“Why wouldn’t she tell you something like that?” Rafael asked me.
“I don’t understand that myself.”
“Why didn’t you stop when she did tell you?” Rafael asked me.
This is why I called him to pick me up. Rafael hadn’t escaped our hellish upbringing unscathed, he suffered the same fate I had, albeit for a much shorter period of time. He knew himself the dysfunctional standards we held ourselves to when it came to sex, to desire, and even to love.
“I couldn’t stop myself,” I said. My fist closed in on the paper cup and hot coffee spilled over the lip onto my hand. “She didn’t want me to stop, she begged me not to,” I said. I was trying my best not to implode in front of my younger brother.
“How’s she feel now?”
“Don’t know, I left her sleeping at sunrise. Snuck out like a rat because I couldn’t stand myself for what I’d done.”
Rafael stood and cracked his knuckles. His blood was mine and I knew what was running through his head. We’d go kick some ass. Beat the hell out of some shady pimps or dealers to absolve ourselves of all the bad memories. The vendetta was never ending, it went on as long as we still breathed. We fought and we fought and we fought, but the pain never truly went away.
Blue eyes that looked so similar to mine pierced me with questions. Go and fuck shit up? Beat down the guys who took your bike? Apologize? I knew I had to take charge and shake off the dark stupor I was in. Man up, be the older brother and atone for obliterating any chance I’d ever had at having a relationship.
I stood too and clapped my brother on the back.
“Raf, you and I both know there’s nothing we can’t handle. We’ll go look for the bike, stop by the club, and I can straighten out the mess I made. I sometimes forget to keep perspective. The wounds we carry, not very many people feel the same way. I can’t project my issues onto her. For all I know, she might be okay with it.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sophie,” I said. Just saying it felt like plunging a dagger into my heart.
“You could call her and tell her you fucked up. But later, you can actually tell her why. I mean you have to. You can’t let a blind girl walk out onto a minefield by herself. Especially one you yourself set up. You’ve got to tell her where the detonators are.”
My fucking kid brother didn’t have a clue how poetic he was.
…
“Please leave your message after the tone.”
“Sophie, it’s Maverick. Listen, I’m down at the club. I shouldn’t have left like I did. You were brave enough to show me your scars and I’ve got to show you mine. I don’t know where neutral ground is. I could meet you at a bar. Or you could come down to the club. Oh fuck, sorry. Don’t take the bus. Just call me.”
I hung up.
I’d wanted to tell her I loved her. I also wanted to rake my own face with nails and pull blood.
I sat down at the club bar and ordered a whiskey neat. After I tossed it back, I lit a cigarette and pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d never been in so deep so fast in my life before and I didn’t like not being in control. When Rafa walked out of the bathroom, I ordered him a beer. He sat down on the stool next to me and took out his vape.
“How’d the call go? You get ahold of her?”
“No. I don’t know if she’s screening her calls or she doesn’t keep it charged.”
“And she’s completely fucking blind, man?”
“No, not at all. She’s blind in one eye. Vision impaired in the other. She can see shapes and outlines, color, but not details.”
“What a trip.”
“She’s like nobody I ever met before, Rafael. She’s special—exceptional.”
Dixon the bartender took a call on the landline. He turned to look at us and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “They found your bike,” he said quietly as he jotted down something on a bar napkin.
When he hung up the phone, he pushed the napkin toward us. “Sunset and Hastings. Looks like your bike is living it up in Brook Hill. That was Cash on the phone and they’ll hold it down till you get there.”
I tossed a twenty down on the bar as Rafael and I stood in haste and put on our cuts.
“Connor brothers creed,” Rafa bumped fists with me, “we haven’t fucked anybody up good together in a long time. Let’s call Malik on the way.”
We were Irish by way of our deadbeat dad, fighting, drinking, and quick tempers were traits he’d handed down to us. We didn’t get much good from our parents, but we used what they’d branded us with.