Page 57 of Last Man Standing

I snort.

“But I am still, and will forever be, the head of security for the woman you boys not-so-secretly call La Bruja. You’re lucky she hasn’t lopped your head off for it yet.”

“You’re lucky you haven’t snitched. You know how I feel about cowardly yellow bellies.”

He chuckles, as unafraid today as he was when I was an angry six-year-old, furious that he would dare tell my mom about my habit of jumping off the highest rock overlooking the dam at the rear of our property. That rock was at least twelve feet in the air, and the dam, at least nine feet deep.

It makes sense that the man who would grow to be nicknamed Tank was probably a kid who sank like a rock.

“I caught all the hullabaloo about your newest mission.” Shakily, he twists toward the bedside table and reaches out for the cup of water. But I’m faster than him, so I gently tug him back and grab it instead. I bring the long straw to his lips and hold still while he sips.

“Mm.” Too exhausted for middle-of-the-night hullabaloos, he lies back again, his eyes dropping closed and his lips curved with a soft smile. “Thanks. You were always a good boy.”

I scoff. The alternative would include the itchy eyes thing. “You should go to sleep, Unc. I promise to come back in the morning and visit with you.”

“I’ll sleep soon.” He tightens his hand around mine. Still not very tight. “Tell me about your new mission.”

“I don’t have a new mission.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on his bed. “I’ve had the same mission my entire life. The same objective. The same endgame. This other thing is just⁠—”

“A side trip?” He chuckles weakly, the sound barely more than a whisper on the air. “It’s okay to reallocate your attention, son. You’re allowed to exist outside of this life you were born into. Your mother is well taken care of, and from what I’ve heard, that woman you brought with you… isn’t.”

“My mother threw a fit the instant that woman and I got out of my truck.” I rest my chin on our joined hands and study his too-pale cheeks in the muted light. His skin is damn near translucent. “She wasn’t pleased.”

“No one ever taught her how to share,” he snickers, but his laughter turns to a cough, and the cough turns to a grunt of pain. “Fuck, boy. This is some bullshit, I tell ya.”

“Mav told me the doctor came by yesterday.” Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die. I’m not ready. “It ain’t good, huh?”

“Eh…”

Scarlett asked me just days ago if I’m ever afraid. The answer is so fucking obvious, so blatantly dying right here in front of me. And his reaction is a bland eh.

“Doctors don’t always know what they’re talking about,” he rasps. “That idiot told me I wouldn’t make it past Thanksgiving.” He wheezes out a soft laugh. “Proves how much he knows.”

“Unc—”

“It ain’t bad news till it’s bad news, and I’m not giving up just cause the calendar told me it was time.”

“Are you in a lot of pain?” I draw a shaky breath, my lungs rejecting the scent of antiseptic and the poison those idiot doctors pump into this man’s veins. “It’s manageable, right?”

“Mm… it’s hardly a bother.”

Skeptically, I bring my eyes up to his.

He grins. “Honest. They keep me comfortable enough that I feel like everyone’s overreacting. And when it’s not so comfortable, they give me the drugs that make me dream of the prettiest things.” His lips wrinkle into a goofy grin. “It’s the strangest thing.”

“Unc—”

“We have company, boy.” His voice hardens just a little, his frailty makes way for the soldier he is beneath the cancer.

Straightening in my chair, I glance over my shoulder and clock my mom’s stare. I see the woman beneath the warrior. The mother under the leader.

In front of her men, and especially in front of the woman she’s deemed a threat, she’s ruthless. But here in the shadows, with my uncle’s hand clasped in mine, and my dad’s hand clasped in hers, she’s just a woman. Scared and weighed down by responsibility.

“Got yourself under control now, Mother?” I bring my eyes back to the sickly man in the bed. “Think we’ll get an apology, or…?”

He chuckles. “That’s not SOP. Don’t get cocky.”

“I won’t apologize.” She makes her way across the room, her steps not even loud enough to beat Uncle Bas’ machines. Setting her hand on my shoulder, she leans close enough that her perfume invades my senses and her lips press to my cheek. Her long hair tickles my neck, but it’s her shaky exhale that proves she feels. She might appear to be a machine to most outsiders, but to those who know her, we know she feels.