Page 63 of Passion’s Song

His cell phone rang and Kurt’s number flashed on the screen.

Damien pressed the Bluetooth button on his console. “I’m right outside,” he said by way of greeting.

“I know that,” Kurt answered. “I was calling to ask if you planned to come inside. I’ve got fried shrimp. They’ll get cold and rubbery if they sit for too long.”

“Yeah, I’ll be inside in a minute,” Damien said.

He gripped the steering wheel, unable to get the picture of April’s face when he told her about the McGowan Group’s plans out of his mind. But what really got to him was when she accused him of wanting this all along.

He had, hadn’t he?

He was getting exactly what he wanted. The investors he’d sought were willing to make his dream a reality.

So why in the hell did it feel as if he had lead sitting in his stomach, weighing him down like a rusty anchor?

Damien got out of the car and trudged up the ramp leading to the porch. As he approached, the front door opened and Kurt appeared. He maneuvered his chair so that Damien could come in, and then led the way into the kitchen. Damien could smell the unique aroma of shrimps fried in cornmeal and spices, just like his mom used to make.

There was a salad bowl filled with leafy greens. A small plate with tomato slices and pickles sat next to it. A long loaf of French bread from the Leidenheimer Baking Company—a New Orleans staple for making po’boys—sat on the counter next to the other fixings.

“I’ve got canned drinks in the fridge,” Kurt said as he rolled over to the cabinet and used the elevation button on his chair to lift him up high enough to retrieve two plates from the cabinet. Damien didn’t make a move to help him.

As Kurt fixed their sandwiches, he regaled Damien with the latest story about his hippie neighbors who were constantly being arrested for indecent exposure. This time the couple decided to work in their flowerbeds in the buff, in the middle of the day.

Damien usually found their antics entertaining, but he just wasn’t feeling it today.

“What’s up with you?” Kurt asked when Damien responded to his story with a halfhearted chuckle.

“Nothing,” he answered. “Just a lot on my mind today.”

Damien put his elbows up on the table and folded his hands over his sandwich. He bowed his head as his brother prayed over their lunch, but he couldn’t bring himself to take a bite. He watched as Kurt started in on his sandwich.

After several moments passed, Damien asked, “How is it that you’re not still filled with rage?”

His brother stopped midbite. “Filled with rage about what?”

“About what happened to you. About the fact that you’re stuck in this chair for the rest of your life because some bastard shot you down in the street?”

Kurt’s head snapped back in surprise. “Where is this coming from?”

“I just never understood how you got past the anger so quickly.”

“What good would being filled with rage do? You read some new study that says that anger helps paraplegics walk again?” Kurt drawled.

Damien ignored his mocking tone. “I know the rage doesn’t help anything, but damn, Kurt! I’m more upset over it than you are. I still can’t go into that neighborhood without remembering what happened to you and to dad. I swear, it makes me so damn angry I can hardly see straight.

“That’s why this thing with April is so hard.” Damien ran a palm down his face. “She’s all about saving the Ninth Ward, but how in the hell can I work to save a neighborhood that did this to you?”

Kurt placed his sandwich on his plate, and with deliberate slowness, wiped at the corners of his mouth.

“Is that what you think?” his brother asked. “You think the neighborhood did this to me?”

“How else should I see it? You were just minding your own business and someone shot you down. The bastard probably still lives there, walking along those same streets without a care in the world.”

“He doesn’t live there anymore,” Kurt said.

“How do you know? The police never caught him.”

“And they never will, because he’s dead.”