Page 29 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Bills, bills, bills, bills.

The lines in Cyrus’ forehead bend with his frown as he files through one letter after the next.

“Oh, shit. You’re back early.”

Cyrus jolts, and his attention snaps to a familiar face waving at him from beside the fridge. His brother flashes a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while he holds an overloaded sandwich in the other.

“My bad about the mess.” He gestures to the array of condiments littering the counter. “I’ll clean it, scouts honor.”

“Remind me why I let you keep that spare key?” Cyrus fixes him with a flat look as he discards the mail on the table.

“Well, for one, this is the ol’ family ranch, and I am, in fact, family,” Tomás responds. He takes a bite of his lunch, words slurring around his mouthful when he speaks. “Secondly, I help make sure everything stays afloat around here while you’re sluttin’ around in the city.” His grin is crooked, and pieces of ham and bread stick between his pointed canines.

Cyrus glares, then shoulder checks him on his way to his liquor cabinet. “Fuck you.”

“Ew, gross. This ain’t Alabama, and you ain’t exactly my type.”

The comment earns him a slap in the back of the head, but Tomás isn’t fazed. He snorts and pulls out a bar stool with rusted brass and a ripped vinyl cushion, propping himself up at the counter with his meal. Tomás is the only one he’s close to who knows what Cyrus does behind closed doors. Details were withheld, for obvious reasons, but he knows. Which means, in true little brother fashion, he never passes on an opportunity to tease Cyrus about it.

“Fixed that sprinkler issue you were having, by the way,” he continues. “Everyone’s been fed, watered, what have you. There’s a new batch of eggs on the counter over there. The hens are mostly good, but, well…” Tomás’ foot taps, and his brows pinch. “Coyotes seem to have gotten to a few of them. I cleared the carcasses out, most of the ladies are safe but shaken up. Didn’t realize until this mornin’.”

Shit.

Cyrus clicks his tongue against his teeth. Living out in the countryside often meant being accustomed to the wildlife that also called it home: coyotes, foxes, the occasional cougar. They weren’t much different from him, following the cards nature had dealt them. More often than not, most of them respected an unspoken rule that they were welcome so long as they stayed away from the livestock on his property. He’d meant to install better fencing before he left for the weekend. The poor things must be getting desperate this season.

“I’ll work on the fence later today,” Cyrus sighs. Selecting an unopened bottle of whiskey, he grabs a chilled glass from the small freezer below the bar and eyeballs a shot or two. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, as his old man always liked to say. He downs half of it and ignores the weight of Tomás’ stare when he does.

“Geez. Rough day at the office or something?” There’s a hint of concern thinly veiled behind the sarcasm. “It’s kinda early for the hard stuff, ain’t it?”

Cyrus’ jaw ticks. He scoffs from around his glass. “Are you really one to talk about someone’s drinkin’ habits?”

Tomás quiets, mouth open with a retort he seems to think better of. He rubs the back of his neck, and the eyes that look too much like their fathers shift to the side. A silence falls between them. Tense, unpalatable. It sends guilt tugging around Cyrus’ insides and he takes another long sip of his drink.

“Fair enough. I have apologized, you know.”

Another tug.

“I know.” Cyrus sets his glass to the side, arms crossed as he meets his little brother’s gaze. In it is that same scintillation of dejection that’d been there six years prior when they stood alongside each other, dressed in black for the second time in less than a month. He still remembers the phone calls that started coming from the bar not long after, the ones from concerned bartenders warning him to swing by before authorities had to. Tomás’ voice would ring out in the background, all slurred speech and revile and anger. Cyrus knew that anger, because he’d felt it too. Deep, deep in his bones, he still felt it. He hated the world that existed without their parents in it. Hated the hole in his chest their absence left behind.

Grief was a pitiless thing.

They both chose their own ways of coping with it.

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Cyrus’ face softens, his tone a little smoother around the edges. “I’m just tired. And a little wound up, I guess.”

Tomás tilts his head, a brow lifted. “What do you mean?”

Cyrus grabs his glass again, staring down at the dark liquid with heat in his face that has little to do with the alcohol. “I think I’m sick.”

His brother looks Cyrus up and down before leaning over to shield his sandwich as if whatever ailment he is referring to was going to go airborne and infect it. “Well, all things considered, maybe you ought to go get tested.”

“For fuck’s sake, it ain’t like that, bones for brains.” Cyrus stalks over and snatches the other half of Tomás’ food from his plate just because he can. Holding it out of reach, he bites into it with a satisfied smirk, and the other growls at him in protest.

“No, it’s somethin’ else. Mentally, I’m not thinking straight is all.”

Tomás crosses his arms and leans against the counter with a bored look. “Wanna elaborate?”

“Not really, no.”