Poughkeepsie Begins (The Poughkeepsie Brotherhood #0.5) (7 page)

Summer stood up and danced around. “Look! Candy gave me princess hair!”

“It’s amazing.” Cole nodded a hello to Candy and walked Wintery into the room.

“I think your hair always looks like a princess. I love the curls.” Candy smiled at Wintery. Though she was shy, it was clear she wanted the braid as well. Cole sat next to her on the bed.

“Is it hard to do?” Cole held Wintery’s hand.

“No. Just takes practice.” Candy gently brushed her next customer’s hair.

Beckett stood and flipped Summer upside down. “You want to see what yours looks like?”

She started giggling. “Yes!”

After they left, Candy explained the braid to Cole. He nodded and paid attention.

“Do you know how to do a regular braid?” she asked him while she slid the rubber band in place.

He shook his head. Wintery had the sweetest smile as she left the room, presumably to see her hair too.

Candy unraveled her hair out of its own braid and ran the girls’ brush through it. She pulled it over her shoulder and showed Cole how to section it and weave it into a braid. He watched, and then she unfurled the braid and gave him the hair to practice.

Beckett returned just as Candy told Cole he was doing a great job.

“You think you got it, bro?”

She’d expected him to make fun of Cole for his turn as hairdresser, but there was only encouragement.

Blake walked in and looked Candy in the eye as he said hello. “Rick’s on his way in,” he announced.

She watched all the brothers tense. “We didn’t even go over the project,” she pointed out.

Beckett offered his hand and pulled her off the bed. “Sorry, pink princess. If it makes you feel better, I got what I wanted from you.”

“And what was that?” Candy slipped her jacket back on.

“I knew the girls would love those fancy braids.” He ushered her back downstairs and walked her to her car.

“I’m happy to help when they need that.” She was charmed by the girls and the adorable connection they had to the brothers. “But we need to get this project done.”

“It’s awesome that you think that’s going to happen.” Beckett smiled. “Never lose that positive outlook.” He closed the car door for her.

Her visit had been brief, so the power steering fluid remained warm enough to steer. Beckett waved at her as she backed out of the driveway. She didn’t like the way his charm slid off his face as he turned to go back into the house—like there was a losing battle to be fought inside.

The Ranch

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at the ranch, Cole was grateful yet again that he hadn’t asked either of his brothers to go. The sunshine was inescapable, and the boredom was huge. Beckett did badly with free time.

The ranch really was Rick’s mother’s place. He was a hard man for a reason, and maybe if Cole had cared—which he didn’t—he might have had some sympathy for his foster father after seeing his family dynamics.

Ethel was a hard woman with biting words. Shortly after their arrival, it became clear that Rick, his wife, and the foster kids were there to “refresh” her old house. Everything would get a fresh coat of paint, and the huge yards were to be raked and weeded. They were essentially the maintenance crew. Ethel always had a criticism for the work being done and took no delight in the children. The fact that the kids were not biologically related to her was a huge failure in her eyes.

At night the kids went outside to escape the bickering and harsh glances from Ethel. Cole took the time to try to master braiding on Summer or Wintery’s hair—whoever was willing to sit still.

He definitely had the single braid down, but the French one that Candy had taught him was tough. The girls were sweet, though, claiming to love all the messy versions he came up with. He would excuse himself from the makeshift salon when Rick headed out of the house, pent-up rage on his face.

Tonight he followed his foster father into the woodshed at the back of the property, hands in his pockets. Rick was more keyed up than usual, but luckily he was also exhausted from a long day of working on the ranch. And although the location had changed, Rick still had the worst, hateful words for him while Cole took the blows.

It was obvious now: Rick sounded just like Ethel. Same phrasing even. They would make a great case study. But tonight, only the cracks of Rick’s fists on Cole’s flesh mattered. Inside his head, Cole felt like a sick freak because the pain made him feel alive. He was almost grateful to Rick for bringing him to his knees.

Then Wintery cracked open the woodshed door, her eyes wide. Rick happened to be in between blows, so he stilled. Summer would have stomped right into the room, but Wintery shuffled, her rubber band tight in her fist like a ticket for entry. Cole stood and walked toward her.

“Hey, did your braid come loose? I can help you put it back in a minute. Meet me at the house?”

She nodded, somber eyes looking from him to Rick and back again. Despite his direction, Wintery didn’t move. Cole was slow because his headspace was so completely different when he was at Rick’s mercy. But finally he put it together. It was dark outside, and she was probably frightened to make the walk alone. She’d gotten here, but getting back would be tougher.

As he turned to explain to Rick that he would be right back, he caught the man raising his hand in his peripheral vision. Wintery cowered as the shadow from his intended violence shaded her face.

Cole caught Rick’s arm on its downward trajectory. He stepped between Rick’s feet and let his eyes go vacant. His lack of fear, lack of remorse was the scariest thing most adults had ever seen. If there were an image next to the words
stone cold crazy
in the dictionary, it would certainly be the expression on Cole’s face.

“You will not.” His voice he kept calm for her. But Cole’s eyes held all the untamed violence he knew he was capable of.

The whiskey scent rolled out of Rick’s mouth with every exhale. “She needs to learn. Just like I’m teaching you.” Rick focused on Cole’s nose, sweat making his skin slippery under Cole’s grip.

“Cole?” Wintery gasped.

He recognized it like a soundtrack to the cage where he’d spent so many hours. He let go of Rick and spun, picking up the little girl and stepping toward the door. “Let’s get you inside,” he whispered near her ear, ignoring the jabs of pain he normally nursed with help of Blake’s first aid.

“I’ll tell you when you can leave.” Rick staggered toward them.

When Cole was about to open the door, he saw Wintery flinch. He pulled her close to his chest as he turned, and the blow hit him in the center of his back. It took his breath away. The pain rippled through him, and Wintery whimpered, sounding too scared to even cry.

Cole walked as Rick’s fists began their rain on his back. He opened the door to the shed, keeping Wintery firmly in the cavity of his chest. She yipped and gasped, Rick’s blow glancing her leg as it slipped from his rib.

He turned her, pulling her legs from around his middle so she was a little ball in his arms. He began to jog as he hit the night air. After a minute he got her to the backdoor. “You hurt?” he asked.

Wintery’s eyes were rimmed with tears as she pointed to her calf. He held her under the porch light and could see a bruise starting to form.

“Can you go inside and put an ice cube on this? Just until it feels too cold, then take it off. When it warms up, put the ice back on.” He set her on her feet, and she looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. “Don’t worry about him. Okay? He won’t hurt you again.”

He tried to usher her through the door, slapping the lights on inside. Wintery wouldn’t let go of his hand, shaking her head no.

“I’m okay.”

She shook her head no again.

She was right. He was so far from okay it wasn’t even a joke. But he was about to slip into feral form, and he needed to know she was far away.

“I’m stronger than he is. I promise.” Cole took to one knee and hugged her. “Do the ice thing. I’ll tuck you and your sister in in a minute. Okay?”

The little girl knit her eyebrows together. They could have passed for brother and sister—or maybe even father and daughter. Wintery put her hand on his cheek. She didn’t say she understood. She didn’t say she believed him. She just looked at him with eyes that revealed her old soul. Despite the fact that she and her sister were carefree kids, they had known hardship. Disappointment. Unrest.

He pushed her in through the doorway and closed the freshly painted door behind her. After she began trudging in the direction of the kitchen, Cole turned back toward the shed. As he drew close, he saw Rick on his way out, wiping his mouth. Cole walked up to him like they had a business transaction to complete. And they did. A delicate one. Two things needed to be understood by the end of the night. One, that the girls were never to be touched. Two, that the situation they had at home could not be changed. He and his brothers put up with Rick’s bullshit so they could stay together. The pain inflicted was the cost for the family they now had. And Cole was willing to pay it every night, every single night of his life if he had to. The woods behind the house were his new cage, but because of Blake and Beckett, he was never alone in it anymore.

Cole was almost past Rick when he grabbed the man’s throat and pulled him back into the shed, satisfied by the shock in his eyes. When the shed door closed, Cole let his sanity disappear into the recesses of his mind. He felt like his teeth got longer. His fists were laced with steel-tipped blades, in his mind anyway. The only danger was that without his brothers, he had no one to keep Rick safe.

The next day, back at home, Blake walked through the woods quietly. He’d been off his meds for three days, and he liked how crisp the leaves were. Fall was his favorite. The colors reminded him of music—the harmonies of all the trees together, the outstanding solo of an all-red tree. He was so good at walking quietly that he sometimes got to witness the wildlife preparing for winter. He would stand absolutely still while an entire deer family fattened up by eating the last of the green leaves of a bush. He knew that to the rest of the world it looked like he was standing in silence. But he wasn’t. They just couldn’t hear the music he could hear. The soft backbeats, the soaring string lines—it was tremendous. And without the chemicals, he could hear them better.

Of course that also meant the sun was worse. And the panic attacks about the whole situation were so embarrassing. The world didn’t get it. He’d been told by so many doctors and counselors that he was imagining it, that the sun wasn’t as revealing as he thought. But he’d seen it with his own eyes.

It was as real as the music.

He stepped closer to the train station. Lately he’d been drawn here. From this spot in the woods he could hear the percussion of the wheels. It fit. It fit with the composition he had going. The greens. The reds. The train gave the forest the heartbeat it needed.

He pulled out his keyboard and sat on the cold ground. He tried to memorize the songs his fingers created in his head. He wanted to write them down, but all he had was his mind. He played the same tune each time a new train approached the station, trying to commit it to memory so it would last, so it would remain with him when he went back on the medicine and the edges of the panic were a little less sharp.

It was a good session, but it could have been better. He needed the percussion to be louder. He wished he could sit closer. He stood. As the sun cleared a cloud, he watched the station fill with light. One spot under the stairs remained shaded. Maybe, maybe when he wasn’t so keyed up he could get there. If he watched the weather and made sure his timing was right, he could get to the shady spot and play this song.

Blake put his hand against a birch tree. The sun-filled walk looked like a torture chamber to him. God, why did it have to be so hard? People didn’t know what they had, being able to walk freely wherever they wanted, not a care as to the placement of the clouds above.

Maybe someday soon he’d be able to do it. But today was not that day. He curled the piano into his pocket and took the safest path back through the woods. The dense evergreens worked together to cloak him. By the time he was back to the house, the sun was low enough that he could skirt his way to the back door. The house was so quiet. Without the little kids, with no TV on, it was like a funeral parlor. Saturdays were never like this. Then Beckett slammed the front door, looking exhausted and bloodshot.

“Hey.”

“’Sup.”

They walked to the fridge at the same time, Blake opening it and Beckett swearing. “We’re are fucking out of food.”

Beckett’s hands were jittery. It was hard to see him like this—strung out and stressed. The quest for the girls’ field trip money had given him permission to go head-first into the business he’d been dancing around.

“Listen, I’m getting picked up in a few minutes.” Beckett set his backpack on the floor, opened it, and pulled out a roll of bills secured with a thick rubber band. “I need you to hide this in the fucking woods. It’s for the girls. But peel off a little and go grocery shopping tonight, if you can. If you want to. Do we need anything else? You want new sneakers? What fucking size does Cole wear?”

“I don’t know. Why do I have to hide it?” Blake filled a glass with tap water and drank while pocketing the money.

“Trust me.” Beckett zipped up the pack and put it on his back.

“Listen. We can get the money a different way—”

Beckett shook his head. “I already made it. It’s in your hand. Some things, when you start them, you can’t have second thoughts. It’s like that now. I’m about to get a shake down and an ass kicking. It’s cool. I know what I’m getting into.” Beckett’s upper lip was coated with sweat. “Just keep it somewhere I can’t find it. And Rick can’t drink it. Okay? I got to get changed into some crappier clothes.”

With that, Beckett bounded up the stairs. Blake slipped out the back door, lucky the sun had descended for the evening. He knew already which tree behind the house to tuck the money into. It had a knot covered by moss and held the one picture he had of his mom. Sometimes he went there to reminisce, sometimes to rage. It was complicated, but the spot on the tree was secure and dry. Before tucking the money away he counted it. Five hundred dollars.

It was from drugs. Blake knew that was how this kind of money was made. And you didn’t hit the streets and not know how ruthless the dealers were. Five hundred missing was enough to be a serious offense. Blake separated out a hundred dollars and put it in his pocket. The remaining four hundred disappeared into the tree.

Blake watched from the trees as a car took Beckett and his backpack away. He’d seen that flashy blue Mustang with the black stripe down the center before. Shaking his head, he headed downtown quickly—through yards, over fences, and through some wooded patches. He arrived and saw the blue car parked outside an abandoned warehouse. He quietly picked his path until he could see in a window. The lack of outside security lights made him comfortable; he was camouflaged.

The windows were covered, but there was a tear in the black paper, and he could see a slice of the inside through it. He recognized Beckett’s voice.

“Fuck you! I got mugged. You’re fucking lucky I have what I have. Fought off, like, ten motherfuckers.”

The loud slap resonated. Blake shivered. He was going to have to go in there. No one got beaten alone. That was the deal.

There was a huge commotion—had to be a pileup of angry bodies. Blake came around the corner just in time to see the guy by the front door run into the warehouse. By the time Blake made his way to Beckett, three guys were already on the floor. One was struggling to hold Beckett, and another wielded a two-by-four, ready to swing.