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“Another time,” said Kade, gruffly. He reached out and touched my face. “You get some rest. Drink some water, too. You’re gonna be dehydrated.”
I couldn’t believe they were just leaving! Especially after what they’d done; the kinds of gifts they’d given me — both physical and otherwise. All without expecting anything in return.
“Call us,” Brock said from the doorway. “Or just come by. You know where to find us.”
I nodded numbly, unable to speak. The Christmas music was still playing, the lights of the tree, still twinkling.
Then the door closed, and they were gone.
Eleven
KADE
“See that four-by-eight Belgium all the way up there?” the boss pointed. “Classic grey?”
I shook the daydream from my head, as best I could anyway. It was a very pleasant daydream. One of those gems that always takes over your focus.
“Yeah?” I finally answered.
“Well I need it down here, pronto. A flatbed’s coming to get it in about twenty minutes.”
I nodded to the old man, who wasn’t really an old man at all. Brock’s father hadn’t aged all that much since we were kids. Maybe he was a little sterner and a little more weathered, but overall—
“Kade?”
“I’m on it.”
I spent a minute or two roping off the area with temporary orange fencing, to make sure no one would get in the way. Then I hopped into the forklift and turned the key. There was a satisfying click as I felt the machine thrum to life beneath me, and I bent to my task.
I watched the forks glide up the mast to the perfect height, then I slid them beneath the stack. The bundle in question had to weigh at least a ton. It always amazed me how the hydraulics could handle it.
Halfway to the ground, my phone buzzed. I perked up immediately.
Brandon.
Instinctively I reached for it, then stopped. First things first. “Let’s not crush anyone to death today,” I mumbled.
A minute later I’d retrieved the Belgium block and set the wire-wrapped stack in its proper place. Then I whipped out my phone, and looked at the screen. It wasn’t my brother. My mouth turned downward in disappointment.
“YO!”
Brock came stomping over, wiping his hands on his jumpsuit. He’d been mucking out the empty gravel stalls all morning.
“Heard from him yet?”
I shook my head. “No, you?”
“Nah.”
Brandon did that sometimes — get in touch with Brock. It usually happened only when he was in serious trouble though, which I guess I could take as a good sign.
“He’ll call,” Brock assured me. “He’s probably just off fucking around.”
“Yeah, well he usually hits me back.”
“Not always,” Brock pointed out. “He knows you’re keeping tabs on him. Little brothers don’t always like that, you know.”
He was looking on the bright side I knew, but it wasn’t helping. Not when it came to Brandon. Or his… history.
