Page 47 of The Heir

Maybe that was what all this was about.

Was I just on some kind of soul-searching mission over the father I barely had time to know? I pushed those thoughts from my mind and marched toward the shed.

“You got a few miles worth of gas left in that thing?” Easy asked, before cranking his bike on and making sure the entire neighborhood heard his farewell.

I started mine up and answered him without a word.

He laughed and tore off, inviting me to race with him toward the stop sign.

“Where are we going?” I called toward him over the idling of the engines.

“To visit your old man,” he answered, before tearing off toward the highway. Rather than turn toward the Winehoppers, he went the other way. A few miles out, I saw the big Steel Cages sign.

“That’s where we were arrested.” I laughed, when Easy slowed and turned back toward town. A big hill led down to a cemetery and my stomach flipped. I thought he had meant somewhere my dad had enjoyed, not his grave.

The path into the cemetery was rocky, and I wasn’t all that sure of myself on the loose gravel, so I slowed much more than Easy. I caught up with him just as he was placing an empty beer bottle on top of a grave marked, Aviston. There were four bottles left in a package on the ground, and one in his hand. The grass in front of the littered stone was wet with spent beer.

“Abe ‘The Chef’ Aviston.” I read the tombstone he’d marked.

I’d never heard the name before. According to the headstone, the date he died was long before my time.

“Here.” Easy took the pistol out of his waistband and shoved it into my hand. “I’ll get the one in my box, once I get you set up for some practice.”

I glanced down at the gun he’d handed me and popped the safety off. My attention shifted to the splashing sound, and I watched as he poured the beer out on a second Aviston grave. When I read the name on it and realized what he meant to do, I didn’t wait for him to set the bottle down. I raised my gun and fired.

The bottle exploded in his hand, and Easy jerked backwards. He landed on his ass and scrambled back several paces.

“What the fuck–?” he roared, looking at me wide eyed.

“You’re not gonna use my fuckin’ dad’s grave as target practice, asshole.” I couldn’t keep my voice from raising in outrage, but it never occurred to me to raise the weapon. I didn’t mean him any harm; I was just insulted by his choice of location.

“Y– You said you didn’t own a gun.” His brow was halfway up his forehead.

“I don’t.” I shrugged.

“You just—” He exploded.

“I said I don’t own a gun, dumbass. I never said I hadn’t fired one before, get fucking real. My mom’s a cop and I was raised in Georgia, by a former marine. Of course, I can shoot a damn gun, Easy. If pulling a trigger required talent or brain cells the world would be a wildly different place, now, wouldn’t it?”

His broken snort gave way to a round of laughter that left him half limp on his elbows with his head dropped back. When he composed himself, he was all smiles. “You sound just like him. I swear you do, sometimes. I don’t know how it’s possible. I didn’t mean any disrespect, Blaze. In truth– There is none. Your father isn't there. It’s just a memorial type thing. It made Aunt Daisy feel better to have somewhere to come pray for him, but– there wasn’t anything to recover from that explosion, bud. There’snothing here to disrespect. The only reason I like it, is I feel like he’s here with me when I shoot. He and I used to come here and use our father’s headstone as a holder for the bottles when we practiced.”

I glanced back toward the headstone he’d set the first bottle on.

“That’s–”

“Your grandfather,” He confirmed.

I looked back at the stone a moment before asking, “Your dad was a cook or something?”

Easy collapsed back again, his laughter turning dark and throaty while he covered his face with his hands and rubbed ever so slowly. “No,” he managed, through his tears and snorts.

I stood there dumbfounded.

“You don’t know anything about them? My parents?” he asked once he sobered.

I shook my head, and he rocked to his feet and started toward me and the headstone. He jerked his gun out of my hand when he passed and tucked it back into his waistband. He took two beers from the box and handed me one.

“It’s like five in the fucking morn–” I started.

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