“A grudge?” I laugh, too, but the sound is so bitter, so joyless, it’s really more of a bark. “You think that’s all this is? You broke our parents’ hearts. You ruined my life. You ripped our family apart.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m doing just fine here.”
“That’s rich! You’re a criminal. You’re wanted by the police for drug possession and parole violation,” I remind him, none too gently. “Somebrotherlyadvice? Turn yourself in, Jaxon.”
“That won’t be happening.” His eyes turn cold as he takes a measured step toward me. “And while we’re giving one another advice… Before you get any grand ideas of dropping a dime to my PO about where I’ve been spending my time, allow me to suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut. You should know better than anyone, the crew I run with these days does not screw around when it comes to people who complicate our business.”
“So you’re still caught up with the Latin Kings, then?” I shake my head, scoffing. “Why am I not surprised to learn you’re just a lackey for some two-bit drug lord?”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Jax snaps, fury rising swiftly. “I’m no one’s lackey. Most of the shit we’ve got going on right now is thanks tome. The boss knows that, and he respects me for it. Which is more than I could ever say for you. Or our parents. You all treated me like a screw-up from the moment I was born.”
“Well, if the shoe fits…”
His mouth twists into a snide smirk. “I guess it was a hard pill for you — the precious Reyes golden boy — to swallow. After all that work, all that dedication… you’re going to end up no better off than our parents. Just another blue-collar stiff, slaving for the man. About as far from the lights of Fenway Park as you could find yourself.” He laughs, like this entire scenario is hilarious to him. “Me? I’m making something of myself. I’m going places. Take a look at yourself in the mirror, Archer. Can you say the same?”
That’s it.
The final straw. The camel’s back breaks. And my my control, already stretched perilously tight, breaks right along with it.
“Bastard!” I roar, hurling my body down the docks headlong in his direction. “You ruined my fucking life!”
Jax sees me coming a mile away. And, judging by the eager expression on his face, he’s been craving this altercation for a long while. “I didn’t ruin your life, brother. You did that all by yourself.”
“Fuck you!”
His smile is laced with vengeance as his arm cranks backward in preparation to throw a punch. He’s always been bigger than me, but even after my injuries I’m still faster. I duck his powerhouse right hook and slam into him full-force, catching him in the midsection with my left shoulder. The impact tosses us both off balance. We tumble down onto the docks in a pile of limbs.
Rolling across the splintered wood, we curse at one another as we trade jabs. We’re clawing like wild animals, all sense of sportsmanship abandoned. He hauls me into a headlock, one thick arm roping around my neck. I jerk my skull back into his nose with a sharp snap that makes him scream. There’s a grim satisfaction burning in my veins when I realize I’ve likely broken his nose.
Good.
He deserves it.
He deserves all the pain I can possibly inflict.
And then more.
My damaged hand screams in pain, pulsing violently as I clench it into a fist and send it flying into Jaxon’s left eye socket. I’m probably undoing six month’s worth of physical therapy, but in this moment I am unable to summon the common sense to care. All that matters right now is retribution. Making my older brother suffer the same way he’s made me suffer. A fair trade of devastation, delved out in frantic punches and uneven uppercuts.
By the time bystanders from nearby vessels manage to pull us apart, we’re both banged up. My lip is swelling to twice its normal size; Jaxon’s left eye is turning a deep shade of eggplant. Blood trickles from both his nostrils — his nose is definitely broken. Panting for air, our eyes stay locked in twin glares as we’re hauled in opposite directions by the intervening fishermen.
“This isn’t over, little brother!” Jaxon’s voice carries to me on the wind, each word imbued with gloating malice. “I’ll see you again. Soon. Count on it.”
I don’t say a word. Turning on my heel, I shrug off the restraining grip on my shoulders, spit a gob of bloody saliva into the water, and walk straight toward the only place I know will offer a modicum of comfort.
* * *
I’ve been at Biddy’s for nearly an hour when the stool beside mine screeches against the hardwood floor as someone drags it backward. I glance over just as a burly, bearded man in his late thirties settles his large frame onto it. I recognize him instantly. One of the regulars. He’s here even more often than I am. Harvey, the bartender, sets a frothy beer in front of him before his ass is fully on the seat.
“You’re Mahoney’s deck hand, aren’t you?” he asks, taking a long sip.
I shrug noncommittally. The last thing I want to do is make smalltalk with a stranger — not after the week I’ve had. Not ever, really. I guess myfuck-offexpression needs practice.
“I’m Deacon Hayward. Everyone calls me Dee.”
Everyone knows Dee Hayward. He captains the nicest lobster boat in the harbor, a forty-footer tricked out with all the bells and whistles.
“Reyes,” I offer flatly, my voice half-muffled as I swallow down a gulp of my whiskey.