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He said he wanted to be stronger. He was kinda scrawny back then, way too thin and gangly, all limbs and joints.
Not anymore. I glance at him as we round a corner and cross the street to enter the park where we often end up in our evening jogs. He’s filled out, his shoulders wide, his frame muscled, his legs strong. He’s as tall as me now, too, and can take me out at least one time in two on the wrestling mat.
The thought makes me grin and give him a shove as we jog into the park. He gives me the finger, and I only grin wider. He’s always been a prickly motherfucker, but he seems more confident now than ever before. I got to see that transformation from awkward boy to a damn strong man, and I’m proud of him.
If only he told me what happened to him before I met him…
“You okay now?” I ask for the third time, and Jethro sends me a pissed-off look.
“I’m fucking fine.”
“Need help?”
“Fuck you.”
I clench my jaw, forcing my gaze away from Jethro who’s limping beside me down the street toward my car, away from the bruise darkening his jaw and his split lip.
“Didn’t know you changed jobs,” I mutter. From a bad and seedy bar, to an even worse and seedier one.
“You don’t know everything about me.”
“Don’t make me punch you, you assface. You want me to pick up where those guys left off?”
He stops, fists clenching, eyes flashing. “Try it.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I grab his arm and haul him toward my car, scowling at everyone unlucky enough to step in our path. “Tell me you started the fight. Tell me you wanted the pain.”
“And if I said yes?”
I let go of him to unlock the car. “I’d call bullshit.” He may be brash and moody, but Jet’s not an asshole. “What happened to the previous job?”
“Got fired, what did you think?”
“Why?”
A silent beat. “Freaked out.”
Shit. It’s been a while since he had an episode. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No, I don’t wanna fucking talk about it.”
Heh, right. That’s the Jet I know. Farting rainbows.
The ride home is too damn quiet. I should have punched him for not telling me he was fired. Damn, that bar where he’s working now seems far worse than the previous one. For one, it appeared full of junkies and psychopaths. And for another, he was beaten up.
“You should quit.” I’m driving on autopilot, stealing glances at his still profile. “Find something else.”
“This is what I know.”
Not sure whether he means the job or the violence, and it makes me wanna slam my head against the wheel.
“You worked other jobs. You can change again.”
“Not everyone has your confidence, Joel Dickinson.”
“Shut up.” I elbow him and he lets out a startled huff. “Jethro Jackasson.”
He snorts. “Jackasson?”
