Five Brothers
: Chapter 10

Taillights disappear in the distance. As the roar of the cars fades, it leaves the Bay deserted and quiet as I step into Macon’s garage. My Rover is up on the lift, about six inches off the ground, and two of my tires are missing.

The car shouldn’t be taking this long to fix, but I’m not complaining. He’s busy, and I’m lucky to have him at all. And for free.

The speaker on the shelf plays Hozier, and I walk around the car. Sections of paint are sanded off, all places where I had either scratches or maybe a dent or two. I don’t know. I didn’t keep track of every time someone’s car door slammed into mine, or maybe the few times I drove over bushes or through trees, sneaking around with my friends and causing havoc like an idiot.

The driver’s side door no longer has the two-foot-long line of silver paint that I just suddenly noticed one morning after coming out of my house this past summer. Coincidentally, I’d told Milo off (again) the night before. It’s probably related.

Macon steps out of the house, stopping at the top of the stairs. He holds a greasy cloth in one hand, a car part in the other. I clear my throat. “Iron replaced the two tires that were damaged,” I say, walking around the car. “What’s wrong with the other two?”

I’m not going to be nervous. If he tells me to beat it, I will. Let’s see what happens.

But he continues down the stairs, saying instead, “They were bald.”

I follow him with my eyes, taking stock of the dark circles under his eyes that are always there now. I would’ve thought he was going to bed after that shower earlier. I spot the bag of food on the table, still unopened.

I squat down, picking up a piece of sandpaper on the cement floor.

But a hiss hits my ears, and I halt in my tracks, gasping. A snake sits coiled on one side of the garage door, gray with black spots. That’s a …

That’s a …

Oh shit.

I jerk my eyes to Macon, but he’s already there. He leans down, and I open my mouth to scream for him to stop, but he yanks the tail, catches the neck, and I watch as he walks into the street, flinging it into the woods on the other side of the road.

I’m breathing hard, my heart jackhammering, but he turns and heads back to his worktable, not looking at me.

That was a …

That was a …

What the fuck? We have wildlife here, but that was a pit viper. A pygmy rattlesnake. We did a project in sixth grade about the wildlife threats in our area. I remember.

I put my hand over my mouth, ready to vomit.

I swirl my eyes around me, checking for any more. That can’t happen often, right? We don’t actually see them in St. Carmen.

I glance at Macon. He squats down on the other side of the car, and I start to hear sandpaper grinding against the car like what just happened couldn’t have gone bad in a second.

Like going to look for a gator on the loose by himself a couple of weeks ago wasn’t careless, too.

He keeps toying with death.

It takes a moment, but I move for the side of the car opposite him and start sanding the small mark he probably didn’t know was there. He really doesn’t need to fix my paint job, but it’s too late to say anything. He has to fix it now.

I work the paper over the small scratch, but after a couple of minutes, my arm already burns. I reposition myself, putting some muscle into it. The tips of my fingers tingle with the friction.

I look at him through my passenger-side windows, but when he glances up, I drop my gaze again. He’s not kicking me out. I guess that’s a good sign.

But the next thing I know, he’s standing over me. I look up, seeing a pair of gloves in his hand.

“I’m okay,” I assure him.

“Put them on now,” he says. “Women should have soft hands.” I cock an eyebrow. “Why? Because we’re dainty?”

Please …

But he spits out, “Because you’re mothers.”

I look up at him again, and for the first time ever, he blinks. Then he drops his gaze. “Even when you’re not.”

I don’t know what that means, but I stop in my spot. I’m not a mom. I won’t be one anytime soon.

I grind my thumb over my fingertips, taking note that they’re still soft, even though I wash them a hundred times a day at the restaurant. Paisleigh likes the smell of the lotion that Mariette puts next to the sink.

I take the gloves, then he taps the car, near the roof, showing me another scratch that I didn’t know was there.

I take that as an invitation to stay.

He buffs out the scratch on top of my roof that was from the tree branch I grazed once, and I sand the paint over the five little scratches from the Coke bottle Mars threw straight up in the air that accidentally landed on my hood. Macon starts replacing the two wheels, and I scan the car one last time for any remaining blemishes.

“High Enough” by Damn Yankees comes on, and I can’t stop smiling all of a sudden. I work a scratch a little more, lost in my thoughts.

“My dad used to listen to this music,” I say. “When I was little.”

He squats on the other side of the car, refastening the lug nuts. “He had an eighties Corvette he bought in college,” I go on, “and I wasn’t allowed to touch the car, but he bought me one of those motorized kid cars, and I would fix mine while he worked on his.” I still see everything in my head. Him in the driveway, my car parked behind his. “It was pink—mine, I mean—and I like pink, but there were like fifteen shades of pink on that car. It was hideous.” I laugh out loud, even as the tears well. “He’d have a beer, and I’d have a bottle of strawberry soda. Out in the driveway. Music cranked up. A light breeze.”

I swallow over the needles in my throat. It was perfect.

I haven’t seen him in months.

“He was different then,” I say, my voice softening. “I guess he forgot the things he loved.”

His hair bands, his Corvette, his dreams …

“I guess I’ll forget the things I love, too.” I go back to sanding. “Life takes you over like that. You lose yourself. Who you were when you were five was the real you. Before everything started to kill you.”

My father couldn’t have been obsessed with his stock portfolio when he was a kid. He wanted other things.

I see Clay’s mom out in the world now. Buying a seaside cottage. Learning to garden. Wearing jeans and eating ice cream on the sidewalk.

Regressing, my mom says. A midlife crisis, she says.

But it’s not. Clay’s mom isn’t having a midlife crisis. She’s remembering herself.

I look at Macon through the windows, seeing him just sit there, his body still.

I don’t want to sell any of me to Jerome Watson. I don’t want to lose time.

I walk over, and Macon sees me coming and starts on the tire again. He’s attached the others, now removing the lug nuts from the fourth. The one Aracely stuck her knife in. He cranks the wrench, loosening the first bolt.

“May I try?” I ask. “To learn? In case I break down on the road by myself sometime?”

He opens his mouth, inhaling something that looks like it’s going to be a sigh, and rises without sparing me a glance.

I lean down, grabbing the wrench in both fists, and pull, the bolt spinning easily. I twist and twist until it pops off, and then I fasten the tool to another bolt. Gripping it with both hands, I pull again, but this time it doesn’t budge. I yank, putting everything I have into it. He must’ve loosened the last one. I jerk it again and again, grunting, but then I stop and look up. “Oh, you know what? We should make a TikTok.”

But he blurts out, “Get up.”

I do and watch as he puts one of his suede work boots on the long bar of the wrench and stands up on it, showing me how to use my weight to loosen it.

The bar budges, and he steps off.

“Cool.” I beam up at him. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t smile back. He walks off, and I crouch down again, twisting the wrench until the nut falls off.

I look over my shoulder. “And thanks for the tires.”

He opens the bag of food I left hours ago, sniffs it, and winces, dropping it back down on the tool bench.

I don’t know why he doesn’t just tell her to make him a steak, or some stew, or even an omelet. Something light if he’s tired of burgers. All it takes is a text.

Moving in front of the tire, I kneel down and reach behind it, securing it in both hands. Shifting back and forth, I wiggle it off the axle, but Macon is there before it drops onto my feet.

He tries to take it, but I stop him.

“Just take the other side.”

He tightens his lips and grabs the other end, walking backward quickly, and I hurry to keep hold.

“Why didn’t you go to the club like everyone else?” I ask as we set the tire on top of the other three. “Do you wanna go?”

He’s going to kick me out of here any second if I don’t shut up.

I dust off my hands, my eyes on his back as he hits the button next to the garage door, closing it, and switches off the overhead light. The work lamp under my hood still glows. I guess we’re done for the day.

I walk over to the sink and squeeze soap into my hands. “I’ll go with you if you don’t want to walk in alone,” I tell him.

But he flips on the water, barking, “I told you to wear the gloves.”

He eyes the grease all over my hands and grabs some kind of brush, the bristles grayed and worn. He pours soap all over it.

Taking one of my hands, he scrubs, struggling hard to be gentle, judging from his white knuckles and pursed lips.

“Have you ever been to a strip club?” I ask, looking up at him.

The heat from his body warms me.

I smile. “I can’t imagine you at one.”

“I was in the fucking military, Krisjen.”

My heart thuds hard. He knows my name. That’s twice now he’s said it.

I don’t know why it surprises me, but it does. I was in the fucking military, Krisjen.

Krisjen.

He knows me.

“What?” I hear him ask.

I look up, seeing him staring at me, and I realize I’m smiling a little.

I shake it off. “Nothing. So you wanna go?”

“No.”

I shrug, mumbling, “I kinda wanna go.”

“What the hell for?”

“Why don’t you want to?”

“Why do you care?”

Why do I care? No idea. Why am I even here right now?

“Goddammit.” He tosses the brush into the sink. “I told you to use the damn gloves.”

I gaze at his face as he pumps a different soap into his hands and rubs it into mine. There’s a tiny scar on the back of his jaw. A groove with a few lines—like a shooting star. I never noticed it before.

But I always noticed everything else.

The constant pinch between his brows. The fatigue in his eyes. The tension in his muscles, and the stress and anger rolling off him in waves more and more every time I see him.

He’s not easy, but he’s a good man. I know he is. Feeding these people. Helping their families. Giving up his life to come home and raise his siblings.

“I think someone should be making you smile, is all.”

My voice is so quiet, because my heart is beating so hard it hurts.

“I’ll be happy if the people around me ever do what they’re told,” he growls, rinsing off our hands. “Y’all don’t listen because you think I haven’t been alive longer and might know some shit.”

His scent drifts into my nose, and I fight not to curl my fingers around his. Tingles spread up my arms from my hands where we touch.

“Someone should be taking care of you,” I whisper, dropping my eyes. “At night.”

He stops and just stands there, and he can push me away if he wants, because that’s what he always does to everyone else. Eventually, they just stopped trying. I don’t want to be afraid of him.

“You take care of everyone, all day,” I say quietly. “Someone should be loving you.”

His chest moves up and down, and I lower my eyes to the brown leather belt around his narrow waist. Against his golden skin.

“Touching you …” But I can only mouth the words. I don’t think he hears.

He should have a woman. One woman, because he’s got a body he can’t fuck around with. He’s made for something special.

Deep down, so are Army, Trace, and Iron, and maybe Dallas, too, for someone brave enough, but Macon … I just want to see him exhale.

He doesn’t need tail. He needs her, someone who can take him far away just behind a closed door.

“I can’t dance.” I turn off the water and dry my hands. “Not like the girls at the club, so I can’t bring a lap dance to you, but … I can bend in half.”

He meets my eyes just in time to see me clutch the basin hip-high and hold on as I bend backward, my ponytail grazing the backs of my ankles.

I immediately pop back up and grab the key chain dangling out of his pocket, waving my hands in front of him like a magician. “I can also make your keys disappear.”

Haphazardly, I fling them somewhere behind me, like he totally didn’t notice I just threw them.

He cocks a brow.

I hold up my finger, also pointing out, “I can whistle ‘Ave Maria.’ The entire song.”

And I proceed to blow the first few notes. Aaaaaaaa-vaaaaaay Maaaaaariiiiiiaaaaa …

A whisper of amusement crosses his eyes, and there’s definitely a smile there now. I know his scowls well enough to know that’s not one.

His body towers over me, his broad shoulders boxing me in a room I have no ambition to leave.

Flutters go off in my stomach.

“I can …” My cheeks grow hot. “Do something else, too.”

I can’t look at him all of a sudden. I stare at his stomach and whisper, “Something they don’t do at Flamingo Flo’s.”

He doesn’t move, and while it almost makes me nauseous to have his full attention, I’m on fire.

“Please don’t get mad, okay?” I know he would never laugh at me, but I also know he doesn’t like to be pushed.

Crossing my arms over my waist, I grab the hem of my sweatshirt and pull it up over my head, bringing my T-shirt with it. Eyes still lowered, I let the clothes drop from my arm to the floor. I wait just long enough to see if he’s going to stop me, and when he doesn’t, I stand there in my pale blue lacy bra and start to unfasten my jeans.

“You don’t have to touch me,” I tell him. “Just please don’t look at my face.”

But he does. His gaze burns my cheeks.

“Will you turn on the water?” I ask, gently pushing down my jeans for him. “A little warm, if you can?”

I feel his eyes travel down my body, to the lace of my matching underwear, and up to my bra that doesn’t hide the hard points of my nipples.

He leans in, and I hold my breath as he turns on the water behind me. I hear it spill into the sink. “Switch over to the hose,” I say.

He pauses, but then … he flips the lever, and the water changes over, spilling out of the hose and onto the cement floor. A stream pours out of the garage, carried by the slight slant of the foundation, and I bend over, picking up the hose.

Inching my underwear down my thighs, I twist my leg out, open myself up, and let the dribble of water spill over my clit. I watch it wetting me, teasing the tender skin, and in a moment, the pulse starts to throb and heat floods me down low as I grow wet.

What’s the worst that’ll happen? He’ll yell at me? Make me feel stupid?

Pushing my thumb into the mouth of the hose, the water shoots hard, spraying against my nub, and it feels so good, I close my eyes.

I move into it, breathing harder as I rock my body just a little and roll the spray in slow circles over my clit again and again.

I wish he’d touch me. I would let him.

I try not to, but I raise my eyes and meet his, locked on my face. My heart punches my chest. He’s not watching the show. He’s watching me. I told him not to.

But he’s not stopping me.

Water spills down my legs, drenching my clothes. I lean back into the sink, watching the water cascade over my body. “I tried my fingers,” I tell him. “And a vibrator, but I like this the best. Sometimes I’m in the shower for a while, lying in the tub with the showerhead, and … doing it to myself again and again.”

A wave of pleasure courses through my body, and I sigh, my chest caving.

“I’m scared of you,” I whisper to him. “I’m scared of what they said about you in whispers all while I was in high school, and even more scared of how I thought about you when I didn’t even know you.” My mind would drift to an idea of Macon Jaeger, and how even though he had a houseful of family and a whole tribe on his side, I still always thought of him as on his own against the world.

“But mostly …” I gasp, “I’m scared when you look at me, which you’ve only done five times since I first walked into your house.” I wet my lips, looking at his and hating how those stories I heard left out so much about how he works so hard that he doesn’t sleep. I remember every time our eyes have met. “And I’m scared of why I would have gone to that club with your brothers tonight only if you were going to be there, too.”

I wanted to go. I just didn’t want to leave without him.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen my body, is it?” I ask, but I can’t look at him. “Did you watch me by the pool the other night?”

Army, Trace, and Dallas were at Mariette’s after Red Right Hand.

“I think about you,” I murmur. “Do you ever think about me? Do you even know I exist most of the time?”

I lean in, the top of my head just under his chin.

“Hold it,” I tell him, guiding his hand to the hose.

He takes it, and I pull my hair out of the ponytail, watching his chest rise and fall faster as I unhook my bra and drop it to the ground.

I start to take the hose back, but he drops it to the ground, the water feeding a whole river down the garage. He presses his forehead into mine just before he grabs something on the wall, flips a switch, and I hear a machine start.

I suck in a breath, staring up into his eyes and knowing what’s about to happen. My heart races as he switches the water back to the faucet, rinses off the end of the vacuum hose, and then presses the end of the long gray tube to my clit.

It sucks, I jolt, and he grabs my hip with his other hand, holding me to it.

“Ah,” I whimper, gripping the sink behind me on both sides and letting my head fall back. My flesh gets tugged, and I squirm, but all the time trying to get closer. I buck, my hair falling over my face and the suction making my head spin. Oh God. Fuck.

This is so much better than the water.

I wrap my arms around him, one clutching the back of his neck, the other holding his waist as I rest my head on his collarbone and thrust my hips into him, the orgasm building and fucking coming.

I whimper, the heat swirling low in my belly until … it’s there. I hold my breath, stiffen, and clutch him harder, crying out as it explodes all over me. My stomach flips, my head drops back, and I hang on.

I close my eyes and ride it out, loving the feel of his eyes on my body.

He drops the vacuum tube, and I lean into his chest, clutching his belt in front of me. Everything is light. Dizzy.

And when he hugs me back, everything is warm. Like a blanket. Like a shower. Heaven.

I want to look at him so badly. Tell him to put me in the back seat of my car right here in the garage and drive into me. I open my mouth to speak, but then he starts pulling up my underwear instead.

“That was relaxing,” he breathes over my temple. “Thank you.”

Our chests match in rhythm as he reaches into his pocket, and I look down to see him slip a twenty into the strap of my panties. My stomach knots.

“You’re a good girl,” he says.

And then he presses a kiss to my forehead and walks back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Leaving me alone with my jeans around my knees and not another look at my face or uttering my name from his lips.

I clench my teeth to stop my chin from shaking.