Blood Brothers (8 page)

She still had a few days to finalize the
list, order the invitations and have them back in time to mail them
out. Tired from her two hours at the desk and more, the monitor,
she leaned back and rubbed her aching eyes.

Stephanie was already dressed for bed in
purple satin PJs and her terrycloth robe. She had showered and
dressed down after making sure Christal had dinner. She hadn’t
planned on working tonight, but she really had nothing else to do.
Considering her level in the socialite hierarchy, her late evenings
were remarkably clear of appointments.

Switching off the computer, she left the
office, darkening the lights as she went. Her feet were bare and
the hardwood flooring was cool to the touch. She stopped and
withdrew her slippers from the hallway closet at the foot of the
stairs. She heard muffled speaking from above. The housekeeper was
already gone, had been for over an hour as a matter of fact, and
Christal didn’t have a habit of talking to herself. It could’ve
been the TV, but Stephanie honestly didn’t think so. The house was
large, and typically at this time of night it was ominously quiet.
So quiet, in fact, that Stephanie feared she might go mad.

Moving closer to the stairs she strained her
ears, but could hear no better. The wide steps were carpet-covered,
so with soundless footfalls, Stephanie made it halfway up before
Christal’s voice fell silent. It mattered little; she’d heard
enough.

Christal’s room lay immediately beyond the
staircase. Back when Stephanie and Michael still shared the same
bed, both had more than a few reservations about their only child
being all alone, way up on the second floor. When she began walking
proficiently, however, it became evident that Christal favored this
room above all others, even her first-floor nursery. The deal was
sealed, for always and forever. Not long afterward, Stephanie moved
upstairs as well, leaving the “alone” concern null and void.

Stephanie sprinted to the top of the stairs
and pushed her way into her child’s bedroom. At that moment,
Christal, dressed in her nightgown, was standing next to her bed,
placing the telephone back onto its cradle. Tears, fresh ones,
smeared themselves down her angelic face.

“Mommy,” Christal said, the surprise at the
intrusion evident on her face.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Daddy.” As if there had been any doubt.

“You should be in bed.”

“It’s not even nine yet, Mommy. I was just
going, though.”

Stephanie paused a moment. “I didn’t hear the
phone ring. I assume you had to call him.”

“Yes, ma’am. He was working.” Stephanie
tried, truly tried, to keep the sneer from forming on her face.
Unfortunately, there was just no avoiding it.

“I’m sure he was. Anyway, crawl on into bed
and I’ll tuck you in.”

“Mommy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Will you read to me?”

Stephanie’s sneer was finally changing. A
small smile replaced it, and how could it not? “If you want me
to.”

Instead of an answer, Christal merely nodded
her head with the enthusiasm only a child could muster.

“Okay.”

Christal’s angelic face brightened, the
sorrow now gone. Such resilient creatures are the young. She moved
with the speed of lightning to her bookshelf, selected a volume for
Stephanie to orate, turned, ran and jumped into the bed. Ordinarily
Stephanie would have been quick to scold for such actions. But not
tonight. Tonight it was okay. There was no way of knowing what
Michael had said to upset his daughter so. Stephanie was not about
to inquire, but in the end all that mattered was he had let her
down again. That was the real constant of the universe: Michael
Cole would always disappoint those who cared for him the most.

With the overhead light extinguished and only
the small lamp aglow, Stephanie pulled a glider rocker to the edge
of the bed and took a seat. Christal, already snug under her fluffy
pink blanket, laid waiting. The hardcover book was dog-eared and
well-worn. Stephanie had read the book dozens of times, Michael at
least half that many. Christal knew not only the beginning, the
middle, and the end; she knew the entire text by heart. But
Stephanie remembered from her own childhood how wonderfully magical
the reading of a familiar story could be when read by the voice of
someone you loved dearly. It, in essence, brought the story to
life.

Stephanie began reading. The book was a thin
one. The story could easily be told from start to finish in only
three quarters of an hour. Stephanie, however, didn’t get past the
ten-minute mark before she looked up and saw that Christal’s eyes
were closed, and her breathing deep and even.

She was delighted from the singular joy of a
mother knowing her child slept in a peaceful, undaunted slumber.
She eased the book shut and placed it carefully on the nightstand.
Standing, she stepped softly away from the bed towards the
door.

Just as Stephanie reached out to open the
door, Christal called out, “Mommy?”

Stephanie turned. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you love daddy?”

Stephanie visibly blanched at the question
from out of nowhere. Only a child could possess such directness.
“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know. I just wondered.” Christal
still laid still, her eyes closed.

“Of course I do, Christal. Of course I
do.”

“Do you think Daddy loves you?”

Stephanie really didn’t have an answer for
that. Well, she did, but such harsh words were not meant for the
ears of the young or innocent.

“Goodnight,” was her only reply as she walked
out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Suddenly, Stephanie needed a pill. More than
one, in all reality.

***

Michael waited for a good five minutes before
his impatience became evident. He’d been keeping an eye on the hall
leading to the restrooms during Trista’s absence. If she’d
double-backed and headed for the door, surely he would have seen
her.

After another five minutes passed, he decided
to check things out for himself. He grabbed the bottled water and
strode away from their table.

If anything, Club 312 had gotten busier and
the crowd of people, thicker. Crowds, to Michael, were like an
abscessed tooth. The pressure started slowly, the throbbing nerve
an uncomfortable tickle. But before you knew it, the threshold of
discomfort was passed, and acute pain was reached. Michael began to
sweat profusely as he pushed his way into the crowd.

Finally he emerged from the dense forest of
clubbers and arrived at the hall. From here he could see Trista
against one wall. So he hadn’t been ditched after all. His relief
was palpable. It had been a very long time since any woman had run
out on Michael Cole. Yet, all the same, such a feeling was one not
easily forgotten.

So proud was Michael that his pretty
Dominican had not deserted him, that it took a tick of the clock
for him to notice that she was not alone. A very tall, very broad
man with a shaved head, wearing a ridiculous light purple
button-down shirt stood over her. His index finger was jabbing the
air mere centimeters from Trista’s face.

Rage began to boil inside Michael. Heated by
a white hot fire, he quickened his pace, shooting straight down the
hall into the embrace of danger.

It is no secret that many people despise
confrontation. A person will go completely out of his way, humble
himself in such a manner that will later embarrass him to no end,
in order to avoid meeting the threat of another head on. Michael
himself had once been that way.

But no longer. And in this lay one of the
greatest secrets of his success.

Michael Cole equated avoidance of a
confrontation, no matter the reason, as simply tucking tail and
running, the coward’s way out. Despite all the things Michael was,
he was no coward.

“Trista,” Michael said, as he came within a
few feet. “Your water is getting warm.” He held out the bottle and
shook it.

Before she could respond, Skinhead
intervened. “Take a hike, GQ.”

“GQ, huh? That’s awfully kind. Thing is, the
lady owes me a dance.”

Skinhead turned, forgetting Trista, at least
for the moment. He stepped to Michael. The man had a few inches on
him, not to mention about a hundred pounds of what looked like pure
muscle. “The thing for you to do, buddy, is take a fucking
hike.”

Michael looked up at the larger man. But only
for the blink of an eye. Then he reached his hand out to Trista.
She accepted and he tugged her from the wall. Apparently, this
utter display of disrespect was too much for this fashionably
challenged, overgrown Aryan to stomach.

“Okay. I warned you.” He made a huge show of
rearing back his arm and shoulder for a haymaker. Michael, who’d
been in his fair share of tussles in his time, had learned the
subtle nuances of telegraphed movements during a physical
altercation. None of those learned skills were necessary at the
moment. Stevie Wonder could have seen this swing coming.

Michael pushed Trista back, out of the way.
He waited, waited, waited for the fist to come. When finally it
came, Michael easily ducked below it, allowing the huge rump roast
of a fist and the side of beef arm to sail safely overhead. By the
whoosh of air, Michael knew that, though the strike was pitifully
slow, there had been, nonetheless, real power in the attack. He
readied a counterstrike, but before he could properly execute it,
he was caught off-guard.

The uppercut banged his teeth together,
jarring his vision. A bell rang somewhere deep within his head.
Shock threatened to overtake him.

Blinking furiously, Michael struggled to
regain control of his faculties. If not, he would no doubt be
pummeled into a bloody pulp. Not the best way to end the evening.
No sir, no way. He finally got his bearings, and not a second too
soon.

A heavy booted foot struck out in the
direction of Michael’s groin. Somehow, someway, Michael grabbed the
leg. Using his left foot as a plant, he swept the man’s remaining
leg, his only source of support, dropping him to the floor.

The big son of a bitch toppled and dropped to
the floor like a ton of bricks. Michael was not one to leave well
enough alone. He moved quickly, like a warm knife through butter,
as he guided his leg up over the man’s upper torso and dropped a
foot down on his nose. He could have easily have crushed the man’s
larynx but that seemed, even to him, a bit excessive. Better to
damage the nose. Fill the eyes with water and the nostrils with
blood, making pursuit impossible rather than causing serious and
irreparable harm. Better to simply stun the man and get away, than
eventually be found and, worse than a beating, have to shell out
money to this punk for the rest of his natural life just because
some bleeding heart judge felt sorry for society’s lowlifes.

Skinhead was down for the count, his hands
fussing with his now sopping red face.

Breathing hard, Michael was ready to scram.
Trista was beside him, the heat of her body a very real, very
pleasant sensation.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Just one minute,” she replied. She, now
steeled by Michael’s presence, positioned herself like a pro
football punter and snapped out a field goal on Skinhead’s balls.
The big bastard went wild then. He screamed like Janet Leigh in
Psycho. Thrashing on the floor, it was quite evident to Michael
that he had but one thing on his mind, blood. And it sure wasn’t
his.

Grabbing Trista’s wrist like a lifeline, he
tugged her away. Michael began running through the crowd, or at
least moving fast as possible, and she was right on his heels. They
burst through the front doors, leaving the bouncers looking around
stupidly. They took the steps two at a time and when they made it
to the sidewalk, they continued running. They didn’t stop until
they were about a hundred feet away from Club 312. The pedestrians
lining either side of Beale were, more likely than not, giving them
queer glances, but neither paid any attention. Finally they stopped
at the mouth of an alleyway. The air was alive with the aroma of
bar-b-que pork and draft beer.

Michael was breathing raggedly and he saw
that despite the fine shape Trista seemed to be in, she too was
taking great pains to draw air into her lungs. About a minute
later, when both had sufficiently recovered, they looked each other
in the eyes…and burst out laughing.

“That was one huge dude,” Michael said.

“But you handled him like a golden
glove…GQ.”

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

“Who was he?”

Trista shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t ask me.
Stopped me on the way back, said he wanted to hook-up. Told him I
wasn’t interested. Had something better waiting on me.” With that
she sidled up to him, her hands finding his chest which still rose
and fell rather dramatically. Still, Michael sensed that she wasn’t
being completely forthcoming with him. But what she did next
knocked that thought from his mind.

Never leaving his side, she ushered him into
the alley. Besides the neon and the incandescent lighting of the
club and shop fronts, Beale had poor lighting. A few steps into the
alley and they were well concealed. She gently eased him up against
a wall, brick, cold and strong, and pressed into him. A second
later, her hot, moist mouth found his. Her tongue, teasing, darted
in then out, before his own could catch it. Trista kissed well.
Amazingly well.

Her hands massaged his chest, traveled up and
down his arms and then slowly, moved down. He felt her thigh move
up between his legs. And he liked that, a lot.

Suddenly she pulled her mouth away. With the
ambient light he could see her, though not very well. With one hand
she reached into the pocket of her skirt and then pulled it free
again. She brought that hand to her mouth and licked her palm.