Long Way Home. Katie McGarry

me like the towering sack of testosterone and annoyance that he is. Then he’s on the move and I somehow find myself away from the ticket booth.

      “Surprised to see you here, Violet.” Pigpen is in his late twenties and thinks he’s all handsome with his blond hair and big muscles. Because he was a Navy SEAL or Army Ranger or something outrageous like that, he also thinks he’s awesome, but he doesn’t impress me. “Surprised you’re here, but happy to see you. You haven’t been at a game all year.”

      “I’ve been busy,” I say.

      “Is that what you call avoiding anyone from the Terror? Busy?”

      “Works for me.”

      “Hi, Pigpen!” Brandon is lit up like a firefly who was convinced the rest of his species was extinct. Eli, of course, enjoying the role of savior, has his arm around Brandon’s shoulders as they join us.

      “Hey, Stone.” Pigpen calls my brother by the stupid nickname the club created for him. “How’s it going?”

      “Good. They bought our tickets, Vi!”

      “Yep, they sure did, because little ol’ me couldn’t handle the big ol’ ticket booth on my own.” Heavy on the sarcasm and then a hard glare at Eli. “Brandon was going to buy his own ticket.”

      Eli rolls his neck like he’s the one who owns the right to be annoyed. “Most people say thank you.”

      “You’re missing the point.”

      Eli pats my brother’s back. “Why don’t you head in with Pigpen? I’d like to catch up with Violet.”

      Brandon bounces like a damn puppy dog given a treat and then rushes off into the stadium, leaving me with Thing Two. And to think my brother called me Vi. The little traitor.

      “Pigpen,” I call out. “Don’t leave him.”

      I forced my brother to tattle today, and while the football game will make him smile, I’m also taking a calculated risk that the people he told on won’t be here. If they are here, I’m betting they won’t mess with Brandon as long as I’m around.

      “You worry too much,” Pigpen answers without glancing back.

      When it comes to my brother, they don’t worry enough about the right problems.

      Eli watches as Brandon and Pigpen go into the stadium. Instead of taking a left for the bleachers, they go right for the concession stand, and I’m contemplating how to stab Pigpen in the jugular. Concession food brings my brother into a near state of euphoria, and because of the crappy day my brother and I had, I wanted to be the one who made him happy with a hot dog, nachos and a slushy.

      Motorcycle men around the world, as far as I’m concerned, can just plain suck it.

      Eli turns to me, and my heart aches. Good God, he reminds me of Chevy. An older version, but still the relation is clear. Like Chevy, Eli’s a McKinley. Chestnut hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders. I’ve often wondered if Chevy will be Eli’s clone when he grows older. Eli is Chevy’s uncle. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if Chevy resembled Eli as he aged, but it’s the fear of Chevy becoming the warrior and convict that Eli is that drove Chevy and me apart.

      Eli eyes me warily as he pulls on the plug in his ear. Still, the man has that grin he uses to try to convince people he’s easygoing. But I don’t buy it. Not even God could count all the demons dancing in his soul.

      To be fair, Eli used to be one of my favorite people, but he and I haven’t gotten along very well since my father’s death. In fact, I haven’t gotten along with anyone associated with the Terror since Dad died a year ago.

      “Hi, Violet.”

      “Brandon was going to buy his own ticket.” I work hard to keep my voice steady. “You can’t keep swooping in and doing things for him. He’s got to learn how to fend for himself.”

      “It’s good to see you, too,” Eli says like I never spoke. “I’m glad you brought Stone. I know how much that kid loves to see Chevy play.”

      “Maybe you didn’t hear me, so I’ll try to be a little more direct,” I say. “Stop butting in with my brother. You don’t help. None of you help.”

      “How’s your mom?” Eli continues, once again like the conversation on my end isn’t happening.

      “Moping around like always. Know what would help her? A job or a hobby or a purpose. None of which she will get as long as you guys keep popping in and taking care of her.” I’m sensing the theme, but doubt Eli will. Logic complicates his thinking process.

      The glint of frustration in Eli’s eyes gives away that he hears me, yet he keeps up the charade. “Tell your mom me and some of the guys from the club will be over to help with the house. Mow the yard. Pay the bills.”

      A dangerous anger curls within me. “I’m tired of explaining to you we don’t need the Reign of Terror’s help. In fact, we’d be better off without any of you.”

      “Is it impossible for us to talk without fighting?” Eli snaps.

      And there it is. Eli finally showing his true colors. “This isn’t a fight. My voice hasn’t risen high enough to draw a crowd, and I have yet to say fuck, so we’re still in the land of civil.”

      Eli opens his mouth to respond when his cell buzzes. He reaches for his phone, checks the text, and a shadow falls over his face. I’ve seen that look hundreds of times growing up and that expression means whatever is going on in his precious club is more important than me, more important than staying.

      It’s the look my father had right before he left me for the last time.

      Why don’t I want the club involved in my life or Brandon’s? Because Brandon doesn’t need people who promise they’re going to stick around to take care of him but then abandon him the moment their cell pings. My brother deserves better than that. I deserve better now, and I deserved better when Dad was alive.

      “Gotta go?” The bitterness drips in the singsong sway of my voice.

      The black gaze Eli shoots me is his confirmation. “This conversation isn’t over.”

      Yes, it is. “I’ve got to take care of my brother while you guys go off and play.”

      I walk away from Eli because someone in Brandon’s life has to be responsible. Someone has to be the grown-up, and considering the other people in Brandon’s life are determined to stay irresponsible, the burden falls to me.

       CHEVY

      DAMN IF I understand why girls like getting flowers, but their faces light up, their lips will tilt upward and their eyes will glow as if you handed them the world. Hell, maybe it’s only the girls I’ve been around who react this way. Maybe their lives are so messed up that the idea of any guy offering them anything without expectation of payment blows their mind.

      It’s sad, but it’s true, and I don’t mind being the person who can bring them one second of happiness.

      Shamrock’s newest employee accepts the two daisies I “magically” made appear. I stole them—two tables down from a bouquet an army boy’s holding. Guess he plans on giving it to one of the cocktail waitresses. He didn’t notice I swiped the flowers and neither did anyone else. Fast hands, a distraction, and the world belongs to me.

      “Thank you.” She glances away and my heart drops for her. She’s pretty. Early twenties. Could do well working here at the bar, but with that attitude, she won’t make it through the night. There’s no room for modesty or shyness or emotion in order to make money at this joint.

      “Pretty girl like you,” I say with a wink, “will knock ’em dead.”

      “Do you work here?” she asks.

      The