Page 3 of Hearts Held
Marcus nods at Bobby, then back to me. To be honest, this is an entertaining turn of events.
I help usher them out through the back section of the hospital, where waste is disposed of. They leave as quick as they came into my life. Bobby gives a small kiss to my cheek and continues to call me “angel” and thank me for saving his life. After bidding them farewell, I returnto find my shift is to end soon. I wrap up my patient care and final medication passes, and beg the nursing supervisor to let me come back for more shifts. That way, I can be out of my own house and away from my husband.
As I begin my walk back to my home, the feeling of dread washes over me. Home is a place you want to go to. A place to feel safe, warm and welcome—not regret, uncertainty and anxiety. I take a deep breath as I continue my dark journey home and reach for the courage my brother helped me create.
Chapter 2: Everett
Devil You Know, Tyler Braden
One Year Later
Control is an art form that I have perfected.
Not many individuals understand what it means to have full control. They think they do, but they have no clue. Having control is running several establishments while mopping up your family’s poor decisions, keeping them out of jail while standing tall as they drunkenly ream you out for whatever self-inflicted problem that has popped up that week.
It’s ignoring all threats, yet secretly annihilating any competition.
Control is being able to withstand your enemies whilst they torture you for days upon end.
During my station in Belgium, I was captured by German soldiers. They were less than enthused by our existence and made our stay memorable.
During that time, control is whatsavedme.
I focused every fiber of my being as they wrapped my body in barbed wire, lit my flesh on fire and cut me to the bone. In that time, I learned to not utter a word or sound, or show any emotion. They tried to break me, but I held my mental wards up and floated upon the black abyss of my subconscious. All I have left are the scars that kindly remind me that I survived while many of my friends perished.
My family often forget I was a war prisoner, though I don’t blame them. I despise pity, and thus I never speak of that time. I wear long garments to cover my scars, even when I am pleasuring a woman. No one will see my weakness. Besides, my family is so caught up indulging in the life I have provided for them.
The smell of sweet, metallic grunge engulfs my senses as I walk toward our welding mill. I love the smell of my Lockham in the fall morning. The small break of dawn kisses the sky, casting a warm glow across the heavens.
I begin the day before everyone else rises. It’s the only way to ensure a successful operation.
As I cross town toward the mill, the gravel crunches beneath my oxfords. The steelworkers need to be checked on to maintain morale. Once morale and accountability have been established with whiskey and coffee, I gather extra supplies and horseshoes to take over to the stalls nearly a quarter of a mile from the mill.
My father and grandfather before him created these businesses, which erupted into our family enterprise, and I continue to maintain them. It began with the horse stables. Being a family of gypsies, we knew our way around horses and ended up getting involved with the gambling ring. After cultivating that success, my grandfather began buying buildings around town, then leasing them to small businesses and rental homes. My grandfather won the welding mill in a race. After that, he grew out into everything from arms dealing, massage parlors and other interconnected dealings. My grandfather taught us success and laid a foundation for us. All we had to do was listen, though my other brothers don’t care for the business aspect of things, other than Kenneth. He is the accountant of the bunch, while theothers love to get drunk, brawl and visit the massage parlor.
As I finish up nailing the last horseshoe on my dear Arabian, Olive, I hear my brother Bobby’s stomping steps.
“Oi!” he yells in a Cockney accent; it still perplexes me how he managed to pick that up. “You need ta go deal with Baba, she’s off the rocker again!”
I take one long breath of air in then slowly breathe out through my lips. Our dear Baba.
The realqueenof the family, despite what my mother’s overinflated ego likes to think.
Baba lives on the outskirts of the city in her own hut, but from time to time she will come into town to terrorize my mother and the city folk. Baba believes in spirits and respects those of the Viking and gypsy religions, for her mother was Romanian and her father came from Norway. We all inherited the platinum-white hair from his side. Everyone could identify an Afton by their hair color.
I carefully place Olive’s hoof onto the dusted ground as I stand to face my brother. As I answer him, I slowly stroke Olive’s silky black mane, relishing the simplicityof her care. “What could our four-foot, five-inch Baba have done this time?” Glancing over at him, I motion for a cigarette and step away from Olive. She snorts in disagreement at my smoking habit, but it helps calm my nerves and maintain control. Bobby begins to light up his stick as I pluck it from his hands. “Not near the horse, Robert, not near the horse.”
Bobby rolls his eyes at me. “You and your bloody horse brother. I swear you’re gonna turn into the old ’n’ lonely demented horse whisperer one day. Ya know I think you love ’em more than you love us,” he exclaims while exaggeratedly clutching his chest.
We walk over toward the office building as I state, “Yes. Yes, Robert, I love the bloody horses more than you all, because they don’t talk back, they don’t get drunk, they don’t get into fights and they don’t spend all my money.”
Laughter rolls over Bobby as he tries to light up his cigarette, his blue eyes glistening in the morning sun. “Ya know, brother, I think if we gave them some ale, they’d thoroughly enjoy it. Have ya tried? Also, YOU spend your money on the horses, so they don’t hafta.” He shakes his finger sarcastically at my chest.
“Me spending money on them is still better than you lot taking the money and pissing it down the drain on stupid shit,” I mumble through a drag. “Now, what’s with Baba? Did she paint the town in sheep’s blood again?”
“Ah!” Bobby chufts, “Baba came into town to drop off a package. I guess she made something, then Mum tried to speak with her, but Baba wasn’t having it. So she attacked Mum, grabbed a lot of her hair or something.”
“Shit.” I begin thinking of what to do and how to manage the situation. Though Baba birthed our mother, they do not get along.
