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Studying the platinum ring on my finger, the custom one made with the Royal Bastards MC logo on it, I told the truth, “It’s fitting.”
Bubba had been busy kissing my ass for weeks and part of me wondered why. The other part of me didn’t give two shits. The fucker continued to get rich pretending to have lived my life. Now, I guess that wasn’t quite fair. Anyone who could Google past the first page, could probably find out he wasn’t really the infamous Beau Strick, alleged notorious head of a drug cartel at age eighteen. I’d read the whole conspiracy theory that told it like it was. However, the vast majority of America was plain stupid. Bubba sang songs as if he’d lived my difficult past and no one cared to dig much deeper.
Since we were twins, people just assumed what they heard him sing was true. He donned his cowboy hat and strummed his guitar as if he was impersonating Johnny Cash. My brother’s fame came at my expense. When I got out of prison, he’d already assumed my name and used my story to get famous. But none of that mattered to me in the least anymore. Fuck, if Bubba didn’t keep interjecting himself into my life, we wouldn’t have any relationship to speak of. As it was, Bubba always had some excuse to keep in touch.
“I might stop over sometime soon to discuss the video before we forge ahead,” Bubba said.
“You’re welcome to stop by anytime. Paying customers always welcome.”
The other shoe dropped. “About dad.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be visiting him in the nursing home come Friday.”
“Taking the cameras with you?”
“Nah. I really think you should come and say goodbye. He’s not got much longer.”
Snuffing out the cigarette, I had nothing to say.
“Just think about it. People change, Beau.”
“Bye bye, Bubba.”
Back in the bedroom, I dropped to the floor and did what I did every morning since I was first sentenced to prison so long ago, one hundred push-ups, one hundred sit ups and a quick stretch. Lying on the floor afterwards, I clasped my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. No way in hell would I be going to see my father in the nursing home, Bubba put him in. A genuine smile crept up on my face at the thought of the bastard finally kicking the bucket. Sure, my brother could forgive the man. He hadn’t ruined Bubba’s life. He’d ruined mine and Bubba made out like a bandit.
Getting up, I went across the hall to the piano. Since the girls were still asleep, I played Claire de Lune. The melody took me back.
Miss Carew, my piano teacher sat beside me as I struggled with the tune. “He’s a prodigy. You really should let him continue.”
My father stood in the doorway, his beer belly about busting out of his tan uniform. He spit into a Styrofoam cup. I could smell the dip he chewed. I liked the smell. He shook his head. “Sounds like pure shit.”
“Ed, this is a real hard one.”
“He won’t end up like his mother.”
Even at eight, I didn’t know what that meant. My mom had played the piano, but it hadn’t killed her. She was alive and well, living with a better man in Nashville. We weren’t allowed to visit her. Dad and Miss Carew fought late into the evening. There’d been more to their relationship than a youngster like me knew at the time.
That had been my last real piano lesson. I never saw Miss Carew again. However, I continued playing piano at the First Nazarene Church in Franklin, Tennessee. Thanks to my Granny. My father never knew because he didn’t go. When Granny died, Aunt Shirley took us. I’d play, and Bubba would sing. Then he’d play, and I’d sing. We grew up making music together.
When we were thirteen, my father got a job with the police department in Nashville. Bubba woke me up one late night. After tying our sheets together, we snuck out the second story window and jumped to the ground. My legs stung, but we continued on. I knew his plan. Nashville changed everything. We were in a new school. Aunt Shirley married a man out of state so no longer took us to church to perform. Bubba was after a guitar of his own. I watched my brother shrug off his wrangler jean jacket and bend to the ground. He wrapped a brick in it. Back in those days, you could just find a brick laying around. I wanted no part in what he was doing, but I’d watch. I lit a cigarette. That was something kids did back then, too. Bubba busted the music store’s window and went inside alone. He came out with an acoustic guitar, and we ran all the way back home.
The next day after school, it was me who the cops were helping into a squad car. I only spent a week in Juvenile detention. There I met Eli “The Baby” Jenkins, a sixteen -year-old in for running drugs. When I got out, I had two black eyes thanks to him. Dad took me straight to the garage. I thought he was fixin’ to tan my hide. But instead, he took me to a box on the shelf. He opened it, revealing a handgun resting on red velvet. Being law enforcement, my father always carried so I remembered thinking it so odd to see another gun, a hidden weapon. He drew out a white rag from his back pocket and wiped the revolver. Silently, he held it out to me. My eyes were wide, and my hands were firmly in my pockets.
“Take it.”
I shook my head. “No, sir.” I thought it was a test. Unlike other boys our age in Tennessee, Bubba and I were never taught to shoot. We were only ever warned to not touch our father’s pistol.
“Beau Wyatt Strick, you’ll do as you’re told.”
I held my hands out.
He sat the cool metal on my palms.
“As long as people know you’ll use it, they won’t mess with you.”
“I didn’t do it.” I spoke of breaking into the store, stealing a guitar worth a felony if I were an adult.
“I know,” my dad said. “But you’re going to do it again.”
My dad wanted me back in Juvie to get close to that boy inside, to get info on the drug cartel operating in Nashville.
