Steve's wedding: The beforemath

Thursday, October 18, 2007, 7:00pm

I'll say it again: I'm glad I waited a long time to get married. I got a lot of womanizing out of my system, and I am mature enough to make smart decisions. Like my bachelor party, for example. My one request was that we have it two days before the wedding, not the night before. I've seen my share of hungover grooms.

Tim and her friends rented a limo and took off for a night of bar hopping. As for me, my brothers and friends came to my house, blindfolded me, poured shots down my throat (it tasted like rum--whatever it was, it was nasty), then packed me into the car and drove for a while. When they pulled the blindfold off, I was at a VFW hall that I had never seen before. I bet they hired a stripper.

I hate strip clubs. If some hardbodied 19-year-old is going to wave her cleanly-shaved pussy in my face, she better be prepared to have my dick in her mouth as soon as I can yank my boxers off. But no, they smile, flirt, thank me for my dollar bill, and then bend over for the guy next to me. If I'm getting some at home, I don't need to see some other chick naked, and if I'm not, seeing a girl I can't touch is just going to frustrate me.

A mountainously fat tattooed man holds the door open for us. I guess he's there to protect her, but it's hard for me to be intimidated by a guy who probably can't even tie his own shoes. "So you're the lucky guy, huh?" he chuckles.

"Yep, that's me."

"No touching," he says, raising his voice to a harsh growl as he addresses the crowd. "And keep the noise down. You break the rules, we're outta here. And there's no refunds."

A door at the back of the room opens, and in walks Bree, in a "Hard Cock Cafe" t-shirt and pink short shorts.

By now, you guys know me. I like them tiny, with long hair and straight teeth, and Bree could not have been any better if I made her myself. She's maybe 4'10", with hair down to her ass, and a mouth straight out of a toothbrush commercial. The guys howl at the sight of her.

They plop me into a chair in the middle of the room, then form a semicircle around me. "Are you the one who's getting married?" she asks, in a high-pitched little girl's voice.

The voice puts me over the edge, and I go rock-hard despite the alcohol. She's just a kid, but she knows what the hell she is doing.

She pulls her t-shirt slowly over her head, exposing a plump, tanned pair of breasts, and proceeds to straddle my legs, brushing her long hair against my face. She turns around and wiggles her perfect bubble ass at me before bobbing it slowly up and down against my crotch.

I can't help but wonder what it would be like to fuck her. And I wouldn't mind seeing her naked--

She slips her thumbs under her shorts and slides them down, stopping halfway down her thighs, then bends over and places a hand softly against her right ass cheek. The guys are going crazy, but I barely hear them.

She steps out of her shorts and bends over again, farther this time, and her pussy lips open like flower petals. I ache to fuck her, to grab her petite little hips and slam them into mine...

She turns around and our eyes meet. I've got The Look now, the look she's probably seen 1,000 times, the look that tells her that I am hers. If a man has The Look, she could tell him to gargle with broken glass, and he'd do it gladly. And she knows it.

She sits on my lap, facing me, and tugs at my shirt. "Are you trying to undress me?" I ask.

"I like bare skin," she smiles, pulling my shirt off and flipping her hair over one shoulder. She bends over and nibbles at my neck, as my eyes slide closed and my hands find her naked hips.

My friend Paulie used to go to strip bars all the time. He even dated a few of the girls. He told me that his secret was not to hit on them, but to talk to them about their day jobs or their families. Every other guy in the place was telling them, in disgusting detail, exactly what he wanted to do to them, while Paulie was coming off as a regular Joe.

No, I'm not planning on nailing her, but instinct kicks in. "How old are you?" I ask.

She totally ignores the question, instead breathing in my ear. She bends her knee and rubs her leg agaist mine, closely enough that I can feel the heat of her crotch.

My breathing quickens; my hand squeezes tighter on her thigh. "You can touch it if you want," she says, and I look up to see her face so close to mine that our noses are almost touching.

"But the guy said--"

"It's okay," she whispers.

I don't want the guys to see. They'll see me do it and think they can follow suit, and pretty soon they'll get carried away, and she'll be out the door.

I let my hand slide down the inside of her thigh, and brush the backs of my fingers gently against her clit. Is this going to happen?

"Go ahead," she coos in my ear, as if reading my thoughts. I extend my index finger and all at once I feel her warm wetness. Am I really fingering the stripper?

She pushes her hips against me, driving my finger deeper, pressing my face between her tits. I remain there for a long moment and I can feel her breath, quick and shallow. Is she enjoying this?

I've been to plenty of stag parties over the years, and at the really wild ones, the stripper would disappear into the ladies' room, and a long line of horny drunk guys with $20 bills in their hands would form outside the door. I can't help but wonder how far this particular one would go...

The crowd is getting restless. "You better go make the rounds," I say, pulling my finger out of her, and she does.

She's gathering her clothes when Chris grabs me. "I've got a surprise for you," he says, and pulls me out the door and across a dark parking lot to a building the size of a backyard storage shed. "Wait here," he says, and walks out, pulling the door closed behind him.

Minutes pass, and the door opens again. "What am I waiting for?" I ask, and my heart stops as I see the Hard Cock Cafe shirt and pink shorts.

"Me," Bree smiles, and she closes and locks the door.

"Are you... are we..."

"You have really good friends," she laughs.

Chris must have paid her an extra couple hundred dollars to fuck me.

She peels off her t-shirt and straddles me, just like she did at the party. "You were hard before. I could tell," she smiles, flashing her flawless teeth.

Oh really? You knew I had an erection? Nothing gets past you, does it?

"Do you want to touch me again?" she breathes in my ear, and before I can answer, she takes my hand and guides it between her legs.

"We can't have sex," I hear myself say.

No way I'm fucking this little skank. I've never paid for sex in my life, and I'm sure as hell not starting two days before my wedding. Yeah, I know, someone else is paying, and it doesn't matter. It's an insult. What, I can't find anyone on my own?

Besides, it's not exactly appetizing to think about the three or four thousand scumbags she's probably fucked--bearded, beer-bellied truck stop types with cigarette breath, I'm sure--and she probably acted just as hot and horny for them as she is for me.

She looks at me.

"You're really hot," I say, "and I'm sure we would have a lot of fun, but..."

"You love her. You're being a good fiance. That's so sweet!" she chirps in her airhead voice.

I probably shouldn't ask her this, but I am loaded, and it is my party, so...

"Are you... do you still get paid if we don't..."

"Your brother said you were going to chicken out," she laughs. "So he made me promise that if you didn't..."

"That he was going to pinch-hit for me?"

"Mm-hmm."

I walk back out to the party and find Chris. "A prostitute at my stag party, Chris? A hooker? Really?"

"What are you talking about, Steve?" he smiles.

"I'm not fucking a whore, Chris."

He sighs. "Have you seen her? She's incredible! Did you look at her, or were you too pussy-whipped to open your eyes?"

"She's hot."

"Hot? Steve, she's the hottest little spinner I've ever seen! She's exactly the way you like them! What's your problem?" He fixes his dark eyes on me, his jaw set firmly, like a disappointed parent.

"Chris, you used to be a little more discriminating. This chick has probably seen more dicks than the urinals at Gilette Stadium."

"So I'll give you a dome."

"I'm not interested."

"You're my brother," he says, softly. "I want you to have fun. This is your last night of freedom!"

"I plan on having fun for the rest of my life. Oh, and by the way, I heard you're my backup."

He laughs. "Guess I better go."

"Hey Chris." He turns around.

"I want details."

"You got it, bro," he smiles, then turns and disappears out the door.

Stevo, the anabolic blogger

I'd like to congratulate Hank Aaron, the Major League Baseball career recordholder for drug-free home runs.

**********

Tuesday, May 29, 2007 (cont'd)
St. Francis Hospital

Forget taking a walk; Tim and I decide to head home. We'll call Chris to check up on him later.

"I don't... we don't... want you guys around here for awhile," Janet says later, over the phone. "It just seems like there's, um, always a lot of drama when Tim is around."

We sit silently for a long time. I can't believe what she's asking, can't believe she's blaming this all on Tim, can't believe Chris is going along with it. If he is.

"Put Chris on the phone."

"Chris agrees with me," she snaps.

"Can I speak to him, please?"

No sense debating this now. "Chris, go cool her off for a while and call us tomorrow."

"I think she's right, Steve."

**********

Wednesday, May 30, 2007,1:23pm

Webb Group Graphics

"Chris is in a meeting now. Is he expecting you?" a woman behind a desk says.

"No, I'm his brother. I'll wait."

An eternity later, his door opens. "Hello, Steve," he says cheerfully, shaking my hand as if I were a client.

We sit. As he closes the door, his smile fades. "Give me a couple of weeks. She'll calm down."

"This isn't Tim's fault. Why are you letting her put it all on Tim?"

"Because it was easier," he smiles. "They're women. They fight, and then they make up!"

No way. If someone doesn't put Janet in her place, she'll live her whole life thinking my girlfriend (and future wife) is a slut. It's Chris's job to tell her differently, especially since this was his doing--

"You want me to fall on my sword. Don't you?" he says, reading my thoughts, looking holes through me. "Steve, she doesn't want to hear it!"

"So wait a week, and then explain to her what a fucking prick you are!"

He doesn't flinch. Suddenly, I notice his high back leather executive chair. It looks brand new; he seems comfortable with his arms perched on the cushioned armrests. Did he have that the last time I was here?

"You gonna hit me again, Steve?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Depends. You gonna beg me to stop like a little bitch again?"

"Give me a couple weeks, Steve. It will blow over. I promise."

Someone knocks.

"Come on in."

Carol swooshes by me in in a pink sundress, and my heart pounds instinctively at the first glance of her tight butt. She asks him a question, then gazes admiringly at him as he answers, her eyes never wavering.

"By the way, this is my brother, Steve."

"I've heard so much about you!" she says, extending a hand. "So you're getting married, huh?"

"That's the plan."

Oh, by the way, did Chris tell you about how he grabbed my fiancee's ass? I'm guessing it slipped his mind.

She pulls the door closed as she leaves. "She's feisty, that one," he smiles.

"Hard worker?"

"I don't mean work-wise," he says.

"Another one? Dude, you have Irene--"

"Irene is out of the picture."

I won't preach to Chris. He wouldn't listen anyway. But it's tricky having a steady girlfriend on the side, and I'm not sure he can pull it off.

"You're very... pensive lately," he says. "You worried about me now?"

"I just--"

"You never did anything like this, did you Steve?" he says, sarcastically, and I notice his eyebrow again, cocked lower than it was before, his right eye narrowed noticeably.

"She is hot, I'll give you that."

"She says you're cute."

My heart leaps. It's nice to know that a young girl like Carol finds me attractive, even if I'm not going to do something about it.

"Really?"

"No, not really," he laughs.

Paying the Piper

Tuesday, May 29, 2007, 11:59am
St. Francis Hospital

So much for me going to work. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate, anyway.

"I'm just warning you. He doesn't look too good," Tim says as we round the last corner before Chris's room, our shoes squeaking rhythmically across the shiny floor.

I was there, I saw him right after it happened. While it was happening, actually. How bad could he really be?

I make a right turn at room 322 and freeze dead in my tracks, standing statue-still as I feel my skin turn instantly cold.

His face is so hideously bruised that I barely recognize him.

It's funny how the mind works. It will make up all sorts of crazy shit when it really doesn't want to believe something. Why is Chris wearing a mask?, I find myself thinking.

Dad and Janet stop talking and look up at me, their faces a mixture of "I hate you" and "How could you?"

"Hello, Steven," my father manages, finally. He and Janet walk past me and down the hall, with Tim close behind, leaving Chris and I alone.

"Hey, Twinkie," he says, in a scratchy voice.

"D-- did I do this?" I ask.

"It's from my nose. The bruising spread to my face. It happens sometimes. I have a subconjunctival hemorrhage too."

"Huh?"

"The whites of my eyes are all bloody. See?" He says, pointing to his face like a young boy showing off a scab.

"Chris, look, I--"

"Steve," he says, in his usual softspoken way, and I stop to listen. "I was miserable. And jealous of what you and Tim have. I was just trying to ruin it so you would be as pissed off as I was."

"When I heard what you did, I--kinda felt like you would have actually done it. That you would have had sex with Tim, if you could have."

"I don't know, man. I wasn't thinking that far ahead. It was very impulsive."

"Well, it hurt to think my brother could do that."

"I don't blame you. I don't blame you for any of this," he says, softly. "I probably deserved it."

He turns his swollen eyes to me, and between the dark purple bruises and his Bassett Hound-like expression, I have to look away.

"I want to make it up to you and Tim. I told her, too. I want to earn your respect back. I mean it."

"Just get better, man."

"I'm trying." He brings a plastic cup to his mouth and takes a shaky sip.

"I guess you told Janet about what you did. Right?"

He nods slowly. "She basically isn't speaking to me. She says if it wasn't for the baby she would have divorced me."

"Did you tell her about--"

"Irene? Do I look retarded to you?"

"No. Bruised, but not retarded."

"Fuck you," he laughs.

1:30pm

"I know everyone is still mad, but I want us to talk things over. If you have something you want to say, say it now," Dad says.

"I--" I begin.

"First of all," Dad says, "Chris, I don't know what the hell got into you, but Tim is just like a daughter to me, and you hurt me just as much as you hurt her and Steve. How could you do such a thing?"

"I'm sorry, Dad. And I already apologized to Tim. And Steve."

"And Steve, since when do you beat up your brother?!" Dad says.

"I was wrong for handling it that way, and I want to say I am sorry for letting the family down. I--"

Obviously he's heard enough from me, and he cuts me off. "Tim, do you have anything you want to say, since you were the victim here?"

"I spoke to Chris, and Steve, and I let them know my concerns."

"Do you forgive them?"

"I... of course I do. I just, Chris kind of surprised me, and Steve--"

"What do you mean, he surprised you?" Janet sneers, sweeping her chestnut hair from her eyes. She stares unflinchingly at Tim, and the rest of us follow suit. The question seems innocent enough, but her voice is pure anger.

"I-- he, just, didn't seem like the kind of person who would do that," Tim says, clearly choosing her words carefully.

"So what does that tell you?" Janet says, staring harder.

"You think this is my fault?" Tim says.

"I can't understand why he would do that!" Janet says, mockingly, batting her eyes at the ceiling. "Gee Tim, could it be the way you were dressed?"

Tim's eyes narrow. "What did you say?"

"You have a nice body! We get it! You don't have to rub our faces in it!"

"It was a pool party!" Tim shouts.

"That doesn't mean you have to walk around with your tits hanging out!" Janet shrieks.

I turn to Chris. He's already looking at me.

Somehow, though his eyes are bloody, I can see the same serene look I've seen five hundred times before, the look of a man who can handle any crisis easily. Without a word, I know it's time to get to work.

I stand up, and to my surprise, Chris does too, swinging his legs briskly over the side of the bed and hopping to his feet in one swift motion. He walks over to Janet, grabbing her raised forearms in his hands. The room falls silent as they hug.

"Let's go for a walk, Tim," I say, and we head for the hallway.

"How about a fruit basket instead?"

Monday, May 28, 2007, 5:44pm
Steve and Tim's house

I sit at the kitchen table, running my eyes over the newspaper in front of me, trying in vain to read it.

This was a mistake. Chris is my brother, as he pointed out while I was kicking his ass, and I will see him often as time passes. And since I am marrying Tim, she'll see him too, and there is no realistic way he can avoid her, as I demanded he do.

There is no excuse for what he did, but I handled it as badly as I possibly could have. There must have been a better way.

Tim is going to be angry, for one thing: She told me not to do anything stupid, and she was right. She didn't even want to tell me about this in the first place, but I badgered it out of her. I'm beginning to wish I had never known about it at all.

The door opens and slams shut. Tim stomps by me without a single word.

Damn, is she pissed off. Even when she's really mad, she'll sit down across from me with an arms-folded pout, but today I didn't even get that.

I wait a few minutes and walk slowly upstairs. This is not going to be fun.

She's in the bathroom washing up. I stand in the doorway and she looks straight ahead, her stormy eyes burning holes in the mirror. She dries her face, then digs globs of moisturizer from a small jar and rubs it into her skin so hard that it might as well be war paint.

"Are you gonna talk to me?" I say, finally.

"I don't even wanna look at you right now," she huffs, and brushes by me and into the bedroom.

I sit on the bed and watch her as she pulls her soiled chef clothes off, replacing them with jeans and a t-shirt. She walks past me and back downstairs, keys in hand.

"Where are you going?"

"To see your brother. In the hospital."

"Tim, I was angry. He hit on you!"

"I'm way too pissed off to talk to you now."

"Tim, don't leave."

Slam.

7:29pm, text message from Tim:

i am staying at my parents house 2nite just wanted u 2 know i was ok

Steve:

i am not ok with that we are going to be married and if there is a problem we should be able to talk about it

Tim:

we will talk but not til 2morrow im sorry but i need time to calm down

Steve:

please come home in the morning i will go in late so we can talk

I hate that Tim's mother is involved now. Though she puts up a good front, I know that to her, this is still a power struggle, and she is salivating at the opportunity to dig her hooks into Tim when she is vulnerable. I am sure Tim will come home tomorrow filled with Diana-isms about how horrible I am.

Tuesday, May 29, 7:45am

Steve and Tim's house

"Can I talk first?" Tim says.

I love the way she looks in the morning, with no makeup and a long ponytail. With her rosy skin and bright eyes, she might as well have been plucked from a midwestern farm.

"You really hurt me. You didn't trust me, for one, and you didn't respect my wishes when I asked you to let me handle it."

"Who says I didn't trust you?"

"You beat up your brother because you were afraid something would happen if you didn't."

"According to who, Tim?"

"Are you telling me you weren't worried? At all?"

I hesitate just a second too long before saying no, and that's all she needs.

"You see? You don't trust me! Do you?"

"This isn't Leave it to Beaver, Tim! I know how I used to be, and it's a little hard trusting other people."

"So I'm 'other people' now? I'm just some girl that you're sleeping with?"

"Don't be stupid, Tim!"

"So I'm stupid now?"

I hate arguing with girls. It's as if they have high-speed microprocessors in their heads, capable of breaking down everything I say, turning every word around and shooting it back in my eye like a spitball.

"Of course you're not just some girl! You're living in my--our house. Your name is on the deed. We're a family!"

"Your house?"

Shit. I knew that was coming.

"That's not fair, Tim--"

"Why are you marrying me if you don't trust me? If you're having all these... issues, then why did you say yes? Did you feel pressured into it? Do you need more time? Are we moving too fast?"

"No!" I shout. "I'm a big boy. If I wanted to say no, I would have."

"But you still don't trust me!"

"I've never really been in a healthy relationship. I've cheated and been cheated on. I get stupid sometimes, but that's my problem. I know you are trustworthy, and if I felt you weren't, then of course I would let you know."

"So you beat up your brother because you got stupid?" she sneers. "You drove a half hour to get down there. Were you stupid for a half hour?"

"The fight had nothing to do with you. Or it had less to do with you than with Chris and me."

"I don't understand."

Sunlight pours through the kitchen window at an unusual angle. I'm usually never home at this hour. A lot of time has passed, but I don't dare check my watch in front of Tim. The more I talk to her, the clearer I see the depth of her anger. She is disappointed and hurt, and it's going to take a long time for things to get back to normal.

"I knew you weren't going to hook up with Chris. I wasn't trying to prevent something. I'm not dumb; I know there's no way of preventing something like that, so I would never even try."

"Mm-hmm."

"Was I supposed to be happy that my brother tried to get your clothes off?"

"Like he really would have gone through with it, Steve."

"Why not? He did with Amanda. And Irene. And that chick Carol from his work."

She sits silently for a moment. She has clearly not seen things from a guy perspective.

"I don't... I'm not the same as them. I'm family! He couldn't do that."

"But he tried to."

"But it wasn't... I can't explain it. It wasn't sexual. He was acting out."

"And I suppose his acting out is okay and mine isn't."

"I didn't say it was okay!" she shouts.

"So why are you bitching at me? Why aren't you bitching at him?"

"Hello! Because he's in the hospital, Steve!" she says, her voice reverberating.

"Do you forgive him, Tim? Is everything all hunky dory with you two now?"

"He apologized."

"And that's it? Everything is perfect now, after his apology?" I say, sarcastically. "Would he have apologized if I didn't find out about it? Or is he just sorry he got caught?"

"It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't."

"And it's not perfect now," she says. "I told him that I was really disappointed in him for doing that, and that it was inappropriate, and that he caused a lot of friction between you and me."

"You did?"

"He wants to make it up to us. I told him to just focus on getting better."

"Tim, you have to know, this is about my brother betraying me. I know I act like I don't give a shit about stuff like that, but..."

"He hurt you, so you wanted to hurt him back."

"Yeah."

"He knows that, Steve. He would have talked to you about it. Why did you have to beat him up?"

"It's about male pride. You need a dick to understand."

"What does that mean?"

"Let's say I go talk to him, and he yesses me to death. What then? Do we go back to normal?" I ask. "Sounds like he's getting off light to me."

"Who says you had to go back to normal? It's your right to take some time apart from him, or to tell him that you need proof that he's learned his lesson."

"And if he never does?"

"Then you have to find a solution you can live with. And I could have helped you with all of this! I always ask you for help, why can't you ever ask me?"

Tim reminds me of a therapist sometimes. She's been through a lot of therapy herself, and has obviously learned from it. I think it has really helped her, and I am proud of how well-adjusted and sensible she is.

"I'm a man. Asking for directions is a big deal."

"Hm."

"So in your scenario I might never speak to him again."

"Of course you'll speak again. Your brother is very sorry, you know. Even though you acted like an asshole."

Normally I'd be pissed about that remark. But she's called me names before, just like I've done to her, and if that's all she's going to do, then I've dodged a bullet.

"I know."

"Is this how you're going to solve your problems now? What if we have a child and he disobeys you? Are you going to beat him up?"

"How can you say that, Tim!? How can you even ask that question?"

"You did it to Chris."

"Chris is my brother. We grew up together. You don't have a brother, so you don't understand. It's been years since I've hit anyone at all."

"Maybe it will happen again. If you did it once..."

I look her in the eye. This better be convincing. "Tim, on my life, I promise I will never hit you or our children, ever."

"Okay." She gets up from her chair and hugs me, and it's a rush of relief to smell her hair, to feel my hands on her muscled back. For the first time today I feel like we might actually get past this soon. "I'm still mad at you, but I'm glad we talked."

"Me too. How is he?"

"You broke his nose. And he has a problem with his stomach where you kicked him."

"But I didn't kick him in the stomach!"

"Must've been someone else then," she says, sarcastically. "He might need an operation."

"What?"

"Yep."

"Tim, I'm sorry about this."

"Don't tell me, tell him."

"Men get lost sometimes, as years unfurl"

Monday, May 28, 2007 (cont'd)

I remember very little of the drive down. I thought the ride would calm me, but as I turn the incident over in my mind, I only grow angrier.

I know what happened. He's on a hot streak; a couple of pretty young girls have gotten naked for him, and his wife hasn't found out. And now that he's bulletproof, he's going to hit on every hot chick he sees, and his hard cock won't care who she happens to be engaged to at the time. I know what it's like to feel that way, and I am sure he would have gone through with it.

He knows how huge this relationship has been in my life, how content I am to finally be settling down, and he would have destroyed that for his own selfish pleasure. He would have ripped my life apart, just to see her gorgeous naked tits, her shaved pussy, her curvy thighs.

Her nude body flashes in my mind's eye, and my cock stiffens despite the rage. My breathing quickens, and for a moment it's all I can do not to pull over and jerk off. I am like an animal, rabidly territorial, eager to rip my enemy's throat out before mounting my waiting female.

Chris's house
681 Circular Avenue

He's in the front yard, trimming the hedges. Birds sing; sunlight streams between the branches of an oak tree, making bright patterns on the grass.

I park and walk towards him. When I am ten feet away, he turns and looks casually at me. "Hey, Steve. Are these shrubs uneven?"

I punch him in the face.

I was aiming for his neck, actually. I've never tried to punch someone's face. Why would I, with all of those bones and teeth in the way? Back when I fought a lot, I always aimed for the neck; it hurts them like hell, and it's as soft as punching a beach ball. The fights usually ended quickly.

But Chris didn't cooperate. He saw the punch coming at the last moment and tried to get out of the way, but only ended up putting his nose right in front of my fist.

There's a subtle snap, no louder than a twig breaking, and right away I know it's broken. Blood gushes over his mouth and chin, and I recall the red beard Greg had after mom slapped him that day, all those years ago.

He touches his fingers to his nose and pulls them away slowly, staring at the bright red goo that drips from them.

The blood emboldens me. He is wounded, vulnerable, and now is my chance to make him remember this mistake permanently.

I hit him harder, in the neck this time, and he stumbles over his feet and collapses to the ground; I fling myself on him, rearing back and hurling my fists at him with every ounce of strength I have.

"Steve, stop! Please, stop!" he cries, crossing his forearms in front of his face, but my rage has taken over and I am outside my body, observing the action like a disinterested third party, noting the tiny smacks of fists against skin, and the red welts that have already started to form.

The screen door flies open. "Steve, what are you doing? Leave him alone! Leave my husband alone!" Janet says.

She grabs my right arm in her hands and pulls hard enough for her nails to draw blood. I barely feel it.

I stand up and fling her across the lawn like an empty pillowcase. She falls to the ground, then rushes back into the house, sobbing.

She'll be calling the police now, I think, and I don't care.

"Steve, I'm sorry," he pleads. He raises his head and lets out a weak, gurgly cough, the cough of an old man. "I'm sorry! Please don't hit me again."

Don't hit you? No problem, motherfucker.

I reach my leg back and kick him savagely to the midsection. He doubles over, the air escaping his body with a small "hup!". He curls into a ball and I rain kicks onto his exposed arms and legs, then finally stop to rest as he lay there trembling, struggling just to breathe.

"Steve, I- I'm your brother," he manages, so softly I can barely hear him. "Let's- we could've talked about it," he whimpers, his voice shaking. I step back and look at him, at his faded WPLR t-shirt with fresh mudstains where I kicked him. The shirt has ridden up a bit, exposing a small spare tire where his tight abs used to be. His hair has thinned noticeably at the top, too. Since when does he have a bald spot?

Suddenly the whole thing seems ridiculous. The facade is gone. He's no longer the aloof, womanizing player that he had become; now, he's just my brother again, the guy who quotes Monty Python with me and takes me to football games for my birthday. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

The screen door opens. "I called your father. He says you better stop fighting right now," Janet says. "He's on his way down here."

Oh, my dad says I better stop fighting? Well, I better stop then, otherwise he might take away my car keys. Or he won't let me go to prom.

I grab Chris's face in my hands and pull it to me, so our noses are an inch apart. "You come near her again," I say, through gritted teeth, "and I swear to fucking Christ I will kill you. Get it?"

He nods. "I'm sorry, Steve," he says, his teeth still coated in blood. "Please believe me, I am so sorry."

"Your father says not to leave," Janet calls after me, but I am already gone.

Chris crosses the line

Monday, May 28, 2007, 1:10pm
Steve and Tim's house

I'm not one of those guys who keeps a leash on his girl as if she were a pit bull.

I can spot jealous guys a mile away, the ones who pull their women close, leering suspiciously from side to side as if guarding Paris Hilton's jewelry collection. I find insecurity unattractive, so I consciously avoid it. No matter how much I'm burning on the inside, I pretend to be busy reading labels while some muscled Fabio wannabe strikes up a conversation with Tim as we wait in line at the drugstore. Then I'll make a joke, and the three of us will laugh, and he will realize he's getting nowhere and move on.

Five minutes after sitting down at a bar, she's got enough free alcohol in front of her to put Lindsay Lohan in a coma. She's the center of attention at every party we go to, and she's barraged with a steady stream of pickup lines as she works or does her errands.

I won't lie to you: Dating a beautiful woman is hard. I'm not the tallest, tannest, or sexiest man in the world. I don't have Donald Trump's money or Tommy Lee's dick. I do well professionally, and I'm happy and in decent shape, but Tim is an all-star. She can have any man she wants! I fear that, eventually, one of the guys who hits on her is going to be too good to pass up.

Tim says that she jumped from guy to guy for a long time and that she's tired of it. She says that she loves talking to me and learning from me, and that she can count on me when it's time to buckle down and solve a problem. She enjoys taking care of me, making sure that I eat like a restaurant critic every night, and that I blow more loads than a porn star.

She talks about our wedding and our future family all the time; when we go out, she stares at every passing baby the way I stare at the Victoria's Secret catalog.

I believe what Tim tells me. I trust her more than I have trusted anyone in my life. But that sliver of doubt never leaves, nagging me like a pebble in my shoe, and I've always wondered how I would react if some dude crossed the line.

"I hate to have to tell you this," Greg says on the phone, "but I heard something yesterday you're not gonna be happy about."

"What did you hear?"

"Tim was... she..."

My stomach drops. What is it? Did he catch her with another guy? But yesterday was a family picnic for Memorial Day. No available guys were even there, and no one who would have had the balls to hit on her, except...

Chris.

"Chris walked up to her in the kitchen, and he--"

"Greg, for Christ's sake, spit it out!"

"I was outside, changing the propane tank on the grill. The windows over the kitchen sink were open and I could hear them talking. He said, 'You look bored. Is my brother boring you?'"

"What did she say?"

"Steve, you have to promise me you're not gonna get pissed at Chris. He's just under a lot of stress--"

"Too fucking late. And unless you want me pissed at you, you'll finish telling me what happened."

"I heard her say, 'Stop!' Then he walked out."

"That bastard."

"I figured Tim might have told you herself, but I needed to let you know just in case--"

I hang up and dial Tim's work. Someone was having a party at the restaurant, and she got called in.

"She's really busy," a young man's voice says.

"It's an emergency."

"Honey? What's wrong?" Tim says.

"What happened with you and Chris yesterday?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about what?"

"Steve, he's obviously miserable, he was drinking all day, and he said something stupid."

"What did he say!?"

"I'm really busy here."

"Tell me what he said."

"No. You're gonna fly off the handle, and it's not necessary. Nothing happened!"

"Did he hit on you?"

"Steve, I think he was just kidding."

"What did he say!?" I shout, my heart thumping almost audibly.

"Baby, it's very hectic right now. My steaks are burning, I promise we'll discuss this for as long as you want when I get home," she says, sweetly, but I get the impression she's as close to snapping as I am.

"For Christ's sake, why can't you just tell me?"

"Fine," she huffs, her voice sharp and angry. "He asked me if I was bored with you. He put his hand on my ass and tried to kiss me. Are you happy now?"

I'm gonna fucking kill him.

"You're such an asshole sometimes. What, you think I'm too immature to handle being hit on? Or do you just not trust me?"

"I'll see you when you get home," I say, in a Hannibal Lechter monotone.

"Don't do anything stupid--"

Click.

"How about a moron instead?"

March 23, 2007 (continued)

Tim heard enough of the conversation to figure this out on her own; no sense lying on top of it. I fill her in on the whole sordid story.

She stares at me, her blue eyes big and unflickering, her long hair flipped over one shoulder. For a moment I forget about Chris, forget that it's the middle of the night, forget that--

"Your brother is cheating?"

"Yeah, Tim, that's so shocking, 'cause no man ever cheats on his wife."

"She just had a baby!"

"What are you telling me for?" I ask.

Yeah, I'm innocent! All I did was fuck the girl's sister!

"She needs his help! And he's out sleeping with some college girl?"

Actually, she's out of college. A total geezer!

"So you never slept with a married guy?"

"Well..."

"Uh-huh."

"That doesn't mean it was right to do it. Your brother knows better. What happened? I thought they were all lovey-dovey!"

"She got pregnant and turned into a bitch. Or should I say, more of a bitch than usual."

"If you ever do that to me, I swear--"

**********

Webb Group Graphics (Chris's office)
Monday, March 26, 2007

Your workspace says a lot about you. It shows your obsession with detail, or your habitual procrastination, or, in Chris's case, a thirst for power.

Neatly labeled black binders line a shelf across from his desk: Customer Retention (Nat'l), one of them says.

Chris is an accountant. He pursued that line of work because he loved the certainty of dollars and cents. The numbers didn't care if he forgot to brush his teeth or wore the same shoes as yesterday. Building working relationships was a waste of time for Chris; he felt that everyone should be like him, quiet and efficient, and that anyone who needed a coworker to reassure them was hopelessly immature. Maybe he still feels that way, but now he's playing the game.

Accountants don't care about customer retention. Accountants work from 8:30 to 12, take exactly 30 minutes for lunch, then work from 12:30 to 5, at which point they turn off their computers, slide their chairs under the desk, and go home. Clearly, Chris has changed.

Chris's boss sure as hell isn't holding him responsible for customer retention. If he's concerned about it, it's because he's gotten restless and started looking at the overall health of the company, and is eager to do something about it.

His phone beeps loudly. "You wanted me to remind you about the deposit," a female voice says.

"Thanks, Carol," he says, without looking up from his computer screen.

"Damn people forgot the deposit for the health insurance a couple months ago," he says, not looking at me. "You don't wanna screw around with people's benefits. You know?"

"Are you some kind of big shot around here?" I ask.

"You're not jealous, are you?" he asks without smiling, and then, finally, he looks at me.

A young brunette taps on his door frame. "Hi Carol," Chris says.

"I think this is right. Can you just have a quick look at it?"

"Seeing that it's you," he smiles.

My eyes open wider as she walks behind his chair and leans against him, firmly enough so that his shoulder is buried in her left tit. Neither of them flinches, and right away I know they are fucking. It's instinctive: When a tit touches you at work, you jump. Unless you are so used to touching said tit that you don't notice anymore.

"Come say bye before you go," she says as she leaves the room.

Yep, fucking.

Twin Pines Restaurant
1:25pm

"Irene wants me to get a divorce," Chris says.

"You going to?"

His eyes narrow, and suddenly I realize what's been bothering me all day about him: He looks different somehow. There's a subtle change in his face, so insignificant that it barely registered in my subconscious. It's been gnawing at me all day like a phone number that I couldn't quite recall, but I finally figured it out.

It's his right eyebrow.

Chris and I inherited dad's thick, dark hair, and while our eyebrows are not bushy, you can't miss them, either. And, as my obsessive-compulsive mind repeatedly notices, they are perfectly level with each other. Or at least they were.

His right brow is slightly lower than his left--just a millimeter or so--and the eye underneath squints almost imperceptibly, as if he's heard something he doesn't quite believe.

It's ridiculous. Chris is almost 40, and at that age, skin sags. It's nothing.

Right?

But maybe it's not nothing. Maybe the eyebrow is a sign that his personality has changed, a tiny nuance that will end with my brother becoming someone I don't know, and don't even care for very much.

"What are you looking at, Steve?"

"Are you divorcing Janet?"

"Don't be an idiot."

OMG, i totally just killed someone lol :-D

What the fuck is wrong with people? I mean, really now!

How sick does one have to be, to put a bullet in someone, watch them fall to the ground, bleeding, and then keep shooting?

What I really don't get is why this guy waited between attacks. He killed two people at 7:15, then 31 more a couple hundred yards away, two hours later.

What the hell was he doing in those two hours? Laundry? Checking email? Maybe a couple of quick IM's?

It seems as though most of the victims didn't even know this loser, and yet they lost their lives. Maybe there is a God up there, but if there is, I'm pretty sure he just created the Earth and turned his back. No way anyone looking out for us would permit this kind of nonsense.

**********

Friday, March 23, 2007 11:59pm
Steve and Tim's house

My blissful sleep is interrupted by the shrill bedside phone. Gotta turn that ringer down tomorrow.

"The baby won't sleep! She won't eat..." Janet shrieks, so loudly that I pull the phone away from my ear.

Chris annoys me more with each passing day. If he wants to fuck around on his wife, fine, but he's being careless about it. I don't care how leak-proof your alibis are; keep pushing it and you're going to get caught.

"I'm sorry about that. I really am. "

"Chris won't answer his phone!"

"Where is he?"

"He's out drinking with his work friends! He's with them all the damn time!"

Yeah, well, in fairness, his "drinking friends" have really nice blowjob lips...

"Steve, you have to help me! What bar is he at?"

Hmm. He's probably either at the Horizontal Haus, or the BJ Cafe.

"How should I know?" I exclaim, more awake now.

"You have to help me find him. What if he got into an accident?"

I sit up. This could actually be bad news. When he finally comes home, she's probably going to demand his friends' names and numbers. But that's his problem.

"Please help me, Steve."

Chris obviously has no intention of answering his phone, so I try Irene. I'm trying once and going back to bed. Enough is enough.

"Hi, Steve."

"Irene! What's going on?"

"Wellll..." she giggles.

On second thought, don't answer that.

"Janet is looking for Chris."

She covers the phone. "Your wife is looking for you," I hear, faintly.

"What the hell, Steve?"

"Your wife just woke me up because you won't answer your damn phone. Moron!"

"I'm kinda busy here!"

"So call her, and then get back to whatever it is you're doing. And stop involving me in this shit!"

"She called you, not me, you idiot." Irene giggles in the background.

Click.

It's a good thing Tim did not hear that, I think.

Oh shit! Tim!

I look down. She dozes silently, her right hand under the pillow, like always. In my drowsy stupor, I didn't think to leave the room. I hope she didn't hear anything.

I watch her for a moment. Nothing. Thank God. Now, to head back to sleep--

"Who the hell is Irene?" Tim says.

Our new friends

Friday, February 16, 2007, 12:30pm
Steve's office

"I heard you dumped Krista," Chris says on the phone.

"Don't you have to be dating someone to dump them?"

"Whatever. She won't shut up about it. She's pissed at you."

I hate when people say they are angry at me. If it's a customer, that's one thing; otherwise, I'll answer with a yawn. Be pissed at me all you want; ignore me all you want. It's arrogant of you to think I care.

"That's nice, man."

"She says you're pussy whipped."

"And I say she's a cum-guzzling gutterslut."

"I'm starting to think she's right."

Chris doesn't want to go down this road with me. He is the one who, after he cheated the first time, begged his wife's forgiveness like a little boy who broke his mother's candy dish.

"Is there a point to this conversation? I need to get back to work."

"What was the big deal? Krista was having fun with you. She didn't want to marry you, Steve."

"Chris. You're about five seconds away from getting an earful."

"Alright, alright! They want to hang out tonight. You coming?"

"Goodbye, asshole."

**********

Outback Steakhouse
7:05pm

The waiting area crowd has spilled into the bar, and the door swings open every few seconds to add more. The benches are full, so Tim and I stand patiently, studying the pictures on the wall. She hates heavy jackets, and her windbreaker is far too thin for the cold, so she presses against me tighter each time the door opens; eventually, food is the farthest thing from my mind.

"That's a Timber Wolf," a bearded man says to me, pointing to a picture on the wall. "I noticed your eyes keep going back to it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The wolf in the picture. It's a Timber Wolf. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"You were watching my eyes?" I say, but it doesn't sound as mean as I want it to.

He's wearing a vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirt and rumpled cargo pants, and a long-haired brunette with a pierced lower lip gazes admiringly at him as he speaks. Obviously, he's one of these life-is-too-short, earthy-crunchy types who would talk to Joseph Goebbels if he walked in.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Sorry, friend," he smiles, and he turns away.

He doesn't strike me as weird, just extremely laid-back. Maybe I'm nuts, but I believe him.

"What's the difference between a Timber Wolf and a regular wolf?" I ask.

We chat until we're interrupted by a voice over the intercom: "Bruce, party of two."

"Can you make it four?" he asks the hostess. She nods.

"Join us!" he says, smiling like a child.

"I don't use Microsoft products," he says from across the table. "It's been almost impossible finding IT jobs."

"The interview is usually pretty short," Patty interjects. "He sits down, says, 'I won't use anything made by Microsoft', and they say, 'Thanks for coming in.'"

We laugh.

"But why don't you use Microsoft?" I ask.

"Microsoft products are horrible. The worst-designed products in the industry. Most people don't know that because they don't see anything else. And they don't see anything else because Microsoft is a monopoly."

Patty nods enthusiastically.

"Microsoft is not a research and development company; they are an acquisition company. They wait for small, ingenious companies to make the breakthroughs, and then they either buy them or bully them out of business, and sell the technology as their own."

"So you oppose them on principle?"

"Of course!" he says.

"So why are you in IT? Why not another industry?"

"Oh, I do work in other industries at times. I've got a CDL now, so I can drive trucks! I also managed to find an IT job in a Linux shop, but it doesn't pay much."

"Linux? The non-Windows operating system?"

"Right."

"How about you, Patty? What do you do?"

"I walk dogs sometimes."

I only agreed to sit with them so we wouldn't have to wait as long. But the conversation was interesting, and Tim and I actually had a great time with them. Before we left, we made plans to see them again the next weekend.

Stevo the fixer

Thursday, November 16, 2006, 6:58pm
Steve's house

"Is Tim there?" Chris asks.

"No, she's working. Why, you gonna hit on her next?"

"Shut up. She's working at that steakhouse now, right?"

"Yeah, she comes home in the middle of the night."

"In that case, can you come over to Irene's house?"

**********

8:25pm

"Why are you being such a bitch?" Irene screams at Kristen.

"You're the one dating a married man!"

"Oh, like you didn't go out with a married guy last year," Irene hisses.

"He wasn't married in my eyes, because she didn't treat him right."

"Oh my God," Irene chuckles, derisively.

Kristen wheels around. "Oh, hi, Steven," she purrs, and her warm smile makes my stomach hitch. She kisses me slowly on the cheek, as if...

...as if she had a major crush on me. Was this the girl who was screaming uncontrollably 10 seconds ago?

"Sit down, I'll get you a drink."

"Thanks, Kristen."

"Call me Krista."

"You're engaged! Why are you still living at home, anyway?" Krista snaps to Irene, as she hands me an icy Diet Coke.

"You know why! We got engaged and he left for Iraq the next day!"

"Why didn't you live together before? And why did he go back to that idiotic war if he loved you so much?"

"Why don't you mind your own business?"

"Thought so," Krista says, plopping down on the sofa next to me.

"Steve has a girlfriend, you know," Irene sneers. "Better stay far away."

Krista launches herself off the couch, and for a crazy moment I think she's going to attack Irene. Chris and I flinch simultaneously, ready to break them up.

"Can we please go for a ride?" Krista asks, her eyebrows raised pleadingly, like a little girl's.

**********

"You probably think I'm crazy," Krista says.

Well, that's a very relative term... nope, on second thought, you're crazy.

"I think you two should lay off of each other."

"She's such a bitch!"

"Krista, no she isn't. And even if she is, she's your only sister."

"I knoww,"she whines, again reminding me of a child.

"I know you don't approve of her and Chris, but she's old enough to make her own decisions. If you really disagree, you should tell her in a supportive way."'

"So when did you get this car?" she asks, running her hand over the freshly-Armor All'd dashboard. Guess she's done talking about her sister.

"It's a couple years old. I hardly use it. I think I'm trading it in for a 4Runner."

"You're such a loser," she snips, staring straight ahead.

"You love to start fights, don't you?"

"You're stupid! You quit your job, you're selling your car. Your girlfriend has you wrapped around her little finger!"

Obviously, this girl thrives on conflict. She loves screaming matches and bare-toothed anger. Staying calm ought to screw her up, but good.

"Yeah, she probably does," I smile.

She stares at me.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

She's 24, a couple of years older than Irene. No job. She quit school after sophomore year--not that her degree in archaeology was going to bring a stampede of hiring managers to her doorstep anyway--and she has absolutely no employment prospects.

"So what do you--do all day?"

"You sound like my mother."

"It's not good to sit around, Krista."

"Don't lecture me," she says, quietly, but I can barely hear her. "Can we talk about something else, please?"

The conversation turns to movies, and her mood lightens quickly. She loves Monty Python; all I have to do is utter the words, "Cheese Shop", and she collapses in giggles.

Tim calling, my phone says.

Instinctively, I glance at Krista, who has already pulled out her own phone. She powers it down noiselessly, then sits statue still, looking directly in front of her.

"Where are you?" asks Tim.

"I was out of wheat bread."

"You're being quiet."

"I'm okay. How's work?"

Krista stares silently out the window. I am impressed with her; she knew it was my girlfriend on the phone, and, with no hesitation, made herself as quiet as a Las Vegas confessional. She's done this before. She's sat in the passenger seat next to guys who were supposed to be at work, or drinking beer with their buddies. She's probably lost track of how many times.

"...so I told them that I can't do my job if I don't have proper equipment. It's like, so ridiculous! They have money for new curtains, but they can't buy a basket for the deep fryer?"

"I hear ya."

"I better get back," she sighs. "I'll see you when I get home."

Krista snaps back to life immediately as the phone beeps off. Here come the questions: How long have you two been dating, what does she do, do you love her, and are her hips skinnier than mine.

"I appreciate you getting me out of the house."

"You're welcome."

"There's a Starbuck's up ahead. I'll buy you a coffee, if you want."

She didn't mention Tim, not one word. She knows the rules, and apparently she accepts them. Clearly she lacks the self-respect to believe she deserves a real relationship, so she bounces from one taken man to another, giving each a couple of months' worth of sexual highlight reels before the inevitable "I can't do this to my wife anymore" speech.

Her face softens as she sips her latte, the way it did when she kissed my cheek. Her brown eyes seem bigger somehow, and I suddenly want desperately to kiss her as she licks foam from her supple lips...

Stupid is as stupid horny does

Wednesday, November 1, 2006, 6:47pm
Steve's house

"Steve," Chris says, breathlessly, on the phone. "You gotta help me. I just--oh, man."

"Oh man?"

"Okay, so I told Janet I was working late tonight. And I went to the liquor store, and I paid with my credit card. She looks at the online statements all the time. She's gonna see I was here, and the bottle was like, 47 dollars--"

At first I have no idea what Chris is talking about. Then the concept gradually reveals itself, like a bathroom mirror slowly unfogging.

His wife Janet is due in a few weeks, and titanically pregnant women are not the horniest ducks in the pond; Chris must have found a pinch hitter to get him through the dry spell. He's probably romancing her with champagne, or getting her loaded so she'll talk less. There's no bigger turnoff than a chick who takes your cock out of her mouth to tell you how guilty she feels.

"Steve, are you gonna help me?"

"Yeah."

"I meant to pay with cash, but it was just force of habit," he says.

There's no way to keep her from seeing the transaction online now. His only option is to explain why he was at the liquor store dropping 50 bucks, instead of working, where he told her he would be.

You guys are probably thinking that this is easy, that Chris can just spit out some lie about buying a bottle for a friend at work or something. But remember, Chris has cheated before, and it almost ended his marriage. She's going to be suspicious of him, so this story better be worthy of publication in The New Yorker.

"This isn't going to be easy, man," I sigh. It seems knotty problems just like this are always being offloaded on me, both at work and personally. Just once, it would be nice if someone approached me about an untied shoelace.

Forget the notion of wanting to surprise his wife with a bottle. She's pregnant, and can't drink. Of course, a dutiful husband might think ahead, however...

"Okay, let's try this," I begin. "You went and bought a bottle of champagne, to open when the baby is born. Go home and tell her you got a little surprise at the liquor store on the way home for when the baby comes. Just make sure you really go and get a bottle today. And pay cash!"

"But what if the prices aren't exact..."

"Never mind the prices! Take the price tag off if you want to, but after the baby is born, the last thing on her mind is going to be checking out a story you told her a month ago."

"Ahhh," he says, slowly.

Now for some dirt. "Chris, what are you up to?"

"Not now, Steve."

**********

Friday, November 10, 2006, 4:00pm
Steve's office

"Can you meet me for a drink tonight?" Chris asks.

"With who? Just you?"

"No."

"You're introducing me now? You two must be getting serious!"

"Don't be a smartass. Her sister is coming along."

I must admit, Chris impresses me when it comes to the ladies. He must have game, if he was able to hook up with Amanda and now this one. But he's also making rookie mistakes, such as letting her bring her sister along. You never know: Her sister could know someone who knows someone who knows Janet, and then he would be truly fucked. The less evidence, the better: If I were in Chris's shoes, and this were just about sex, I wouldn't even leave her bedroom.

"A double date? How cute!"

7:30pm
Frattari Tavern

Irene is engaged, and her fiance is overseas in Iraq. She's majorly honked off that he signed on for a second tour of duty, which explains the cheating; women usually stray because they feel unloved.

She's hot beyond belief. I keep catching myself glancing at her shiny brown bob and thick red lips, and her flawless complexion tells me she's in her early 20's. Exactly the type I would go for.

It takes me about three and a half seconds to determine that her sister is a total nutjob. "I'm pissed at you," Kristen says to me, five seconds after shaking my hand.

"Why is that?" I smile.

"You quit a six-figure job? You just quit?"

Yes, but of course, the new job pays basically the same, and requires a lot less work. Factor in the improved mental health, and it's a raise. But none of this concerns her, so I choose not to answer.

"Something like that," I say, tilting back a vodka-tonic.

Chris is an idiot for dragging me into this. I have a girlfriend, too, lest we forget, and I'd have some explaining to do if she found out what was going on.

Kristen heads to the ladies' room, and I look at Chris and his new friend.

"She found out," Irene says. "She saw some text messages on my phone, and overheard me talking to him. The best way to deal with it was to have her meet him. We just brought you to kind of distract her."

"Text messages?" I say, looking at Chris.

"I..."

"Text messages? Why don't you just leave a bloody knife at the crime scene with your fingerprints on it?"

They exchange looks.

"I'm not judging you. Believe me, I'm not qualified to judge, and Chris knows that, which is why he dragged me into this. But if you two are gonna use each other for a pit stop, you shouldn't be out in public together. And you sure as hell shouldn't leave evidence around."

"But my sister..."

"Tell your sister it's none of her business!"

"You don't know her, Steve. She'll be better about it if she knows the details. We live at home, and it wasn't safe to bring you and Chris over."

"So where do you guys... hang out?"

"My mom works late a few nights a week."

I scowl at Chris. "Are you stupid?"

You guys could learn a lot from Paige...

January 3, 2006, 9:27pm
Steve's house

The phone rings, and I jump, knocking over my water bottle.

Dad is gone. He must be. The paramedics didn't even seem to be in a rush, according to Greg. They didn't even turn the siren on. He must have been a lost cause.

It seems unfair. I know that we are all supposed to outlive our parents, but it wasn't so long ago that mom bit the dust, and she wasn't much of a mother to begin with. I hardly ever saw her, and when I did, she was loaded and dropping more F-bombs than Richard Pryor.

Dad is different. He was a great father. He was hardly home during the day, like mom, but that's because he was working 12-hour shifts at a hot, smelly garment factory so my brothers and I could buy our Sega Genesis and our Reebok Pumps.

My dad used to collect $40 from me every month for car insurance. I bitched at him all the time about it, about how unfair it was that I had to pay for my insurance when other kids my age did not.

I was packing my bags to go away to college for the first time when dad walked in and handed me a manilla envelope, grinning. "What's this?" I asked, and opened the envelope.

Inside was every dollar of insurance money I had given him.

For some reason, even after all these years, after everything that's happened, I just keep thinking back to that manilla envelope. He taught me the value of saving money, and he showed how much he loved me, all at the same time. That is what good fathers do.

My brothers and I deserve to have a father like ours around for a long time. He ought to be able to see all of us married, with families of our own, before he dies. It only seems fair, but I know it doesn't work that way.

"Please don't go over the bridge on the way to the hospital," Tim says.

"I have to, Tim. It's the fastest way there."

"Why don't you take Cold Spring Street?"

"That's five miles out of the way!"

"So what?"

"So he'll be dead by then," I snarl, recoiling at the sound of my own voice.

She stares straight ahead, chewing a fingernail.

"Why are you so afraid of bridges anyway?"

"I don't know! Stop asking me!"

"Does it have to do with--"

"No!"

"You'd never guess it was me who's under stress," I say. "It's my dad who's in the hospital, in case you've forgotten."

**********

10:14pm
Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, Intensive Care Unit family room

"Hi, gunkle Steve," Mackenzie says. She's up awfully late.

"Hi, honey."

"Gunkle! Look at my Polly Pocket," she says, waving a four-inch tall doll at me.

"That's nice, sweetie."

"Steve," Chris says, ominously, from the doorway, and with his shadowy face and dark jeans, he looks just like the Grim Reaper. I don't like the sound of his voice.

I hug him. "You okay?"

"No."

"Is he-- how is he?"

"He's stable for now. His kidneys shut down. His lungs are filled with fluid. He's also got some heart damage, evidently."

"What are his chances?"

"The doctor says if he wakes up to say goodbye we should consider it a victory."

Greg sobs softly.

"Gunkle, why is my daddy crying?"

**********

Sssssshhhhh-haaaaa.

I remember the sound from when mom was in the hospital. Dad has a thick grey tube shoved down his throat to help him breathe, just like she had. It's odd to think that, less than two years ago, dad stood next to us, strong and healthy as an ox, as we watched mom die. Now, we're watching him die, and he's every bit as weak and helpless as she was.

Sssssshhhhh-haaaaa.

"Dad?" I say.

Sssssshhhhh-haaaaa.

He looks old, with a frail neck and 2 days' worth of salt and pepper stubble. His skin is yellow and clammy.

"Dad, the doctors are taking care of you. You're going to be all right."

"He's got pneumonia," Greg says, to no one in particular.

They're hitting him with big-gun antibiotics, and pulling water out of his system as fast as they can, but progress is slow. Even so, seeing a nurse standing beside his bed with pages of notes, rushing from machine to machine, is comforting. She's helping him, and she hasn't given up hope.

"He's a sick man," the doctor says. "I don't want you to get your hopes up."

"What are the best case and worst case scenarios?" I ask.

"Best case? He gets up and walks out of here. Worst case--"

"He goes out with a toe tag?"

"Yes."

Tim is in the family room, watching Mackenzie. "I'll go relieve her so she can see your dad," Nancy says.

"She doesn't want to come in," Nancy says, two minutes later.

Tim hates hospitals. After being raped and stabbed, I guess I can't blame her, but I was hoping she'd come and see dad, just for a minute.

"You sure you don't want to come in?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Are you-- is this--"

"I'm fine, go be with your family."

"You're family, too."

"Thanks, hon," she says, rubbing my forearm. "I'm sorry, but I just can't. I was going to try, but--"

"I understand."

"I promise I'll keep you company when we get home, but I'm just gonna stay in here."

**********

January 5, 2006, 4:56pm

"Dad, it's time for us to go home now," I say. "We'll come back this weekend."

His right eye twitches.

"Dad?"

His eyes open.

"Dad! Dad! Guys, he woke up!"

Greg and Chris rush to the bed. "Follow my finger, dad," I say, and slowly move it from side to side. He stares straight ahead, one eye open wider than the other, like a stroke victim.

"He's heavily sedated," the nurse says. "Whenever we intubate, we sedate them, so they don't get agitated."

"But this is a good sign, right? Opening his eyes?" Greg asks.

"He's very sick," the nurse says.