I loved women. Every shape, color, and size. I just didn't inhale them the way my brother, Mack, used to. He was a collector, an acquirer of beautiful things. His garage was a testament to that, full of vintage and new muscle cars. The only thing that came second to his love of cars was women. And not the normal ones. No, Mack made regular stops at the crazy train station. If a beautiful chick with problems was nearby, he'd find her. His ex-girlfriend Harley might have been the craziest of them all, but just as she was able to start a new life with Fox and change her ways for love, so had Mack. I told myself that I didn't want any parts of that kind of mess...until Carina.
I thought about her walking around with my name on her hand. It might have been a juvenile thing to do, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing it would take a few days for that ink to wash off. Every time she looked down at her hand, she would think of me.
On the drive home, my phone rang, and I groaned, preparing myself for the conversation ahead.
"Hello, Brandon. This is your mother. Remember me?"
"Hi, Ma." I rolled my eyes. It was the last thing I needed.
"I guess nobody calls me anymore. I could be dead on the floor for weeks, and neither of my children would know it."
"Not true," I replied dryly, already bored with the routine. "Besides, Jerry would find you."
I would've called my mother more if every conversation didn't start off with a guilt trip and end in an argument. I still struggled with the remnants of a bad childhood and a deeply flawed mother. Our father was sent to prison when Mack and I were kids. I don't remember much about him, just that he was a drunk. Not the mean kind, he was just never around. My mother had really struggled to take care of us. We went days without electricity or heat. Dinner mostly consisted of any and everything she could drop into a big pot of water and call soup. Mack and I got jobs to help out with the bills, though she leaned on us pretty heavy. Heavier than a mother should rely on her teenage sons. Just before I graduated high school, she remarried. Jerry was her ticket to leaving everything behind. He fancied himself a businessman. An entrepreneur of sorts. He really just sold random garbage at the flea market. My mother grew convinced that being with him could drastically change her circumstances.
"So tell me how are things going?" The rasp in her voice had grown deeper with age. She'd always been a heavy smoker and loved to drink gin.
"Fine, Ma," I answered and took a deep breath before I asked the next question. The one that would get down to the bottom of why she called. "How are you?"
"Well, since you asked. Not good."
Her response was not a surprise. She always wanted something.
"Jerry's job has been screwing up his paychecks. He's been shorted some commission..." My thoughts wandered off, not needing to hear the rest. It was always the same story. It wasn't the first time my mother had called to ask for money. It turned out that Jerry was a lot less ambitious than she'd given him credit for. He'd hopped around from one get-rich-quick scheme to another after his flea market business tanked. Jerry landed a high paying, commission-based job with an insurance company in Phoenix, so they packed up and left Charleston. For a while, things seemed great. They bought a big house with a pool and a couple of fancy cars. I'd flown out there one Christmas, though Mack chose not to go. Ma was happy, and I really wanted it to work out for her. She was far from perfect, but she was still my mother. The downside to working on straight commission is that one bad year could ruin you.
"I have never heard of such incompetence," she continued to rant.
"How much, Ma?"
"Huh?"
"How much do you need?" I repeated, my patience wearing thin.
"About eight," she said, not bothering to pretend money wasn't what she was after.
"Eight hundred?"
"No, thousand."
"Eight grand?" I yelled into the phone. "Jesus. What's it for?"
"If you're going to start hollerin' like a wild animal, Brandon, then forget it." A fake sob sounded at the end of her speech. "I don't know why I even bother," she whined, laying the guilt on thick. Southern women were experts at that. She reminded me of how she was there for us and how it hurt asking her own children for help. Her tears turned to indignation as she went on about how she knew I had the money and that it shouldn't have been a big deal. I listened but didn't say a word. The conversation could only end one of two ways. My mother hanging up on me in tears, then I would give her the money because I felt like shit, or I could just send the damn money before the hysterics got out of hand. Either way, she would get the money, and she knew it.
"You have no idea what it's like—"
"Fine," I cut her off before she really overdid it, "I'll put the money in your account first thing in the morning." She mumbled something that sounded like appreciation and then hung up. That was why I didn't call my mother. "Fuck!" I pounded a fist on the steering wheel and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
Worst fuckin' luck.
In one night I'd had to deal with my mother wanting money, being hit on by my drunk apprentice, and the only woman I wanted didn't want anything to do with me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Carina
Seconds before the doors swung open, I felt his presence. I turned and watched as Brando strode into Annette's Catch, his jet-black hair mussed from the wind and wearing a T-shirt with East Street Ink stretched across the front. He settled into a booth in the corner. I approached him, hesitantly, ready to take his order. His gaze flickered to my hand, where his name had grown faint, but it was still there. He gently reached for my wrist then pulled the pen from behind his ear and went over the gray lines, until they were dark. I stood there like an idiot and let him do it...again. When he
was satisfied, he tucked the pen behind his ear and ordered coffee.