always tasted so much better than city milk.
Chase wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel shirt as he prowled through the house, searching for clues to the man his brother had become in his absence.
The place was spartan, even neater than Jay's anal housekeeping usually had it. He smiled at the box of Trojans in the kid's night stand—at least one of them was lucky in love. An image of the purple-headed girl he'd seen with Jay seared through him. Damn. What kind of creep got hard for his kid brother's girl?
He distracted himself by continuing to snoop into his brother's life. Jay's grades were still good: straight A's except for a B in calculus, he read from the report card that was in a stack of mail on the desk.
Chase's own room was untouched, crowded with football and baseball trophies, his foot locker from the Corps, photos his mother had framed. A photographic panorama of Charles Thoreau Westin's life from Little League to Afghanistan.
He sank onto his childhood bed. It was dark enough that the glow-in-the-dark constellations pasted to the ceiling were visible. He remembered his father tottering on the step ladder, so engaged in explaining the story of Cassiopeia that he'd almost lost his balance. In the end, he'd finally raised Chase onto his shoulders and they had invented their own version of the Milky Way.
Thank God, Mom and Dad were gone before the Corps kicked Chase out. The disgrace would've killed them for sure—and there was no way Chase could explain it to them. Just as he could never explain to Jay. Not without placing his brother in danger. He'd rather have Jay disappointed than dead.
Chase sighed and climbed back to his feet. He hadn't come here to revel in nostalgia. He came here to find a way to get Jay out of the cross fire before he took Bruno down.
His footsteps echoing on the oak floors, Chase moved to the front of the ranch house and into the living room. The afghan Mom crocheted was folded over the back of a well used Barcalounger positioned in front of the TV. The over-stuffed sofa looked as if it had just come out of a show room although Chase knew it was over a decade old. Senior year, he'd almost lost his virginity with Kristy Mancuso on that couch. Until his little brother stumbled in on them, irrevocably breaking the mood.
Where were the photos that had once hung on the wall behind it? There'd been pictures of his parents' and both grandparents' weddings; his, Diane's and Jay's baby pictures; a photo of his father and Chase at the John Wayne museum; and the entire family at the Grand Canyon. In their place now hung generic Walmart art deco prints.
Chase frowned and looked around for his missing memories. Most of the photos were gone from the mantle as well, the few remaining spread around as if to camouflage the empty spaces.
He spied the two small suitcases sitting beside the front door. Packed and ready for a quick get away.
The door opened just as Chase reached for the first suitcase. Jay entered. His brother's eyes, twins to his own blue ones, blazed at him.
"What the hell are you doing here!" Jay said.
The first words Chase had heard from Jay in almost six months. "Merry Christmas to you, too."
Jay was ten when Chase joined the Marines. Chase remembered the pride in his kid brother's face, how he'd said Chase in his uniform looked like John Wayne in the old movies their father was devoted to. Now Jay's eyes were filled with an emotion more painful than hatred. They looked at him with a mixture of disgust and disappointment.
"You got some nerve—" Jay snuck under Chase's guard with a right hook that caught his attention.
While he'd been gone, someone had finally taught the kid how to hit like he meant it. He blocked the next punch, wrapped Jay in a bear hug as they grappled for position. Using his greater bulk, he rolled them both over and pinned Jay beneath him.
"Stop it!" a woman
Chase wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel shirt as he prowled through the house, searching for clues to the man his brother had become in his absence.
The place was spartan, even neater than Jay's anal housekeeping usually had it. He smiled at the box of Trojans in the kid's night stand—at least one of them was lucky in love. An image of the purple-headed girl he'd seen with Jay seared through him. Damn. What kind of creep got hard for his kid brother's girl?
He distracted himself by continuing to snoop into his brother's life. Jay's grades were still good: straight A's except for a B in calculus, he read from the report card that was in a stack of mail on the desk.
Chase's own room was untouched, crowded with football and baseball trophies, his foot locker from the Corps, photos his mother had framed. A photographic panorama of Charles Thoreau Westin's life from Little League to Afghanistan.
He sank onto his childhood bed. It was dark enough that the glow-in-the-dark constellations pasted to the ceiling were visible. He remembered his father tottering on the step ladder, so engaged in explaining the story of Cassiopeia that he'd almost lost his balance. In the end, he'd finally raised Chase onto his shoulders and they had invented their own version of the Milky Way.
Thank God, Mom and Dad were gone before the Corps kicked Chase out. The disgrace would've killed them for sure—and there was no way Chase could explain it to them. Just as he could never explain to Jay. Not without placing his brother in danger. He'd rather have Jay disappointed than dead.
Chase sighed and climbed back to his feet. He hadn't come here to revel in nostalgia. He came here to find a way to get Jay out of the cross fire before he took Bruno down.
His footsteps echoing on the oak floors, Chase moved to the front of the ranch house and into the living room. The afghan Mom crocheted was folded over the back of a well used Barcalounger positioned in front of the TV. The over-stuffed sofa looked as if it had just come out of a show room although Chase knew it was over a decade old. Senior year, he'd almost lost his virginity with Kristy Mancuso on that couch. Until his little brother stumbled in on them, irrevocably breaking the mood.
Where were the photos that had once hung on the wall behind it? There'd been pictures of his parents' and both grandparents' weddings; his, Diane's and Jay's baby pictures; a photo of his father and Chase at the John Wayne museum; and the entire family at the Grand Canyon. In their place now hung generic Walmart art deco prints.
Chase frowned and looked around for his missing memories. Most of the photos were gone from the mantle as well, the few remaining spread around as if to camouflage the empty spaces.
He spied the two small suitcases sitting beside the front door. Packed and ready for a quick get away.
The door opened just as Chase reached for the first suitcase. Jay entered. His brother's eyes, twins to his own blue ones, blazed at him.
"What the hell are you doing here!" Jay said.
The first words Chase had heard from Jay in almost six months. "Merry Christmas to you, too."
Jay was ten when Chase joined the Marines. Chase remembered the pride in his kid brother's face, how he'd said Chase in his uniform looked like John Wayne in the old movies their father was devoted to. Now Jay's eyes were filled with an emotion more painful than hatred. They looked at him with a mixture of disgust and disappointment.
"You got some nerve—" Jay snuck under Chase's guard with a right hook that caught his attention.
While he'd been gone, someone had finally taught the kid how to hit like he meant it. He blocked the next punch, wrapped Jay in a bear hug as they grappled for position. Using his greater bulk, he rolled them both over and pinned Jay beneath him.
"Stop it!" a woman
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