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“He needs to die.” Always with the drama, damn. I look down at… fuck, I don’t even know his name. For a second, I feel inadequate, like this should be the basics of taking care of a kid. Knowing the name of his biological father.
“Hey, what’s your name?” I put the phone to my shoulder as Psycho takes advantage of the fact that Baby Psycho ain’t around to use every cuss word in the book aimed right at the guy next to me.
“Uh, it’s a… it’s Stan.” Huh. He looks like aStan. No offense.
When I bring the phone back up to my ear, I catch the end of Psycho’s tirade and can’t help but chuckle.
“—rip his tiny balls off and feed them to Spencer’s cat.” He ain’t playin’ and I’m okay with that. Our favorite EMT asked us to watch his two-hundred-year-old cat a few months ago, and although we were worried he’d scare Ninja and Bandit, we quickly realized it was too old to spend too much energy chasing his food. Walking to his bowl is work enough.
“You comin’ or what?” I ask, nodding at Stan like it’s a done deal.
“You bet your grizzly ass I am. Bringin’ Grinder too. Boner’s mom is back and well… you get the picture.” Christ, these guys should have their own reality TV dedicated just for them. They could call itThe Real Bikers of Rockford Beach.
“Hey, where’s Paxton goin’? I gotta see my son. The social worker, she said something about me needin’ to take him home.” Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, I bring my mouth to his ear and whisper in a not so friendly or reassuring tone.
“Trust me, ain’t no world where you get to take Paxton home with you.”
I’m pretty sure that’s when Stan realized he was in a fuckload of trouble.
By the time my brothers arrive, their bikes revving for added effect, I’ve got Stan begging for his life. What a fuckin’ joke.
“Christ, Bear. Did you make him piss his pants?” Grinder calls out just as he slides his helmet off, then looks at Psycho and coos. “Aww, Beary-Poo is all grown up.” These two idiots fist bump then make an explosion sign. Fucking preteens is what they are.
“So, you Pax’s sperm donor?” By now, Stan is scratching his arms up like he’s got bed bugs running a marathon from wrist to elbow and back again, so Psycho’s question doesn’t seem to be a priority.
“Yeah, this isStan.” I put some emphasis on the name and it makes Psycho grin while Grinder starts humming Eminem’s song. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a storage unit not too far from here.”
By the time we make it to our meeting point, Grinder and Psycho, who got there before us, have the door rolled up and a chair set up with a table in the middle. I’m not a fan of the torturing, don’t get off on it like these two weirdos, but I’m willing to go the extra mile if it means keeping Paxton safe.
“So here’s the deal.” Pushing Stan onto the chair, I keep a hand on his shoulder so he doesn’t get any stupid ideas.
“I just need a small hit, man. You know, to keep my mind clear. That's all. Just a tiny hit. I think I got a needle here somewhere.” Oh, this motherfucker came to Paxton’s school, talked to him, and all this time he had a dirty syringe in his pocket?
“You ain’t gettin’ shit. But I’ll tell you what.” Grinder pulls down the roller door while Psycho turns on the overhead light and I get right up in Stan’s face. “I’ll let you live on one condition.”
“Aww c’mon! You’re gonna let him live?” Grinder whines then turns to Psycho. “I thought you said we were gonna play a little.” Some days, I don’t know who is the greater psychopath.
“You said you had somethin’. You promised.” Shaking his head, getting more and more agitated, Stan lifts the sweater sleeves up his bony arms and starts scratching directly on the skin. Fucking Christ, how is this guy even alive?
“I lied.” Pressing my palms on the arm rests, I lean down so that all Stan can see is my face, my eyes probing his very soul. “You see, I want something that only you can give me.”
Stan starts nodding his head like he knows what I’m about to say, happy about it, even.
“Yeah, yeah. I can suck you off. I can do that for a hit, man. Just a small hit.” In this very second, I actually feel sorry forhim. In some ways, he’s a prisoner of his addiction in the same way Athena was a prisoner of The Firm. Difference is, she didn’t choose to fuck up her life, she chose to save herself.
“You’re not putting that filthy mouth anywhere near me. What you’re gonna do is sign over your rights to Paxton.” At my words, Stan looks confused, then this motherfucker starts getting an attitude.
“No. He’s my son. I ain’t signin’ shit. He’s my kid and I’ll do whatever the fuck I wan—” One punch is all I give him, just so he’ll shut the fuck up.
“See, I’m trying to be reasonable here, Stan. You know how old Pax is?” At my question, Stan’s brows slant down as his mouth mumbles something I can’t understand. Clearly, he has no fucking clue. “He’s twelve.”
“Yeah, okay. I knew that. I just… I can’t think like this.” Stan’s looking at me like I give a shit.
“Know what his favorite food is? What kind of music he likes to listen to? Do you even fucking know that he cries himself to sleep at night, after he talks to his mom, thinking we can’t hear him?” Stan shakes his head and it’s clear he doesn’t have the mental capacity to take in all of this information right now because his withdrawals are doing a great job of frying his brain. “More importantly, do you really think I’m gonna let you take Paxton and expose him to whatever fucking life you’ve got goin’ on?” Stan frowns, his head shaking from side to side, but his eyes are nearly vacant. “That’s right. You’re gonna have to kill me, Stan. Do you think you can do that? And before you answer that question, remember I’ve got my two best friends here just waiting for you to fuck up.”
Stan’s eyes dart to Grinder and Psycho, who are surprisingly calm back there. “N-no… I mean, yeah.”
I get all up in his face so that he has no other choice than to lean away from me, but Stan still tries to fight the inevitable.