Mother hen, indeed.
In the bedroom, I lay the fuck down and close my eyes. Despite how desperately I try to avoid it, I think of Mikey and one of the many times I gave him advice that probably set him on a course for death.
As unconsciousness engulfs me, I hear his voice, and I feel the pang from the feeling of steering him wrong once again.
“Do you think Dad’s gonna be happy I’m joining the force?”
He was trying on my old academy gear the night he found out he was accepted. He couldn’t wait to tell our parents when they got home. The kid was always trying his best to make Dad proud of him. This was his shot.
“Are you happy?” I don’t know why I even asked. I already knew the answer.
My little bro shrugged and checked himself in the mirror.
“I can always draw as a hobby.”
It bothered me the way he chose to put his dreams on the backburner for dear old dad.
See, Nick joined Redemption’s police force because it’s in his blood. It always has been. I joined because I followed Nick every fucking where he went. It wasn’t really about what I thought he or Dad wanted me to do. It was about how much time I could spend pestering the shit out of my big brother, and bonus, I’d get to beat the shit out of bad guys.
With Mike, though, it was always about Dad, which meant hiding his art projects when our father checked in on him at night. Worst of all, it meant declining an invitation to participate in the county-wide art contest and giving up art school for the academy.
I should have told the kid then and there to fuck what Dad thinks. Make your own life. If he can’t accept it, that’s his problem.
Instead. I went the easy route. I didn’t want to make my brother feel any worse than I knew he already did.
“I think he’s gonna be really happy, Mike.”
I swing an arm over my face to try and block out the sound of his voice that day. The look in his eyes. Both telling me no. Screaming at me, subconsciously or not, to support him instead of the ideas our father had for us to live as legacies to his name.
The quiet in this apartment isn’t fucking helping much, though.
Where’s a train wreck when you need one?
X X X
I’m not sure how long I was out. It’s not until Frodo jumps on my gut, and I throw him off the bed in a knee jerk reaction to getting my bladder assaulted that I even realize I fell asleep.
That shit hurts.
Unfortunately for me, bladder control isn’t enough to make me forget the dream I just had. So I play a mind game with myself to push away the pain of being a failure of a brother for the time being. I get my ass outta the bed and take a piss because now I fucking have to. After that, I go through the motions of a day in the life of Jackson Stiles.
It’s much later now. The sun isn’t blinding me so it must be on the other side of the building, making it after noon sometime. Not that I give a shit about time. Just an observation.
I skip a shave after I shower. I’m not in the mood. I pour some food into the hellcat’s bowl for whenever he gets hungry, and I head out, satisfied I’ll be one productive motherfucker tonight.
Traffic sucks ass on the three-oh-one over to the office, so I take my standard alternate route. The one-twelve. Honestly, it’s not much better than three-oh-one. Worse, actually. But it makes me feel like I’m taking a stand for traffic haters all over the tristate area.
An eternity later I’m at the office listening to a little over fifteen messages on the answering machine. The results of being absent more than I thought I would be.
A bunch are from Ma. Some prospective clients. But then I listen to the last one. Something about it gives me the heebie-jeebies.
It’s not a client or family member. It’s not even a tele-fucking-marketer.
“Mr. Stiles. Long time no talk.”
It’s my brother’s boss, and he’s chipper.
“I’d like to see you in my office, if it’s not inconvenient. Give me a call, and we’ll set something up.”
Odd. Not so much that he called, it’s not like I never hear from the guy. It’s more along the lines that he referred to me as Mister Stiles. Since when does he give a rat’s ass about how convenient anything is for me?
The phone rings. My mind is too busy pondering reasons Dick Walker would want to see me to bother looking to see who it is.
“Stiles.”
“Green.”
I grin despite the cheesy shit she just pulled.
“What’s up?”
“Your hunch was right. Two of the three boys were brought up on petty theft a few times. That kid, Decker? He was never even booked for anything until he wound up pursued and then dead. Donnie was assigned to foster care quite a few years back, but he disappeared off the radar and never ended up back in the system for some reason. Also there’s absolutely no mention, anywhere, of a brother.”
“Figures.”