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“Yeah. Chef’s mother, Ol’ Mrs. Aviston, they said she was bounding around the yard like a Chihuahua that’d caught the fumes. She supposedly asked the Sheriff why he was hauling her boy away in cuffs. They said she carried on until the Sheriff told her it was ‘cause her dumbass son thought he was going to be the next Chef Boyardee.”
The laugh that shot out of her before she managed to clap a hand over her mouth and compose herself brought a smile to my lips. It also brought a sense of relief that she’d found humor in the tale, rather than renewing her mistrust in me. It had taken her quite a while to warm up to my presence when Pat first started bringing me around, and I didn’t want to lose her hard-won friendship over Chef Aviston’s stupid ass.
We shared a patch, and a code of honor… That was it.
Even if it was a code that I’d just publicly shit on.
“I should get on. Oakland has probably torn the living room up and raided the cabinets by now.” She smiled.
I gave an understanding nod, “Next Sunday then?”
She reached for the door handle, hesitating briefly before she relented with a faint tip of her head, “Same time?”
“See you then.”
She shut the door, gave a wiggle of her chubby fingers when she briefly glanced back, and started toward the house in that dignified, graceful way of hers. I stayed there a minute, just long enough to make sure she entered the house alright. Content with the situation, I pulled back out and turned the radio on.
All hell was going to break loose when I made it to the clubhouse, so I might as well enjoy the peace while I could. I hit the highway and rolled the windows down. The breeze felt nice, and for just a few seconds the smell of Brenna’s soft perfume lingered in the air.
She was a good woman.
I sighed and slowed at the stop sign that all but announced it was the county line. I needed to get the car back and drag my ass to the clubhouse. I gave a brief glance to my right, before focusing on the left hand turn I intended to make. Just as my foot found the accelerator, my head snapped forward. That alone was enough to rattle my brain. It was the blow from the airbag that took me to a dark oblivion.
A gentle, predictable sound broke through the fog. As consciousness greeted me, I recognized it to be a medical monitor of some type or other.
“There, put him down,” a familiar voice murmured.
“I– You cannot put someone under who has suffered–”
“Do it, or I will.”
I fought against the dizziness, my lashes fluttering as I began to emerge from the confused depths, only to plunge back to that cozy, dark place again.
A weight lay on my wrist. I had no idea how long it had been there. I couldn’t be bothered by the source, even if I usually had an aversion to restraints. All the money and booze in the world couldn’t have persuaded me out of that drug-induced cocoon and the stupor that seemed to embrace me any time I stopped talking.
I frowned, aware I’d been vocal, but unable to remember what, or with whom.
“He’s a good boy. A smart and good-hearted boy,” someone droned on.
Eager to make them piss off, I moaned without confronting the disturbance, “Hmm?”
“Oakland.”
I stretched my neck, my brows wincing at the suggestion that he was anything other than a good boy.
“He needs you.”
The warm embrace settled over me, not having an argument to offer. He would find a friend in me, if ever he or his mother needed it.
“She needs you, too.”
No four words in the English language had ever hit me in the chest the way those did.
“Ain’t fit,” The dry words drifted from my lips as I tried to open my eyes.
“You’ll fit. You clean up nice, and you do a good job of looking out for them.”
I mumbled, the fight waning as I accepted the words as truth. I did look sharp in the new Sunday shoes, and my hair didn’t look so dingy now that I’d stopped drinking and was taking care of myself again.
