Ace mumbled something as he ambled to the kitchen at the back of the condo.
“Sit still.” Bob ordered and I sat immobile while he carefully checked out the wound. “You’ve got a good-sized lump and a decent cut there, but it doesn’t need stitches,” he said. “That headache won’t go away for a while, though.” He dashed into the bathroom and returned with a First Aid kit. He took out butterfly bandages and proceeded to tape up the cut. I relaxed and almost dozed off.
“Are you feeling better?”
I opened my eyes again and nodded. Bob was sitting on a chair across from me, arms folded over his chest, smiling at me. Behind his shoulder Deuce stared at me, still as confused as ever. Which reminded me. I sat up straighter, ignoring the ensuing throbbing, and studied Bob. “Why haven’t I heard of you before? I’ve known your brothers for a year now.”
“I don’t know,” Bob said. “I’ve heard of you.”
I nodded, but was speechless.
“Deuce, why don’t you help Ace with the pasta.”
“Huh?” Deuce turned his stare to Bob.
Bob raised an eyebrow at him. “When you called me earlier, you said you guys were fixing pasta for dinner.”
“Oh yeah.” Deuce shuffled off into the kitchen, where we soon heard the sounds of pots banging onto the counter, and then the start of an argument between Deuce and Ace.
“I guess Ace forgot your water,” Bob said.
I waved a hand at him. “Forget it. I should be going anyway.” But my behind still stayed glued to the couch, contemplating this newest brother. How could I have missed this? I must have been tuning out the Goofball Brothers whenever they had talked about Bob. My observation skills needed honing.
“I haven’t lived in Denver long,” Bob said as if he could hear my thoughts. “I lived on the East Coast until a few weeks ago.”
“Oh.” I paused. “I should be going,” I said again, but this time I forced myself out of my seat. I stood, swaying a bit.
“Are you going to make it?”
“Yeah, I’m just upstairs.” I shook Bob’s hand. “Thanks again for the help.”
He showed me to the door. I stepped onto the porch and walked its length to the left side of the building, where a wet, metal staircase led to the third floor entrance to my condo. Behind me I could hear Bob chuckling, probably wondering what kind of a goofball lived above his brothers.
CHAPTER NINE
When I let myself into my place, I tramped right to the kitchen for Advil. I tossed two in my mouth and washed them down with half a bottle of water, then stumbled into the living room and crashed on the couch. I awoke later to the sound of the phone softly ringing, its pulse barely loud enough to rouse me.
I grabbed the cordless off of the end table and held it to my ear. “Hello,” I mumbled, my voice sounding like I was talking through cotton.
“Honey, is that you?”
“Mom?” I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted at the clock on the wall. Ten-fifteen. I’d been asleep for more than two hours.
“Honey, are you all right? Did you swallow a frog? You’re not doing drugs, are you? I never did, not even smoking pot, even though it seemed like everyone else did. They say that when you smoke pot, your mouth gets all dry and you sound like, well, like you do.” My mother had a way of launching into a topic like a preacher into a hell-and-brimstone sermon, full force and not taking a breath. “Reed, this is not how we raised you, to blow your money on drugs, ruining yourself. Get a good job, find a nice lady, and settle down. Out doing drugs. Why, the next thing you know, you’ll be on the streets, and then where will you be?”
“On the streets,” I said.
She sniffed. “You’re not funny, dear.”
“It’s good to hear from you, Mother. How are things in Florida?”
“Everything’s fine here, but don’t change the subject.
“Sit still.” Bob ordered and I sat immobile while he carefully checked out the wound. “You’ve got a good-sized lump and a decent cut there, but it doesn’t need stitches,” he said. “That headache won’t go away for a while, though.” He dashed into the bathroom and returned with a First Aid kit. He took out butterfly bandages and proceeded to tape up the cut. I relaxed and almost dozed off.
“Are you feeling better?”
I opened my eyes again and nodded. Bob was sitting on a chair across from me, arms folded over his chest, smiling at me. Behind his shoulder Deuce stared at me, still as confused as ever. Which reminded me. I sat up straighter, ignoring the ensuing throbbing, and studied Bob. “Why haven’t I heard of you before? I’ve known your brothers for a year now.”
“I don’t know,” Bob said. “I’ve heard of you.”
I nodded, but was speechless.
“Deuce, why don’t you help Ace with the pasta.”
“Huh?” Deuce turned his stare to Bob.
Bob raised an eyebrow at him. “When you called me earlier, you said you guys were fixing pasta for dinner.”
“Oh yeah.” Deuce shuffled off into the kitchen, where we soon heard the sounds of pots banging onto the counter, and then the start of an argument between Deuce and Ace.
“I guess Ace forgot your water,” Bob said.
I waved a hand at him. “Forget it. I should be going anyway.” But my behind still stayed glued to the couch, contemplating this newest brother. How could I have missed this? I must have been tuning out the Goofball Brothers whenever they had talked about Bob. My observation skills needed honing.
“I haven’t lived in Denver long,” Bob said as if he could hear my thoughts. “I lived on the East Coast until a few weeks ago.”
“Oh.” I paused. “I should be going,” I said again, but this time I forced myself out of my seat. I stood, swaying a bit.
“Are you going to make it?”
“Yeah, I’m just upstairs.” I shook Bob’s hand. “Thanks again for the help.”
He showed me to the door. I stepped onto the porch and walked its length to the left side of the building, where a wet, metal staircase led to the third floor entrance to my condo. Behind me I could hear Bob chuckling, probably wondering what kind of a goofball lived above his brothers.
CHAPTER NINE
When I let myself into my place, I tramped right to the kitchen for Advil. I tossed two in my mouth and washed them down with half a bottle of water, then stumbled into the living room and crashed on the couch. I awoke later to the sound of the phone softly ringing, its pulse barely loud enough to rouse me.
I grabbed the cordless off of the end table and held it to my ear. “Hello,” I mumbled, my voice sounding like I was talking through cotton.
“Honey, is that you?”
“Mom?” I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted at the clock on the wall. Ten-fifteen. I’d been asleep for more than two hours.
“Honey, are you all right? Did you swallow a frog? You’re not doing drugs, are you? I never did, not even smoking pot, even though it seemed like everyone else did. They say that when you smoke pot, your mouth gets all dry and you sound like, well, like you do.” My mother had a way of launching into a topic like a preacher into a hell-and-brimstone sermon, full force and not taking a breath. “Reed, this is not how we raised you, to blow your money on drugs, ruining yourself. Get a good job, find a nice lady, and settle down. Out doing drugs. Why, the next thing you know, you’ll be on the streets, and then where will you be?”
“On the streets,” I said.
She sniffed. “You’re not funny, dear.”
“It’s good to hear from you, Mother. How are things in Florida?”
“Everything’s fine here, but don’t change the subject.
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