Page 26 of Five Brothers

“No, you’re not,” he says, still twisting the wrench. “We need you on the job.”

“They’ll be fine without me.”

He tightens the bolt, the muscles in his arm flexing enough that I almost take a step back.

“So it’s not bad enough you’re leaving me shorthanded for three years,” he says, “but you can’t even pull your weight until you go?”

“I have eight more days of freedom I’d like to enjoy.”

He looks up. “Oh, you had your fun,” he points out. “Losing your freedom was the price, remember?” He tosses the tool down and turns, digging in a drawer and pulling out some needle-nose pliers. “Tell her to take it to a mechanic in St. Carmen. She’s not wasting our time just because you think you’re going to get laid.” And then he stops again, scowling. “And I’m sick of these girls hanging around. You understand? At least Aracely pulls her fucking weight. Y’all stop bringing them home.”

He goes back to work, while I just stand there, watching him, whatever argument was on my lips disappearing altogether. There’s no use talking to him. There never was. He got saddled raising us eight years ago, and he’s been angry at the world ever since.

I can’t say I remember him being any different before then, though. All I wanted when I was sixteen was for him to smile. Or say that I did something well. But he was always a ghost.

I don’t even think he cried at our parents’ funerals.

“Macon …” I murmur.

He removes the engine cover, turning it over and placing it on his workbench.

I speak a little louder. “Will you look at me, please?”

He dumps the bolts inside the cover and turns back to the car as if I’ve already left the garage. He hates me.

I take a deep breath and tip my chin back up. “Krisjen has no money,” I tell him. “She needs me to fix the car.”

“I’ll fix the fuckin’ car,” he growls. “Like I don’t have enough to do. Just get to work, because soon enough you get to sit on your ass all day, and you’re still gonna need money from me.”

I swallow the fucking rotten taste in my mouth, because he’s not wrong. He’s never fucking wrong, and I’m always a piece of shit.

According to every interaction I’ve had with him the past eight years, I’m all but useless.

I feel stupid enough. If I could go back and change it, I would hope I wouldn’t get into that fight. I wouldn’t have gotten drunk, let my temper get the better of me, and hurt the wrong person so badly over something I don’t even remember that I put him in the hospital.

I knew it was a mistake. I always do, but it’s like I can’t stop myself.

I’m not worried about going to prison. I’m worried it won’t change me.

“I fucked up.” My eyes start to burn with tears I fucking hate myself for. “I fuck up.”

But he doesn’t spare me another glance.

I reach into my pocket, tossing Krisjen’s keys on the table. “The alignment, the brakes,” I tell him, “the radiator is leaking, and I’m guessing the oil is as thick as mud.”

A snarl hits his lips, and I almost smile, but I don’t.

When I head out of the garage, Trace is climbing into the bed of the truck and Army’s crossing the street, minus Dex.

“Give me the keys.” I hold out my hands.

Army smiles, shaking his head, because he knows Macon won.

He tosses the keys, and I catch them.

“Don’t laugh,” I say.

“Hey, nothing to be ashamed of,” he teases. “I’m older than you, and he still scares the shit out of me.”

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