“What does he need?” I ask. I was hoping to get back home soon, but that looks like it’s going to be a no-go. Getting an identity on this asshole is priority one.
“His grandma lives near the docks. Her house has been broken into twice this month. Two other women have been mugged and had the crap beat out of them. Dude needs to know his grandma is safe, but he can’t afford to pay street rent anymore. Shit started when he stopped paying.”
Typical. Places like Richmond are riddled with crime, and the cops don’t have enough staff in the county, let alone the city, to stop it all. Street gangs have taken over and made it a place nobody actually wants to live in, but they can’t afford to move out after they’ve paid protection money to the gangs. It’s total bullshit. And some people think we’re assholes.
“We’re already stretched thin, and Richmond is a five hour ride from here,” I say. “We don’t have the manpower to bust into the barrio and swing our dicks around.”
“You trust me?” Ryan asks.
I don’t even pause to think about it before saying, “Yes.”
Just because we don’t always get along doesn’t mean I don’t trust him. He’s my brother, and that shit runs deeper than any beef I’ll ever have with him.
“Then let me handle it. Go home. Tell Miss Priss I say hi,” he says and slaps me on the back as he walks away. I stand in place and watch Ryan walk away. I let myself have a single moment to consider that maybe Alex has been good for him. He’s always been a bastard, but he’s a good guy to have watch your six. All the bullshit he causes sometimes makes me forget that I actually almost like the guy.
The street is dead quiet with few lights on inside the sparsely-set homes. The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since I bought my house back when Cheyenne was a toddler. A few of my neighbors have remodeled their homes over the years, but by and large, everything looks the same. With so much changing so often in my life, this kind of steady is exactly what I need.
At the end of my street, there’s a large clearing. I bought the house that butts up to it. The closer I get to my split-level, the more at peace I feel. There’s a part of me that’s always on edge, has been for the better part of twenty years, but here—in my home—sometimes I can take a deep breath and not tense up that it’s going to be my last.
I swing my bike into the driveway and give a nod to Ian, who’s sitting on the front porch, his feet resting on the railing and his hands in his lap. I can’t see it, but I know he’s got a piece resting on his legs. I park my bike in front of the garage next Ian’s and Jeremy’s, and don’t bother covering her up. If it starts to rain, I’ll put her away later. Once my helmet is off and she’s resting on her kickstand, I set my helmet on her handlebars and give Ian a nod.
“Alarm’s on for the perimeter except here in the front. Baby Boy’s been doing sweeps of the backyard every ten minutes. So far we’re clear,” Ian says and stands from his position. In his right hand is a stun gun. In his left is a semi-automatic with a suppressor attached to the barrel.
“Good,” I say. “Thanks for hanging out, but I got it.”
“I don’t mind. I can stay, brother.”
“Your sister needs you,” I say and slap him on the back. The guy’s already going through some serious shit, and I don’t need to be adding to his plate. Ever since we brought Alex to Fort Bragg, Ian’s been having to deal with some fucked-up shit. I know it eats away at him. Knowing you have twin siblings out there somewhere is one thing. Being confronted with them face to face the way he is, is another story altogether. Ever since we found Alex, bloody and beaten, at the hands of her twin brother, Michael, Ian’s been more distant than usual.
“Yeah, she does,” he says and waves me off. As he turns, the light catches the scar that runs from his ear to his mouth. I wonder if he forgets it’s there, if it’s so much a part of him that he doesn’t feel it when he shaves. Or if every day he can feel it, the bumpy, cracked skin that never healed properly.