Page 42 of Resurrection
"Ah, Mr. Casino Owner." Adri smiles crookedly. "I get it now. Embarrassed of your bro?"
There’s something in the air, an unspoken tension brewing just beneath the surface, and I can't tell if this is a natural state of sibling rivalry or if there's a deeper, more insidious animosity lurking behind the facade.
I feel like I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be witnessing this.
"Give me a hand, will ya?" Naomi asks me all of sudden, trying to get Adri off that chair.
I shove my thoughts aside and rush over to help her.
Adri yanks free, stumbling back and slamming into a passing couple. For a second there, he looks like he might lash out at them for being in his way, but the fight leaves him as fast as it comes.
"Ah, fuck it," he blurts out, his entire frame slumping somehow.
"I’m sorry, guys," Naomi quickly apologizes. "Tough week at work. He had too much to drink."
The couple hurriedly departs, shaking their heads in disapproval. I grasp Adri's arm and drape it over my shoulder to prevent any further mischief.
"Time to go, big guy," I say as I steer us away from the foot traffic and head toward the exit. Naomi walks next to him on the opposite side.
"Whaaat the hell are you doin' here, Strings?" Adri grits out, more to himself than to us. My old nickname sounds weird coming from his drunk mouth. "I thought I was savin' ev'ryone. ‘S mah job."
"You sure do, buddy," I agree. "When you’re sober."
I glance at Naomi briefly. Her eyes are a mix of pleading and angry now, her lips a tight line. She’s fuming.
"Didn’t I tell ya to sh’tay away from my sister?"
I choose not to respond. I want to avoid a public confrontation with Adrian Medina. It's not about my fame or a potential story for the tabloids. It's about sparing Naomi from additional humiliation.
Outside, the desert is windy, and the parking lot is half empty.
Naomi stays quiet until we finally haul Adri to my car. He’s heavy, like a bag of wet cement, and I’m drenched in sweat by the time we manage to cram most of him into the back seat.
"Whatcha doin' here, Brady?" Adri slurs the same damn question as I attempt to stuff his lanky left leg inside.
"You’ve already asked me that," I reply, giving his scuffed boot a gentle nudge with mine for emphasis.
Watching me wrestle his stubborn limb is clearly getting old for Naomi; she hunkers down, seizes her brother’s ankle with both hands, and shoves the rebellious leg inside with impressive force.
"There." She claps her hands as if to clean off the dust after a hard day of work. Then she rises up, her gaze swinging over to me. "Let’s go." Without further ado, she climbs into the passenger and buckles up.
I follow her lead and get behind the wheel. She dictates her brother’s address while I punch it into my navigator.
Adri slumps against the seat, his eyes half closed, his breath reeking of whiskey. "Didn't want her to…" he mumbles. "I guess it’s my fault."
Naomi swivels in her seat to face him and reaches out to brush his hair back from his face. Her fingers are gentle, even now. "Just rest, Adri."
I look in the mirror, watching him drift off. "How often does this happen?"
She sighs a long, tired sound. "More than I'd like."
"Your mom knows?"
"I think she does, but not all of it." Naomi glances at her hands in her lap, then at the dark road unfurling before us on the other side of the windshield. "He doesn't want to be home when he’s off work. Could be PTSD." She’s avoiding my eyes, still staring ahead. "He won't talk about it. Or the drinking. Or…anything."
"That sounds like him," I say. "Good ole tight-lipped Adri." He sure can keep secrets. I should know.
Her mouth twitches in a sad almost smile. "I guess some things truly never change."
