i worked on this for almost two months solid. seems like a ridiculous amount of time for something so short, yeah? oh well. hope you guys enjoy my first posted story of 2015.

saturday, 10 january, 2015. 9:25 pm.


"Ay, Devlin, all right?"

I nodded at the lazy call across the stage, not looking up from where I crouched before a bundle of wires needing to be set up special for the band playing in a few hours. Bands. They always got to have something above and beyond.

"That for the Riker group?"

"Yeah. Like it makes them sound better. Can't get much worse, though, yeah?"

Charlotte snorted but wisely chose not to say anything, though her expression made me grin as I glanced her way. I absently noted her approach to help lay out the wire until the scent of lemon hit me strong, my response to it always rather physical.

"You know what wearing that does to me," I commented, threading a wire out of the way of people who'd most likely be drunk as hell and blinded by all the lights that blaze the stage during shows.

Charlotte hummed, amused and promising, and any time else it'd have me making eyes for a quickie in the ladies', but it seemed a bit crass to screw a coworker on the day of my brother's funeral.

When I didn't carry an invitation further, she looked at me with a bit of concern; "You all right, Dev? Not like you to turn down an offer, especially from this fine dove."

Her confidence made me smile, but I shrugged; "I'm fine. Just have a bit on my mind is all. Going home the end of the week."

"Sounds like a story."

"And a half."

My cryptic response had the conversation dropped, though she touched my arm a bit in support before moving to place wires elsewhere on the stage. I watched her go, halfway to regret, before turning my attention back to my work.

It would be crass, Devlin. Very crass.

...

The couch in the concrete pocket for bands behind the stage smelled like gasoline and cigarettes, a smell that always gets me hard when there's grit imbedded in the caps of my knees and denim legs jutting along my sides. Laughter drifted down my spine, admiring and good-natured, and it's not the first time I've been down on my knees for someone in a crowded room. I wonder if stories go 'round about the guy who'll blow the drummer in the band for little to no reason other than they're the fucking drummer.

I have a thing for it, I guess.

And maybe it's a crass thing, to blow a guy the day of my brother's funeral, but who the fuck am I kidding. Lyle wouldn't give a shit.

Here's to you, man, you fucking asshole.

...

Lyle's shitty car was parked in the driveway of the family home at an angle, my father's truck barely able to fit behind to keep out of the street. Snorting, I parked in front of the house along the curb, not bothering to remove the keys from the ignition because everybody knows not to fuck with my shit around here. Not after I caught Adrian Trine slashing my tires senior year.

I hear the fucker still walks with a limp.

I knocked on the front door even as I let myself in, my father barely looking up from the handheld fishing game one of us gave him ten years ago for Christmas.

"Ma home?"

He grunted, and I nodded, heading into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I'd had to drive all night to make it in, and judging from my father's mood, it was going to be an even longer day. I had time to pour myself my first cup by the time Ma walked in, her expression drawn even as she came over and briefly rubbed my back in greeting.

Guess I'm in the shit now, proven when she stepped off and washed her hands in the sink, using the towel hanging just below to dry them off again.

"You took your time," she said finally, and I shrugged, gulping down coffee because I knew this was coming but it didn't make it easier.

"Had work, Ma."

"And that takes precedent over burying your only brother?"

"He wouldn't have wanted me there, Ma. He told me, like, a million times."

"In jest!"

I snorted. Maybe, when we were kids, he never meant it but after the day everything turned to shit around here, he'd told me to leave town and just…never come back. Lyle and I used to be pretty close, so far as brothers go with only two years difference, so I'd known what real malice looked like on him. Known how it felt when he punched me with the intent of bashing my fucking head in.

So yeah, I'd guess he fucking meant it.

"Whatever. I'm here now. …I thought someone was going to take the cars to settle his loans. Why's the junker in the drive?"

She blew out air slowly between her teeth; "Your father…refuses to let them take it. Says someone already paid the loans, but Devlin, no one we know would have. You go down and talk to the bank, now, you hear?"

I shrugged and she nodded, walking out of the kitchen now that I'd been given my marching orders. Slugging back the rest of my cup, I set it down in the sink and left back the way I came, scrubbing my forehead as I started up my car and headed further into town.

Motherfucking banks, man. I hate them.

...

Margie Wilhem manned the main counter at the bank, her expression flickering for a brief hot second when I walked in before she smoothed it out and picked up a phone, speaking low even as she nodded me toward one of the chairs set around to make the place seem homey.

So I sat and tried to pretend I didn't remember the time Margie made me come prematurely after the homecoming dance senior year and she just kissed me until I was ready to go again. She always was a sweet girl, I guess.

When the door to the main office opened, I expected Old Man Dennis to finally come out and greet me, but some young buck stuck his head out the door and flashed me a benign smile as he waved me into the room.

"Dennis finally retire?" I asked by way of greeting, and his smile turned more solemn.

"He passed two years past."

Damn. The guy had been a hateful asspatch, but way to make me feel like a dick. I shrugged past my awkwardness, choosing instead to cut straight to the point of my visit.

"My brother had loans here what need clearing up."

The man frowned, puzzled; "I've already discussed this with your father, Devlin. We received the full amount due on those loans this past Tuesday, down to the last cent. The account has been finalized and closed out."

"Okay, then who paid it? Weren't one of us. Weren't anyone we'd know."

He leaned back, spreading his hands a little.

"It appears to be quite the mystery. The outstanding balance was placed in an envelope left in the night drop box with the account number included on the form. We didn't know of your brother's passing until your father came to see us as you are today. I'm afraid we can't help you on that matter."

"…So you're telling me that somebody, who just happened to know exactly how much Lyle owed, paid it in full in the middle of the night and nobody knows a damn thing about it?"

He spread his hands again, smiling in such a way to almost make me want to punch his face in. Fucking ass. I didn't bother saying good-bye, though I almost let slip a 'fucking good for nothing' before I managed to reign that bad boy back in. I learned a long time ago not to burn bridges you don't have to.

Easier on everyone in the long run.

...

Ghosts haunted me as I drove back through town, my brother's in the passenger seat silently pointing at every fucking place we used to frequent as kids. Freddie's Snack Shack, the pawn shop, the old hideously yellow pharmacy that is now a hideously purple nail salon.

It was the renovated movie theater that almost did me in, my brother's ghost somehow recalling all the times we snuck in the back and lifted bags of popcorn when the concession stand was left empty, all the times we were caught and hauled out by our ears by Ms. McKinney. I had my first kiss in that theater, both of us did, from the Felmire twins who moved soon after.

My first and only date with a guy in this fucking backwater town was at that theater, my brother acting as third wheel so we wouldn't be looked at weird.

He'd even been lookout for five minutes as Jim and I kissed, nervous little pecks that turned deeper until the guy finally grew too embarrassed and pulled away. Lyle's face had been amused when he caught my eye, silently snickering when I'd flipped him off and shifted in my seat.

The tears threatening my vision from the memory took me by surprise, my blinks angry and full of force as I turned down a random street and gunned it, kicking up gravel as I sped away from my brother's ghost and the ghosts of this fucking town.

...

I almost made it out to Brown Lake before the anger faded and took the pain with it, my fingers refusing to loosen the steering wheel until I'd flexed out their ache. Should have known this would happen, what coming home always did to me.

I had a girlfriend once tease me for being undercover CIA in how I never talked much about who I was or where I came from. She wanted to meet my folks, she said, and find out why I was such a secretive son of a bitch.

And fuck it all, I could take her strap-ons a thousand different ways but I couldn't take that, so I left nearly half my shit when I skipped out around four in the morning, packed up my car and left her so far behind it took me two years to even come back to the state.

I'd been only nineteen then, but I couldn't give any certainty that I wouldn't pull the exact same thing on somebody today.

Dirt Bag, your name is fucking Devlin.

Scrubbing a hand through greasy hair, I turned onto the dirt road just past the deserted lake campground, remembering that if I took the road long enough it'd end up just outside the Nazarene chapel about five minutes from my parent's place.

It wasn't until I was nearly on top of the Green homestead that I remembered why I stopped taking this road, my stomach souring with shit nobody ever let me forget until I left for the last time. Morbid fascination had me slowing as I passed, my eyes sharp as they looked the place over; motorcycles lay in various stages of decomposition and repair, the old bus from the First Baptist Summer Camp gutted like a bad tooth off to the side.

I frowned, relaxing some; the Greens I knew would never have let the place go to seed like this.

I was almost past the house when Lyle's prized Dodge Dart parked up under the carport made me slam on the brakes and fishtail to a stop. Yanking myself up out of my seat, I stared at my brother's car until I was positive, and then I dropped down and put the car in reverse, dirt and rocks spitting out everywhere as I reversed into the ditch and then gunned it back around, parking in the driveway behind a vintage Harley Fat Boy.

Slamming the car door brought faint movement at the screen covering the front entrance, and then Hank Green appeared like a genie in the next blink.

He was bigger than I remembered, taller and hulked out, his oil-stained shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. The Hank I'd known back in school had been big but soft around the edges, eyes bright like lightening rods whenever someone tried to take him on until his wicked left hook bought him some few moments of peace.

After the shit hit the fan, those lightening rod eyes had been glass chips of hate whenever he saw me, and that had maybe hurt more than anything else. I used to be half in love with the guy, once, though he never knew it.

His expression now reminded me of his mother's right before I left; like something was brewing back behind the stone they carved to look like their face.

We stared for a moment or two before he finally spoke; "Heard you might be coming back. If you're looking for Mom, she's gone. Ain't seen her near on seven years."

I scowled, skipping the attempt at jabbing old wounds; "Why is my brother's car under your fucking carport."

He looked over at it like he had to check which car it was I meant, though there was only the one there.

"Well, that'd be because he gave it to me."

"Bullshit."

That finally got a response, his mouth pulling up on one side; "Fuck off, Devlin."

He dismissed me by turning and some inhuman spirit lifted me up off my feet and onto his back, my fists knocking him sideways until he'd twisted enough to punch me right back. I tasted blood and dirt, pain making my vision go strange around the edges until he managed to get one arm up against my windpipe, choking me as we wrestled around in the grass until I gasped out a surrender and breathed in dank air when he let go.

I coughed, spitting blood, and looked up in time to see him wipe a hand across his nose and mouth, red turning his grimace into something quite gruesome. I'm sure I looked much the same.

"You're an asshole," he managed and I nodded, pushing myself up and rocking back on my heels, coughing up another load of blood and spitting it into the already-damp dirt between my knees.

"Sorry," I said finally, licking a split in my lip and watching how his eyes seemed drawn to the movement.

As though aware he'd been caught staring, he moved his gaze away, wiping a fist across his face once more.

We shared another moment of awkward silence before I found myself asking again, "Why's my brother's car under your carport, Hank?"

"Because he's even more of an asshole than you."

Dark bitterness took me by surprise, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he stared out further than either of us could actually see. Silence caught me up when he turned and glared, old hatred and new pain blending into something that took my words away.

"You know, when ever'one found out about you and Mom, I decided then and there I weren't going to have nothing to do with any of you Marshes again. You ruined my life, my family's life, and then you skipped out on the wind to disappear. Was gonna keep on hating you, everyone, but Lyle…."

My stomach sank.

If Lyle hadn't already hanged himself, I would search him out and string him up myself.

Feeling every bruise I'd brought down on my own head, I pushed up onto my feet, reaching out a hand to help haul Hank up. He let me after only a moment's hesitation, his expression again closed off even as I squeezed his hand before letting go.

"You squared Lyle's loan. Thanks for that. …I'm sorry Lyle was such a coward," I said finally, turning away so I wouldn't have to see if that expression changed or not. I refused to look as I got back in my car, nor when I backed out of the drive, though I couldn't help sneaking a peek at an empty yard before I took off down the road once more.

...

Nobody said anything about my battered up face until suppertime, when Dad finally brought it up as though asking 'bout the weather.

"Ran into a door."

The response worked as well as it always had before I left, when I'd been 'running into doors' about three times a week, silence eating our conversation until Ma managed to work up an asinine topic to break through the ice.

After, I drove into town and stopped at the bar, a crowd already three glasses in and laughing like nobody died in the world ever. My entrance quieted the place down some but not by much, and by the time I'd ordered my first tequila the din was as loud as it'd been before.

Good.

I was four shots in when somebody sat down beside me, their shirt stretched tight across the shoulders but cleaner than the one before. I acknowledged Hank with a bob of my head and ordered a round for the both of us because I was already too drunk to care that I wasn't supposed to be admiring my brother's sloppy seconds.

There's probably some kind of rule about that.

Don't fuck a coworker on the day of your brother's funeral, and don't look at his boyfriend and wish he'd been yours instead. Especially when you've had the guy's mother.

It's gotta be etched in stone somewhere.

When I went to buy the second round, the bartender refused, making me frown.

"I've money. Legal tender. Good for one more."

"Devlin, you've one dollar. That don't buy you squat."

I held it up; "Then give me as much as one dollar will buy."

Sighing, he laid down a glass and splashed a slip of tequila along the bottom, taking my dollar and tucking it away. I smiled, knocking the tequila back with satisfaction before remembering Hank.

"Sorry, guy, not enough tequila for you. I can breathe some on you. If you want."

I thought this a very generous offer but he scowled at me, moving back when I went as to lean closer. Not friendly at all.

"Devlin Marsh, have you forgotten you promised me a drink?"

I blinked as Margie Wilhelm interjected herself between Hank and I, smiling as sweet as I remembered and nothing like the indifference she'd shown me back at the bank.

Had I promised her a drink?

I looked at her steadily, opting for honesty; "Yes."

She laughed, smoothly tugging my arm so I had to slide off the stool to keep up, her hand moving to my hip and pulling me in along her side.

"Well, we'll just have to find a way you can make it up to me, yeah?"

In the end, she had me in her bed as she rocked herself to orgasm on my dick, my hands on her hips to facilitate the motion though I didn't care so much about coming myself. To be honest, I was almost too drunk to get it up, and not drunk enough to forget Hank Green.

That family must be my fucking kryptonite.

...

I walked into the house around seven the next morning still hung over, my father grunting something I didn't bother trying to figure out. Ma was making breakfast, the smell harsh and overbearingly greasy, and I slammed my way into my old bedroom to change out of the clothes that still smelled like smoke and sex.

The bed in here used to be mine, as were the bookcases, but everything else that had held remnants of my personality was gutted when I left right after high school.

Truthfully, I didn't miss most of it; the trophy I'd gotten for just being in peewee baseball, the medals I got for being on the honor roll in junior high. The perfect attendance certificate I got in elementary. In high school, I never got an award because my brain went sideways and just fucked everything up.

High school is when I figured out a guy could turn me on just as hard as a girl, and that'd scared me.

There weren't any names for people like me back then, not in those hallways. There were only straight guys or gay guys, breeders or faggots, and never any words for someone who was both. It wasn't until end of my freshman year that Lyle found a word for me; he always was the smart one.

He'd brought it up casually, the two of us in swimming trunks out at Brown Lake in one of those rare moments we hadn't hated each other.

"Hey, Devlin. You like girls, right?" he asked, and I nodded yeah, that I did.

"And you like guys too?"

Again, I nodded, eyes closed against the sun as I felt it warm up my face.

"Means you're bisexual, then. Read about it in a journal for Health. You guys are kind of rare."

I doubted it then, and I doubt it even more now; I think there are more bisexuals than people give credit for. Just, people have to fit into a small box to make sense to everyone else, and I think we put ourselves there more often than not.

"Hey, Devlin. In that case, if you could have anyone, anyone, who would it be?"

I smiled against the sun, my eyes still closed, "Hank Green."

He laughed, and I looked at him, earnest as I said, "I'd have Hank Green in a heartbeat. I could love him forever, if he let me."

He shook his head, smiling in that mean, jesting way of his; "Hank could never love you. You're too ugly."

"You're the one looked like he lost a battle with the ugly stick, Lyle."

The ghost of my brother had me rubbing the faint scar on my scalp from the tree branch he'd picked up and whopped me with while laughing that I'd been bloodied by a real ugly stick, the memory making me frown.

Had they been together even then? I doubted it but with Lyle, I never could be sure. He'd been a mystery to me most of our childhood, and now that he was dead, I was never going to get any answers.

Guess I'll have to ask someone who was closer than I was.

...

Lyle's room smelled like him. Aftershave and dirty socks with an undertone of engine oil. Forgot how he smelled until it hit me in the face when I opened his door, recalling all the times he'd wrestle me into a chokehold and smother me with that smell as teenagers.

I scrubbed a wrist over my nose and shut the door gently, casting eyes about for the most probable places to begin.

Nightstand, dresser, windowsill.

Found his wallet and various receipts for the auto shop in town, the convenience store, and the pharmacy. A picture of his Dart the year he got it, and oddly, one of the two of us as kids. Other than that, I found squat.

Blowing air out between my teeth, I looked harder, turning the room over as well I knew and found nothing.

I did find some interesting magazines, answering my questions on where Lyle's tastes had run and causing my eyebrows to rise at some of the content.

"You're welcome, asshole, that it's me in here and not Ma."

Maybe he counted on that. I guess I would.

Magazines aside, my search proved fruitless, and I was forced to leave his room and try the garage. The light clicked and flickered to life as it always had growing up, a low thrum I could still hear even though my hearing's really gone to shit from working at The Ballroom.

Before I could even begin, I allowed my eyes to wander where they'd found him strung up from the middle rafter, glad I'd not been here to see it personally.

My imagination was bad enough.

Morbid curiosity satiated, I pointedly turned my attention elsewhere, walking across overly-swept-clean-concrete to the disarrayed workbench Lyle claimed back before high school. He once pierced my ear with a safety-pin because I used some tool or other for a school project and didn't put it back exactly as I found it.

Rubbing that invisible scar, I had to swallow down the gut response to keep my search neat so he wouldn't find out by reminding myself he wasn't allowed to be a prima donna about his shit anymore.

Lost the right.

I left the bench cleaner than I found it but just as empty-handed as before, frustration causing me to search the areas in the garage least likely to harbor his reasons for doing what he did. No one else seemed bothered by the total silence; does someone's suicide speak for itself? Maybe he'd given off signs, maybe he'd been obviously depressed for days, months, and nobody ever told me. I mean, why would they?

I was the son they liked to forget.

I was the one who ruined everything…in my life, my family's, and the Green's. Maybe this whole damn town. Before I left, it sure felt like it.

Nobody's given me much reason to figure otherwise.

...

I flexed the knuckles of my right hand, feeling them pull tight before pain had me relaxing my hand down against the scarred wood of the bar. The skin was scraped raw and scabbing; Lyle's headstone had been left rough and unpolished. It suited.

I'd gone to the graveyard already somewhat shit-faced, demanding answers in a slurry speech I was glad no one else was around to hear.

Lyle made me so angry.

I mean, he was fucking twenty-nine, and he offs himself and leaves nothing about why. I was supposed to reconcile in my thirties, to show up and make Lyle forgive me for having a loose pecker. I was supposed to apologize, though I never understood why everyone blamed me for what went down. Takes two to tango, you know.

But I had had a plan. I was going to have a brother again the year I turned thirty, and now…. Well, now I just have a ghost.

...

You know that super gross feeling you get from falling asleep in blue jeans? I've never been able to figure it out, why that happens, but it was what I woke to. That, and a scratchy afghan wrapped around my torso.

…My shirtless torso.

Brain slooping into weird configurations, I frowned and shoved at the afghan until it untwisted enough to allow me to sit up and take stock of my shit because nothing was adding up. Springs groaned beneath my hips as I swung my feet to the floor, and it took me a moment of glaring to realize I had been sleeping on the couch and a moment more to concede that it was one I'd never seen before.

Before I could stand I had to rid myself of the rest of that afghan, which required more coordination than it should have and convinced me I was most likely still very drunk. Once on my feet though, I felt okay, my head clearing enough that I had the mind to look around for my shirt, or my shoes, but found neither. Scratching the back of my neck, I shuffled in a small tour of the room, trying to find some clue as to who I'd gone home with this time, but there was a distinct lack of telling personality in the living room beyond the ancient big screen television in the corner.

"Hello? …Hey?"

My voice came out as gnarled as I felt, and it garnered no response. Puffing out air in irritation, I ambled into what I logically decided would be the kitchen, and wasn't disappointed. Well, it looked a lot like mine. Mostly likely someone who lived alone. From there I moved to a hallway, every door open and every room empty of someone to clue me in on where I was and why.

Although, from the way I can't recall anything beyond drinking alone at the bar, I can figure out the why. I made my way back to the living room and returned to the couch to think about how I was going to handle making it home barefoot from who knows where if someone didn't show up soon.

As though summoned, a noise at the front door preceded a man stepping in the room, shirt stretched tight across the shoulders and expression as unreadable as before.

I squinted against the light now streaming through the open door until my eyes adjusted enough to see he carried a bag of what smelled like burgers and fries, the sides almost translucent with grease. Can only be from Bab's.

"Didn't expect you awake," he said, and I shrugged.

Hank nodded his head for me to follow him to the kitchen so I did, sitting at the table even as he pushed the sack over my direction and went over and pulled two beers from the fridge.

I doled out the food and he asked, "Ketchup?"

"Vinegar?"

After a moment, he nodded and went to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle near empty and bringing it over to the table.

"Didn't think I'd have a need for having any around anymore."

"Yeah, well, he learned it from me in the first place."

I doused my fries, mouth watering at the mix of salt and acidity I could already taste just from the smell.

We ate nearly our entire meal in silence until I broke it with an overly-casual, "So how'd I end up sleepin' on your couch, anyway?"

He took a moment longer to chew than necessary; "Too drunk to drive."

"I didn't drive. Walked there from Rose Hill."

He stopped eating, his burger lowered to its wrapper with absent precision.

"Why can't you let your brother be?"

"Why can you?"

"Because it wasn't the first time, okay? Lyle was fucked up. He tried shit all the time, and then he'd come here and be with me rather than talk about it."

…Yeah, that sounded like Lyle.

"Did he love you?"

Glass chips of hate speared through me, but I had to know. It was important.

"Your shoes are drying out on the porch."

Picking up his burger, he got up from the table and finished in the three steps it took for him to reach the metal trash bin in the corner, the lid clanging once he was done throwing my conscience away.

"Did he love me?"

He didn't turn around; "You should know the answer to that."

No, then. Okay.

I finished my fries even though they were now too cold and soggy to be good, and then I stood and gathered up my trash, managing to make one thousandth of the noise Hank had done doing the same.

I walked from the kitchen to the front door, my shoes indeed on the front porch. They were damp in the toes where the sun couldn't reach, and though I wondered why the hell they were wet to begin with, I put them on because it's a long walk back to town and I couldn't make that trek barefoot anymore.

Maybe when I was a kid, but not anymore.

I made it halfway across the yard before something hard hit the back of my neck, my feet stumbling even as my fingers were reaching for a large rock to defend myself with because this level of shit never ends well. Glass chips of wary hate met mine when I pivoted in the dirt, though he was still up on the porch with his fists clenched up near his hips in a comically odd pose.

"The fuck, man?!"

The back of my neck already throbbed, my fingers tightening on that rock because everything about him vibrated physical violence. In the end, he simply relaxed, expression again stony as he stared me down before returning inside without a sound.

I dropped the rock and flexed out its ache from my hand, shifting from my defensive stance to something more natural. I caught sight of my wallet in the dirt and realized it must have been what he pegged me with, a hand rising to the back of my neck as I scowled and leaned forward to claim the folded mess of paper and duct tape.

God, what an ass.

Nothing for it, though, as I had bigger things to worry about. Like my car on the far side of town parked overnight at the cemetery. They tow shit for that.

...

I don't know why I was still in town beyond the fact that I took the week off; thought I'd need that long to settle Lyle's affairs with the bank, at the very least. Should have returned home anyway, but the bar stood between me and the road out of town, and I'm weak.

So I stayed.

...

Woke up with blood in my mouth and the afteracid of bile in my throat. Pain cut across my neck and chest when I tried sitting up, my legs trapped by something that smacked up against my knees.

I panicked, head thrumming with too much alcohol, until a hand grabbed my shoulder and shoved me up against something hard and lumpy and didn't let go until I settled down some. It helped when I was able to comprehend that I was belted into a moving vehicle, a lingering scent of aftershave and engine oil ruining most of my buzz.

Once the hand pulled away I was able to trace it back to its owner, the interior almost too dark to make him out but there was only one person who could be driving Lyle's car now that he was dead.

"We fight?" I asked, returning to the taste of blood lining my teeth and the cracking sting of broken skin along my left cheek.

"No."

I mulled that over; "Fought someone."

"Because you flirt too much."

I snorted a copper-infused laugh of self-deprecation; always was a handsy drunk.

"Not my fault Jimmy is still in the closet," I said finally, flashes of the moments before the fight coming back to me.

I heard the squeak of leather as Hank's hands tightened around the steering wheel, and though I was fading again I heard myself say, "Lyle would kill you for treating his baby like that, man."

Muffled words chased me down into the dark, translated into my sleep; "…Fuck 'im."

...

This time I woke in agony, my skin scratched raw on Hank's couch. Walking home had left me with a killer sunburn the day before; bad enough that Ma had slung me into a chair at the table so she could smear cold cream all over my chest, back and face, her expression disapprovingly concerned.

The heat coming off me now felt hot enough to fry up an egg, my every movement lighting fire to my nerve endings.

Choking back whimpers, I slid off the couch to my knees with a thump, crawling forward a few feet until I could gain the vertical by using a small table as leverage. I bumped through the darkness to a somewhat-less-dark kitchen, opening the freezer and gritting my teeth at the cold blast of air from within.

Too bad I couldn't crawl up inside and shut the door behind me, oxygen be damned.

"The fuck you doin'?"

Hank's sleep-thick voice made me jump nearly out my skin, and he didn't bother waiting for an answer before crossing over and shutting the freezer door with a bit more force than necessary. Moving behind me, he used one fist to the small of my back to guide me down the hall to a small bathroom, where a click from the wall speared me with eye-searing light.

"Cold water is marked hot," he grunted, pushing me toward the tub and then leaving, the door shutting with only marginally softer noise than the freezer before.

Not one to argue, I stripped down and got into the tub, blasting the cold water on full and jumping as it tumbled down over my head even as I almost crooned at the instant relief. I showered until I no longer felt like steam was boiling beneath my skin, the pipes grumbling as I shut down the flow to a trickle.

It was only then I remembered I didn't have a towel so used my shirt instead, patting my upper body with care and pulling my jeans back on without underwear because I cannot reuse those fuckers after a shower.

Glancing in the mirror made me wince, my nose and cheeks red and my eye turned black from where Jim punched me when I came on to him. He was supposed to have been an easy lay, someone I could get down on my knees and submit to without too much hassle, but it hadn't gone down that way.

Story of my life, I guess.

Hank ambushed me when I opened the door, crowding me back into the bathroom and up against the counter as he stood way too close for my peace of mind. If he noticed it didn't change his behavior, his brow furrowed as he removed the lid of a jar of Noxzema and began smearing cream across the bridge of my nose.

I wasn't drunk, way beyond sober, but I solemnly told myself I was before I gently moved Hank's hand aside so I could lean up and kiss him.

He was slow to respond but finally matched my gentle heat, molding against my legs and aching my heart. I broke first, pulling back before he could feel me start to bone up, but he remained too close, a sleepily thoughtful expression now on his face.

"…Never kissed me like that," he said finally, and I frowned.

"What?"

"He never kissed me like that."

The ghost of Lyle shoved ice down my spine, my bone dying and stomach turned sour.

"Move."

"Huh?"

I snapped, pushing him back; "Move, damn it!"

The air in my lungs burned like huffing gas had as a kid, burned like it had the moment I realized my tenth grade history teacher, Mrs. Green, was actually coming on to me.

"Devlin…."

"Fuck you. I'm not fucking competing with my brother's fucking ghost."

"Devlin."

His hand on my arm and the other on my hip, staying my retreat even as he moved in for another kiss, its heat sharper than the first but still just as tender. I should never have kissed him, shouldn't be kissing him.

But I'm weak.

He was the one to break first, face just as sleepy but softer somehow. Unguarded. Smiling gently, he used a thumb to smooth Noxzema into my skin, tracing the edge of that bruise and biting back a grin at my wince. This time, when he went as to resume rubbing the cream over my sunburn I let him, basking in the unwarranted care and attention.

I watched him in the mirror as he did my back, seeing the sleepily appreciative expression on his face and wondering how often my brother got to see the same. Often enough to take it for granted? Did it ever grab him down low like it does me?

Hank turned off the light once finished; when I went as to move past him toward the living room he physically blocked me, forcing me down the opposite end to his bedroom. A low lamp was lit on the nightstand and a blanket half-spilled over the side of the bed, a novel set pages-down on the one un-furrowed pillow.

A fist to the small of my back nudged me over and I didn't refuse, crawling over the blanket and half-lounging against the pillow, propped up by my elbows so I wouldn't crush the book. He leaned over and pulled it from beneath my shoulders and placed it on the table before folding himself down to sit on the edge of the bed to look at me.

"Is this weird," he asked finally, and I nodded.

"…Too weird?"

As I shook my head no, he smiled, watching as I finally slid down to lie on my back, my movements overly cautious so as to not rub my skin raw again. It was only once I'd relaxed enough to bend one knee and put an arm beneath my head that he moved, slipping over and half-pressing me into the mattress as he kissed me like he had in the bathroom.

I never would have figured him for such tenderness, but maybe it was what he needed to make this okay.

Maybe it was what I needed.

"Lyle never said you were gay," he said finally within a natural pause in our kissing.

"I'm not."

He frowned, questioning.

"I'm bi."

"Is that why you fucked my mom?"

"That would be how, not why."

He shifted, his weight still firmly pinning me in place; "Why, then?"

I don't know why I didn't expect it to come up; it's kind of the millstone I wear 'round my neck. When I didn't say anything he moved, pulling back until sitting up, his knees on either side of my ribcage and his hands on his thighs.

"Devlin, why did you fuck my mom."

How was I supposed to answer that? Why would he even ask. …Couldn't he have waited until we weren't both half-naked in his bedroom?

My continued silence induced him to leaning forward, lowering my lung capacity until I finally snapped; "What do you want me to say, Hank? Because I wanted to?"

"You ruined her life, ruined my life, because you wanted to?"

"Of course not! I got just as much shit, you know, so it's not like that didn't roll both ways. She came on to me and I took it."

He scoffed; "Came on to you? She was a grown ass woman."

"And I was only fifteen!"

Taken aback, he said, "But you told them it was only senior year."

"What the fuck was I supposed to say, Hank? If anyone knew, she'd be rotting in prison. So, yeah, I was fifteen when I lost my virginity because a grown ass woman told me I was sexy and could eat her out if I wanted to. I wanted to, so I did."

"…Gross."

I punched him, once in the stomach and once in the dick, squirming away when he fell off to one side clutching his groin.

And, once again, I found myself leaving his house without my shirt, the air cool along the black road in the middle of nowhere.

I didn't get far before having to stop, my lungs caving in and head spinning sharply, and that's where Hank found me when he rolled up on that Harley Fat Boy of his. And I was still in full-on panic attack but my fist connected with his face just fine when he came at me, my knees turning to pudding but allowing me to get in one good kick to his legs before I crumpled down, vision spotty as his figure swam in and out of glaring headlights.

"Devlin, I'm sorry, please, I'm not going to fight you, stop."

I'm never coming home again, never coming back, never.

"Devlin, please, please breathe. I'm not going to fight you, just breathe."

Big hands on my face, thumbs smoothing along my jaw line, and surprisingly I could feel the panic already ebbing as I focused on those hands and my own breathing. He held on only as long as it took for me to take charge of my facilities again, letting go once I relaxed and moved into a more natural position.

"I'm sorry," he repeated and I pulled an arm across my face, embarrassed by the evidence of tears but what was done was done.

Maybe I could just stab him and leave town forever. Valid option.

"Come on. I'll take you home."

"I don't live here anymore."

"Shut up, turd biscuit, and get on the bike."

Well, okay.

It was only once I was seated behind him that I wondered aloud if my brother's ghost was slipping in between us again.

He revved the engine; "You should know the answer to that."

I couldn't help smiling, my arms wound about his torso and face pressed against a shirt stretched tight across the shoulders.

Lyle would never have played this game.

...

Ma fried me up bacon and butter biscuits the morning I meant to leave. Maybe she knew I planned on never coming back. Dad grunted a farewell from in front of T.V. but didn't stop me when I bent down and kissed the top of his head while Ma disappeared to their bedroom. Maybe to cry. Maybe not.

Lyle's room remained the same. Seemed more pale now, though. Less like a home for ghosts and more like a museum. Well, I guess museums have more than their share of ghosts too. Before, I'd been looking for some kind of sign, a note specifically meant for me, but now that I knew there wasn't one I didn't bother.

This time I simply touched my brother's belongings, residual guilt tingeing my conscience because of all the shit I used to pull down on myself for doing this when he was alive. But that was what little brothers were for, yeah? We fuck shit up and get fucked up in return. Lord knows I did.

Fucking Lyle. He's still fucking me up.

I left once the boredom set in, snorting a bit at myself. Not sure exactly what I'd expected, and I don't even know if I found it.

But whatever it was, it was waiting for me in the form of a man leaning against a Harley Fat Boy behind my car.

Stupid, silly butterflies in my stupid, silly throat.

"How long you been here?"

He shrugged, and I snorted, making him grin slow and sweet.

Ridiculously stupid butterflies.

"Brought you your things before you could skip town," he said, indicating a bundle of clothing sitting on the seat of the bike.

"Even my underwear?"

The tease was mainly to cover my own embarrassment, but it made him cough.

"Why Hank, you kept a souvenir? All you had to do was ask."

"You know what, I'm leaving."

"Yeah? You don't seem to be moving."

"I must be. You're getting closer."

I smiled just before leaning in and kissing him, pleased that he responded warmly.

"…Thank you, Devlin."

I blinked; "For what?"

He glanced up and down the street, and I did the same. Nothing I could see beyond a couple of kids farting around down the end of the block.

"What?"

Instead of answering, he kissed me again, more thorough this time. Kissed me down to the tips of my toes and back again. Guess that was answer enough. I had to pull away though, because if he continued kissing me like that who the fuck knows what I would do.

As it was, I found myself saying, "Doubt I'm ever coming back, but if you ever want to find me, you should look up The Ballroom. My coworkers always know how to get hold of me."

He stared; "You…why?"

Oh, that crushes a guy.

"Because the reason things went on like they did with your mom so long was because Lyle once told me I could never have you."

His expression was difficult to read but I chose to take it for proof Lyle was right, my mouth twisting in a self-sick kind of smile. So much for that. There was nothing for it but to do what I do best, which is to run away from everything too fucking heavy for me to deal with, and he did nothing to stop me.

I glanced in the rear-view as I pulled away but could see only Lyle. Doubt I'd find the day my brother wouldn't be staring back at me.

...

You know, I really love short skirts.

I love everything about them, but I love them best when they're hiked up to a girl's waist and giving me something to hold onto as I'm kneeling between her thighs with her hands fisted in my hair. The band was currently between sets, and I'd bet the drummer I couldn't make her come twice in fifteen minutes; I managed it in ten.

The bet had been for a kiss, which I pressed to her neck so as not to smudge her lipstick but she dragged me up and kissed me hard. She laughed when she finally let me go, her fingers smoothing the color from my lips even as I grinned, skin electric all over from the thrill of her kiss.

"Go w'on, you, time for th'nex' set," she teased, and I nodded, helping pull her skirt back into place before I leveraged my way up to my feet again.

She returned to her band and I debated pulling one off in the men's but knew there wasn't time before I was needed in the sound booth. Grunting, I shifted myself more comfortably and left to get on with what they pay me for around here.

...

The sound of ripping up tape is usually pretty violent in its own right but I was being particularly vicious with it tonight; I'd thought to get more with the drummer from earlier but she'd laughed politely and patted my cheek like a puppy before leaving with the rest of her band and doting groupies.

There was no one about but employees of The Ballroom now, ruining my chances for not spending the night alone; while most my coworkers had no issue with my constant string of hookups, the fact I've had so many put me solidly in the 'no-fly' zone. I don't blame them, really, just as I don't blame myself for having an overly-healthy sexual appetite.

I was nearly ready to punch a hole in the next inanimate thing to cross my path when the scent of lemon hit me strong, my physical response almost sharp enough to cause blood loss.

"Please tell me you changed your mind, Charlotte, because it ain't fucking fair to tease a man when he's down," I warned, barely hiding the eagerness to get laid from my voice until I looked up and realized a distinct lack of breasts and sassy attitude stood where Charlotte ought have been.

"Hank…."

I felt dumb, at a complete loss for words, but it made him grin a bit. Slow and sweet and turning my blood to molasses.

"She was right about this then."

I blinked; "About what?"

He moved closer and the lemon intensified, his smile twisting to a smirk when I had to adjust myself through my jeans. Charlotte is mutherfuckin' mean.

"Charlotte tell you what you needed to know to get in my pants?" I guessed, and he shrugged.

"She did say I wouldn't have to try very hard."

I sighed; "Yeah."

"So…."

Glancing up, I realized he was looking for some kind of physical affirmation of how I felt for seeing him appear out of the blue and snorted gently to myself, though I allowed my eyes to crinkle up at the corners when I asked; "Can you wait?"

A stillness passed over his face, an expression I remembered from my visit after Lyle's funeral, but he shrugged like he didn't give two shits one way or the other.

Men. Impatient fuckers.

Still, I resumed pulling up tape and wires because that shit isn't going to do itself and if I leave it for someone else I'll never hear the end of it. Things run pretty quickly when I put my mind to it, and I had the task completed in record time, hand brushing grit from my kneecaps as I stood and slung the roll of wires across my unoccupied shoulder.

"Almost done," I promised, pulling him in close because I don't lie to myself about shit like that, and not kissing him was going to seriously damage my ability to do anything else.

Only, his mouth on mine felt different than last time, less friendly and more complicated.

"You…what…?"

My confusion made him smile and my spine went funny, all sparks and lightning and Savage Garden.

Oh. God.

"But it's been months."

He shrugged; "Had to put Lyle to rest."

Well.

"Okay."

"Yes?"

I pinched the good amount of muscle just beneath his ribcage and he laughed, surprised by the action and his response but not appearing to mind as I followed it with another kiss, deeper than I'd planned but I wasn't going to beat myself up about it.

Not when it had him leaning in to say in my ear; "I hear you have a thing for drummers."

"Why, you know of any?"

...

Cigarettes and denim legs,
grit beneath my knees.
A couch once made of sterner stuff,
than plaid and broken springs.
Boom box full of human vice,
"Make me come," was all you said.
I'm a devil doing angel's work,
when I'm down here giving head.


a/n: the poem inspired the story. true fact.