Wait: The Brazen Bulls Beginning Page 9

  He finished with the drill, set the safety lock, and put it on the ground at his feet. The old eyebolt was on the ground with the new, and Paul had arranged them both, new and old, side by side, so Brian asked Paul, “Which bolt is better to use, d’you think?”

  Paul picked up the new one. “The shiny one. It’s new. The other one is dirty.” He wrinkled his nose.

  “It’s rusty. That happens sometimes, when metal is out in the weather. But that can mean it’s getting weak, and the rust can rub off and get on things. Do you see anything else different about that one?”

  Paul studied the bolts carefully, and lifted the old one again. “This one looks funny. It’s wiggly. I don’t like it.”

  “The wiggly bits mean it can’t grip like it should. It’s stripped. The other one will hold tight. So you’re right, a new one is strong and clean and will help your mama take care of the wash.”

  Grinning proudly, Paul handed him the new eyebolt.

  As Brian screwed it in place, he felt Faye’s eyes burning his back. That was a feeling of lifelong familiarity. “What?” he asked with a smile, but didn’t turn her way. He picked up the clothesline and started a fresh knot.

  “You’re so good with him. And Jamie, too. You’re patient.”

  “So’s Lenny.”

  “He is. But Lenny’s patient with everybody. He’s a good man straight through.”

  Now, with the implied comparison thundering between them, Brian paused and looked at his sister.

  At his look, she understood what she’d said without saying. “I didn’t mean … you’re a good man, too, Bri. You know I believe that. I love you so much.”

  “But?”

  Faye shook her head. “But nothing.”

  “Say it, Faye.”

  It took her a minute. She hung a couple of pillowcases on the line before she worked her way there. “I’m worried about you is all. Sometimes, when you think nobody’s looking, I’m afraid of what I see on your face. Afraid for you. And the way you fight, and drink? I see all that, Bri. Lenny, too. We know what you’re doin’.”

  “I haven’t fought in weeks.”

  “Because of Mo.”

  “What?”

  That was way too close to thoughts he kept inside. He’d brought Mo to meet his family last week, and they’d shared a meal as friendly and pleasant as his dinner with the Quinn’s. Mo had practically squealed at the sight of the baby, and played happily with both children all evening. She might, in fact, have paid more attention to the children than the adults. And that had won their parents over thoroughly.

  “You’re not fighting like you were because you don’t want Mo to see you all mangled up.”

  It was more than that. He hadn’t felt the same restless need for it. And when he did, he simply called her, and went to her, and felt better. But what Faye had said was also true—and safer to admit. “And that’s bad?”

  “It’s too much pressure on her.”

  “Faye, she doesn’t know that I was fighting at all.” Not strictly true, but true enough.

  His sister ducked through the wash and stood with nothing between them. “I know how your brain works. Bri. When you brought her over, I saw the way you look at her. I see you thinking of her when she’s not around. I think I see it happen, like you reach for her in the dark, and that scary look goes away. You want her to hold up all the good in the world so you don’t lose it. Are you sure that young lady is strong enough to carry what you’re setting on her shoulders?”

  He’d had the exact same thought, it was why he hadn’t slept with her yet, but coming from Faye, the words were like live grenades landing in his gut. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and neither do I.”

  Defensive and hurt, he’d snarled the words, but Faye was steadfast. They both knew how he’d lied.

  “I know you, little brother. I’ve been there for everything, and I know.”

  He shook his head and turned from her to finish the job at hand. Paul had grown bored of the grownups talking and had gone off to the swings.

  “You haven’t been there for everything, Faye. Not anymore. You don’t know.”

  “But am I wrong?”

  She wasn’t, and there was no use pretending otherwise. Faye didn’t know, and couldn’t understand, what his time overseas had been like, but nobody knew him better than the sister who’d raised him, and she was right. He needed to hold onto something bright to fight the darkness, and he’d had darkness in his heart long before he’d picked up an M16. At least since he was fourteen and hadn’t been strong enough to pull his father’s mangled body from the teeth of the combine.

  But it was oh so much darker now. Now he knew what he was capable of.

  ~oOo~

  The Quinns insisted that Brian always come to the door to pick Mo up, but he would have done so anyway. It seemed disrespectful to honk from his brother’s truck like he was summoning her. Maybe that was old-fashioned thinking, but if so, he hadn’t caught up on this new world, then. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.

  This afternoon, while the sun was still bright and warm, he pulled up on his chopper. Mo had intended to prepare her folks for this, but Brian was prepared for her uncle to be displeased and to make that fact known.

  He’d tried to be prepared. But then he and Faye had had that fraught exchange among the billowing sheets, and Brian’s mood had been rocky since. He was full of doubt and need, both of them grappling for dominance.

  When Mo opened the door, her uncle was right there behind her, beefy arms crossed over barrel chest, one bushy black eyebrow raised in suspicion.

  “Hi.” Mo pulled him close for a quick, chaste kiss as he stepped into the front hall. “Unca wants to talk to you again.” She cast her uncle an irritated look. “I apologize that he insists on behaving like a feudal lord, but I’ll just run for my jacket and be back in a lick, and then we can escape his tyranny.” She turned and hurried out of sight.

  Oh damn, but he liked the new way girls dressed. Mo had on another pair of low-slung, bell-bottom jeans, this pair striped, and a top that was barely more than lingerie. Gathered snugly across her magnificent chest, loose and flowing over her belly, with tiny, fluttery sleeves that stopped at the top of her slender, pale arms.

  “I said no open toes!” he called after her, when he saw the sandals on her feet. “Boots are best!”

  “Robby—inside, lad,” Quinn said, grabbing the back of his son’s shirt. Robby had been on the porch, ogling the chopper.

  “I thought we agreed you’d keep my girl safe, Brian,” Quinn said as he released Robby and turned back to him.

  That was the chief question tormenting him all afternoon, but he answered Quinn with confidence. “I will, Dave. On my honor. I’ve been riding for ten years. I know what I’m doing. I’ll take it easy, and I’ve got a helmet for her.”

  “But not for yourself.”

  “No. Never worn one.” And now, with his head so painfully familiar with the feel of his flak helmet, he couldn’t imagine ever putting one on his head to ride. Riding blew those memories to the back of his mind. A helmet would keep them trapped up front.

  “You remember what I said about if she gets hurt?”

  “I do.”

  “You’re askin’ for a lot of trust, big lad.”

  “I would kill myself before I’d let her get hurt.” That, at least in spirit, was unequivocally true.

  “Well, then, we’re in agreement on that as well.”

  Mo came to the door then, lifting her hair from under the collar of her denim jacket. She’d added a couple floral patches to the front pockets since he’d met her. There’d already been a peace-sign patch on it, but Brian was okay with that. She was against the war, not the men on the ground who were fighting for their country, misguided though it might be.

  “I’m ready! Bye, Unca.” She kissed Quinn’s cheek, then grabbed Brian’s hand. “Let’s be off!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mo was in a g
reat mood.

  She’d had her last final on Thursday afternoon. The semester was over, her first full year of college was behind her, and she was a freshman no longer. Assuming she’d done as well on her finals and last papers as she thought, she’d be on the Dean’s List again. And now, the summer rolled out before her, full of work and play, and loving this man who was handing her a motorcycle helmet.

  She loved Brian. She hadn’t said the words yet, because they’d been dating only a month. There were lots of rules about the way such things were supposed to go—what was proper, or appropriate, who was supposed to do what, and when—and though she didn’t rightly care about such arbitrary restrictions, she’d never felt this way before, and she found herself feeling a wee bit timid about it. Her heart was in the balance, truly. It bore deep scars already, and she was careful with it.

  But oh, he made her happy.

  A few times, when they were out in public, at a restaurant or a movie, she’d seen glimpses of the darkness he spoke of—that thing that shadowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, and made his face in repose seem so angry. He’d hear a stray comment from a stranger, or there’d be a television showing a news report, and he’d go tense and stormy. But they were mere glimpses, quick flashes of a second or two, before he’d smile at her again and be fine.

  The most fraught moment between them had been at the end of April, when he’d asked about the patch on her jean jacket. A plain peace sign, white on black. He’d had some pointed questions for her about her feelings on the war, and the soldiers, and she’d been a little afraid; it had been clear that wrong answers would have upset him badly.

  She’d given him her true answers. She thought the war was unjust, and that far too many innocent people were being killed for an objective that didn’t make sense to her. But she didn’t blame the men fighting. They’d been drafted; what choice did they have? To abandon the country they loved? Mo knew how that tore a wound in a heart.

  Then Brian had told her he hadn’t been drafted. He’d enlisted, volunteered, and gone to war he believing the fight was a good one, that the soldiers kept the country safe and kept the Communists from their goal of world domination.

  That had given her a moment’s worry. But he didn’t believe in the war anymore. He’d seen the truth, been part of it. Their positions weren’t so far apart after all.

  They’d come through that conversation understanding each other more deeply. That was the night Mo realized she loved him.

  She was ready, so very ready to make love with him, but he held her off. Mo was beginning to feel a little crazy with need.

  So when he’d called and asked how she’d feel about taking a ride on his motorcycle, something he’d never asked before, she took it as a sign.

  She was a bit disappointed not to see a bedroll on the back of the bike. They didn’t have a convenient place for sexual frolicking, but it was a warm evening in May, and she’d entertained a fantasy of making love in a field or the woods.

  That didn’t seem to be the case, alas.

  Brian straightened the helmet on her head and fastened the buckle. “You scared?”

  She shook her head. “Not scared. Excited.”

  That made him smile, and he leaned in and kissed her before he helped her onto the seat and climbed on himself. “Okay, Irish. Just hold on and trust me.”

  She could do that for the rest of her life.

  ~oOo~

  Riding a motorcycle was the most fun Mo had ever had. And it was erotic, too. She hadn’t expected that. Sure, the thought of holding Brian while he rode had seemed romantic, and that was the largest part of the appeal, but it went far past romantic.

  The excitement of their speed, the wind in their faces, the rumble of the engine, and on top of all that, feeling his body nested with hers? And the potent aphrodisiac of trusting him, seeing his skill, knowing she was safe? Lord.

  Whenever they were on straightaways, he’d drop one hand and hook his arm around her leg. No embrace had felt more perfect than that.

  By the time he pulled off at a little diner in a town she’d never heard of and helped her dismount, Mo felt drunk with lust.

  Brian must have felt it, too, because he yanked her close, nearly slamming her body into his, and possessed her mouth in a wild kiss like none they’d yet shared. As he devoured her, Mo tried to wind her body around his at every point.

  His hands—still gloved, but that felt fascinating—pushed under the fluttery bottom of her smocked peasant top, skimmed over the skin of her belly, her back, her sides, sweeping everywhere like he meant to memorize her.

  Beset with more need than she’d ever felt, Mo moaned and turned from his kiss, trying to catch a breath.

  “Jesus, Irish.”

  “I don’t want to wait, I don’t want to wait, I don’t want to wait.” She spoke aloud the chant that had filled her head.

  He stared at her, and she saw the same need glittering in his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

  “What are we waiting for? I don’t understand, Brian. I want you.” She rocked her hips against the ridge in his jeans. “You want me, too.”

  With a grunt, he shifted away from the press of her hips. “Ah, Mo. I do want you. All the time. But I’d be asking too much of you. You don’t know what you could be getting yourself into with me. You need to know first.”

  “What does that mean? You’re good and kind. You’re a gentleman. You’ve been nothing but lovely. Is it all an act? Are you Dr. Jekyll? Does Mr. Hyde come out and strangle young women in the dark? Is that what you’re waiting for me to find out?”

  He looked all around. Mo wasn’t sure if he was checking who was audience to what was becoming a fight, or if he thought he’d find answers in midair, but she wanted his attention on her, so she grabbed his t-shirt. Unintentionally, she got hold of his dog tags, too, and his attention snapped right back as he yanked her hand away from them.

  “You’re not far off. I give you the best I have, but you don’t know the rest.”

  “Then just show me the rest!”

  “It’s not a switch I pull, Mo. It’s not a choice I make. When I’m with you, I don’t feel it.” The corner of his mouth twitched wryly. “Usually.”

  She was still wearing the helmet; now he unfastened it and lifted it from her head.

  “I don’t understand,” she said again.

  “I know. I don’t know what to say.” He set the helmet on the seat.

  “Please try. Please, Brian.”

  He looked over his shoulder, at the diner whose lot they’d pulled into. “Let’s get something to eat while I try.”

  ~oOo~

  After the waitress took their order, Brian pulled his full coffee cup toward him and stared into the brew.

  Mo sat across from him in the booth and ignored her own cup. She was agitated, and confused. She was also angry. All Brian’s evasions and mysteries added up to bollocks. Either he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t, or he was putting her off because he’d been merely trifling with her. In either event, the implication was that she’d fallen in love with a man who didn’t exist.

  Except he was right here, right in front of her, and she loved him.

  “I don’t talk about the war,” he said at last, without looking up.

  “I know. I’ve not asked.”

  “But you have, Irish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out his Camels. She hated that he smoked, but she didn’t complain now. He almost never smoked around her, because he knew she hated it, so either he truly needed that smoke, or he didn’t care what she thought, and either way, there was no point in making a fuss about it.

  When he’d had a puff, he blew it out—pointing it away from her—and said, “Wanting to be closer, wanting to know me, is asking.”

  She didn’t reply, because she didn’t have enough pieces to make sense.

  But his eyes came up and studied hers, and he let out a laugh of a breath. “F
uck, you’re so innocent. You don’t know what I mean, do you?”

  “You’re sayin’ the war changed you.”

  His chest swelled slowly as he filled his lungs with smoke, and then shrank when he blew it all out. He kept his head turned toward the window. “I’m saying it made me a monster.”

  It was Mo who’d raised the specter of Jekyll and Hyde, but she’d been exaggerating. And Brian was manifestly wrong. He was no monster. She shook her head.

  “Yes. It’s more than what I did over there, sweetheart. It’s how it hangs on me. I dream it every night. It’s in my head all the time, waiting to leap out of the dark and take a big bite. I feel it chewing on my insides, all the time, and sometimes something happens, I’ll see something or hear something—it doesn’t even have to be an asshole making a shitty comment about the war, or a news report, it could just be a fucking truck backfiring—and then everything’s loose in my head, and I’m just so damn full of it I don’t half know what I’m doing. I get violent, Mo. When I get that way, I need to fight.”

  He stared out the window again, drawing on the cigarette, but Mo felt sure he wasn’t done speaking. Moreover, she didn’t know what to say. The man he was describing was a stranger to her.

  Except she remembered the bruises and cuts on that stranger who’d walked into the store the week before Easter. She’d been wary of him.

  The cigarette was down nearly to his fingers, and the waitress had brought their order before Brian was ready to say more. He stubbed out his Camel, gave the waitress a cordial nod, and began to knock ketchup onto his fries.

  “I’ve been home five months, and it’s not any better.” He set the bottle of Heinz down and finally, finally looked Mo in the eyes again. “Except when I’m with you. I feel good with you, and calm. What’s dark inside me settles down. Even when I just think of you, I feel better. And that’s too much weight to put on you.”

  “What if I want it? What if I want to carry the weight?”