Face the facts,an ugly voice whispers from the back of my mind.You’re only good for changing bait bags and banding crusher claws. You’ll only ever be a grunt worker. A lackey.
Loser.
Failure.
Townie.
My thoughts are dark as the pre-dawn horizon. I hasten my pace, as if to outrun them, getting to the harbor just as the first trucks are rolling in, their headlights dim beams in the shadowy parking lot. I recognize several of the local lobstermen stepping out onto the pavement, already wearing their rubber boots and coveralls, breath steaming the air as they sip coffee from thermoses and bark low orders at their stern-men. I brace my shoulders as I make my approach.
In my gut, I know it’s highly unlikely I’ll be able to find another lobstering gig this late in the season — most captains locked in their crew months ago. But I ask around anyway, growing more frustrated with each fruitless conversation.
Sorry, son.
Already have a stern-man.
Check back next spring.
The sun rises higher in the sky as my hopes plummet. By late morning, I’ve made the rounds down every dock without a lick of success to show for it. Fists clenched, teeth gritted, I take the long way back to my apartment. My nose twitches at the fishy smell as I pass by a row of trawlers bobbing on thick, braided lines at the commercial pier. Long-haul vessels, rust stained and salt coated, with large dragger nets suspended on wooden booms from either side.
The men who work on these rigs return to land only once every few weeks. I’ve seen them on the stools at Biddy’s, with their empty-eyed stares and stern-pressed mouths. They look devoid of life — like all that time on the water, away from humanity, has stripped something vital from their bones.
That sort of work has never appealed to me, but I’ll be forced to consider it if things grow desperate enough. I need money and for that, I need a new job. The small nest egg I’ve been stockpiling from my lobstering wages won’t keep me afloat for much longer.
The last slip on the pier hosts a particularly ugly trawler. It’s a depressing sight to behold, with its corroded side panels and splintered booms. Next to it, the Ebenezer would’ve looked like a luxury cruiser. As I meander past, eyes moving absently over the name REINA in faded paint across the stern, a deck-hand emerges from the cabin, his hands braced around a black plastic crate of fresh fish from the ice-hold. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments across the space, and I feel my feet falter.
Because I’m staring at my brother.
His hair is a few inches longer, his tattooed sleeves bear a considerable amount of fresh ink, his rangy build is packed with more muscle than before… but it is indisputably, unquestionably Jaxon.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, walking down the gang-plank with measured steps. “If it isn’t my baby brother.”
My jaw is clenched so tight, I can’t form a single word. Rage, red-hot, pumps through my bloodstream, burning me up from the inside out. It takes all my self-control to keep from charging at him, fists flying. To hold back from pummeling him into the planks beneath my feet.
“From the look on your face, I’m guessing you weren’t expecting to see me.” Jax grins, a flash of straight white teeth. “I must say, after a year, I thought maybe you’d be a little less pissed about everything that went down last summer.”
My feet are rooted to the dock. My jaw is locked so tight, I’m no longer breathing. The act of pulling air in and out of my lungs feels too risky. If I open my mouth to let in oxygen, I’m not sure I’ll be able to contain all the fury from pouring out in a deadly torrent.
Jax continues walking down the gangplank, closing the distance between us with a casual stride that makes me want to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until that gloating look disappears from his face. His eyes never shift from mine; his grin never wavers. “What, nothing to say to me? No,‘Hey, bro, how are you?’No,‘Wow, Jax! I’ve missed you, let’s hug it out?’”
With each mocking syllable that slips from his venomous lip, my self-control slips a little more.
“Where are those fine manners of yours? The ones Ma and Pa were always bragging about?‘Why can’t you be more like Archer? He’s so polite. So good. So perfect.’” He makes a tsk sound with his tongue. “Guess you aren’t so perfect anymore, though, are you?”
Somehow, I manage not to react. But my patience has grown precariously thin.
Reaching the end of the gang-plank, Jax steps onto the dock. Only a dozen feet separate us, now. I tell myself to turn and walk away, to be the bigger man, but my feet are no longer cooperating. All I can do is stand there, stock-still, as he brings us face-to-face.
“You know...” There’s that grin again — laced with equal parts mocking and malice. “I’m disappointed, brother.”
It’s that word that finally breaks me.
Brother.
Of all the things Jaxon Reyes has been in his life, he has never once acted like a sibling to me. Not a role model, not my hero, not anyone I could possibly look up to or idolize. And he never even cared to try.
“You are not my brother,” I hiss, the words bursting from my chest like cannon-fire. “You’re dead to me.”
He laughs. Laughs, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life. “Oh, Archer. You always did hold a grudge.”