee and icing his lip. Thus, after grabbing myself a bag of peas for my eye, I set to work making enough blueberry pancakes to feed a small army.
Without prompting, Jethro good-naturedly related his adventures trekking the Appalachian Trail. I was amazed how he was able to keep from fretting about the Iron Order’s blackmail attempt.
I’d been twisted up, either thinking about how to outsmart the Iron Order, or debating what to do about Jess. Or counting the hours until I could see her again. Or trying to figure out how to get her alone. Or wondering how the hell I was going to survive without her. Thus, Jethro’s tall tales were a welcome distraction.
We had to wait until Cletus emerged before approaching him. Having interrupted his quiet time earlier, I had no desire to instigate his wrath further. Cletus’s retaliation was always unanticipated and devious. He was a fan of polite revenge, knowing how to get his point across with very little fuss.
We both stilled when we heard footsteps on the stairs, and Jethro poked his head out of the doorway.
“What the hell? What happened to you?”
Recognizing Billy’s voice, my shoulders sagged and I turned back to the griddle. Jethro didn’t answer. Instead he walked back into the kitchen and reclaimed his spot at the kitchen table.
Billy entered the kitchen seconds later, his eyes moving from the bruise high on Jethro’s cheek to the cut on his lip. “Did that happen on the trail?”
“Yeah. I was assaulted by a gang of ninja raccoons.” Jethro took a sip of his coffee.
Billy gave him another long look, then turned to the coffee. But he stopped again when he saw my face and the less-than subtle swelling around my eye.
He lifted an eyebrow, glanced between the two of us, then left the kitchen without his coffee, saying as he went, “Never mind, whatever it is, I don’t want to know. But do let me know when the hotcakes are ready. And there better be a turkey today, because I already made the stuffing, and something or someone is getting stuffed.”
“Getting the turkey was Cletus’s job this year,” I called after him.
No sooner did Billy leave than Beau shuffled in, scratching his balls and yawning. “Do I smell pancakes?”
“Yes.” I nodded, then tilted my head toward Jethro. “You also smell skunk.”
Beau lazily glanced where I indicated, then did a double take when he saw our oldest brother. Beau was suddenly awake. His brow pulling low and the set of his mouth grim as he studied Jethro, perhaps trying to determine whether or not he was going to be sensible or violent. Prior to Jethro’s miraculous reformation, seeing him with a black and blue face was a normal occurrence. But since he’d changed his ways a few years ago, he hadn’t come home with more than a scratch.
“What happened to your face?” Beau finally asked, and not kindly.
“Your twin happened to my face.”
Beau nodded, his features relaxing, then crossed the kitchen to the coffee machine. “Good. Saves me the trouble of doing it myself. So what’s the plan, Duane?”
“We’re waiting for Cletus to get up.”
Beau halted his coffee pouring and glanced between me and Jethro. “I thought we weren’t going to involve him.”
“He already knows. He did the initial installations.”
“Well I’ll be…” Beau shook his head, his eyes losing focus someplace over my shoulder. Then he abruptly snapped his fingers. “That makes sense. Ain’t no way Jethro could have installed those traps. I don’t know why we didn’t figure it out earlier.”
Just then, Cletus walked into the kitchen, obviously still in a temper. “Don’t speak to me until I’ve had my hotcakes. I’m still angry at both y’all.”
Jethro jumped up from his chair, Beau set his coffee cup down on the counter with a loud thunk, and I straightened to attention. All of us were standing like statues staring at Cletus, wanting to speak but knowing better than to disobey his request. It took him a bit to notice our rigid readiness, but when he did, his eyes narrowed and bounced between the three of us.
“All right…I take that back. Y’all are making me nervous. Maybe somebody should tell me what’s going on.”