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I give him a single nod, then watch as he yanks the door open and reveals his little brother sitting in the hall, his legs open, his knees bent, and a glaring orange basketball hitting the opposite wall.Thump.Then the floor.Thump.Finally, it lands in Cato’s hands.Thump.
Holding on to the ball, he looks up with a goofy, child-like smirk. “What’s up?”
“That ball, up your ass if you keep this shit going.” Archer snatches it with a loud slap of his palm against the leather, then continues along the hall.
Cato scrambles to his feet, but the boy—eighteen, muscular and athletic, if not a little skinny—freezes like a deer does in the middle of the road. He looks to me, yearning, then to his brother; still yearning, but only for his prized possession. Then back to me, but I give him none of the attention he so craves, so when the sound of our living room window opening ricochets through the apartment, Cato swings his head back in that direction and sprints. “Don’t you fuckin dare!”
I grit my teeth when Archer’s breath comes out on a grunt. Then I head into the hall, and stop at the entry to the living room to find the ball gone, and Cato leaning out the window, groaning over the long bleat of a car’s horn from the street below.
“Archer!” Pulling back inside, he turns and snarls. “You asshole.”
“Don’t bounce that shit in my apartment.” Pleased with his work, Archer turns to me with a playful grin. But his voice stays hard for his brother. “We have downstairs neighbors who don’t want to hear that at seven in the morning. And especially don’t sit in the hall, listening to my private conversations with my wife. She already wants to hurt you, kid. Don’t make it so I give her permission.”
I scowl.I’m the bad guy today, I guess, in this good cop/bad cop thing we have going on.
Some days, I’m the one advocating for Cato and sticking up for him—especially when Tim, the oldest Malone brother, is involved and taking Archer’s side. Other days, like today, I’m the monster who, in reality, simply wants privacy in my own home, and for the kid who islegally an adultto move into the fully furnished, completely vacant apartment we have available for him.
Some days, I can’t be in the same space as Cato Malone. My neuroses make it impossible, and my workload wears me down so I have nothing left to give. Other days, I try to be the motherly role model he wants so badly.
Honestly, this hot-and-cold confusion is probably why the man-child has whiplash and a hunger for stability.
I never said I would always make sense. And I sure as hell never promised to be anyone’s mom.
“I’m making coffee.” With a sigh, I leave the Malone brothers to their drama, and instead head to the machine in our L-shaped kitchen, catching sight of my cell on the counter.
The half-dozen notifications on the screen let me know that, although things are quiet, and Doctor Aubree Emeri, my best friend and second in charge, is not yet in my living room, the outside world continues to chug along, waiting for me to join it.
“I’m preparing a to-go cup,” I announce, “then I’m heading to the George Stanley.” I grab down my travel mug, then take a second one for Archer, since he would do the same for me, if he got to the machine first. “What are you doing today, Cato?”
Thrilled that I’m interested in his activities, he darts away from the window, completely recovered from the death of yet another basketball—the fourth in as many days—and strolls in my direction. “Well, school’s out, Doc. And college hasn’t begun.” He drops his hands in his jeans pockets, which makes his shoulders that much broader. “So I guess I’m a little bored. And everyone knows, bored teens find trouble.”
“Mm. Not my problem.” I hit the button on the machine and move to the fridge to take out the milk. “Whatever trouble you get yourself into isn’t actually my concern.” I look at Archer, though, and raise a single, challenging brow. “It’syours. For as long as he’s in Copeland City, rather than in New York with Felix, he’s yours to deal with, no?”
He scoffs. “No. He’s not a kid, let alonemykid. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. If he screws up and finds himself in hot water, the consequences will be his to carry too.”
“Real mature,” Cato grumbles. “Let me get arrested for poor, impulsive choices, just to prove a point.”
“You are a grown-ass man!” Archer snaps. “You’ve literally gone your whole life without my influence. I don’t intend to start interfering now.”
“What if I go out and fuck some chick?”
Archer strides around to my side of the kitchen counter, bends to open a low cabinet, then takes out a basket filled to the brim with condoms; a new addition to our home since his horndog little brother came to live with us. He fists a handful and offers them to Cato. “Make it safe. Make it consensual. Don’t make a baby.”
Cato snorts, but he accepts the condoms and stuffs them—a whole dozen or so—in his back pocket. “What if I wanna kill someone?”
“Then you’d better have a good reason,” thehomicide detectiveargues. “And don’t get caught. And especially don’t dump the body on my side of the city.”
“What if I wanna rob a bank?”
His scenarios are a little ridiculous. But he’s just a kid. Immature, a little dumb, and exceptionally needy for the attention he never got from his parents.
“I could be impulsive,” he presses, “and rob a bank, all because you told me to get out of your apartment and leave you alone.”
“If you feel inclined to do that,” Archer turns to the coffee machine and switches the mugs when the first is full, “then I guess that was your plan all along, and not something I could stop. I don’t get ‘take your little brother to work’ days down at the station. Nor do I get ‘stay home and babysit an impulsive jockstrap’ leave. That means I’ve got places to be, and you…” He takes the milk and pours. “Well,” he glances over his shoulder to the boy who looks just like a younger Archer. Dark hair, broad shoulders, perfect green eyes, and enough smug confidence to make a woman want to hit him on a semi-regular basis. “You have college orientation to prepare for. And probably basketball practice to do, since you’re going out for the team. Oh, and an apartment to move into. Sounds to me like you’ve got a full schedule.”
“Can’t practice when you keep destroying my equipment,” he grumbles. “But college is still months away. And that other apartment is cold and lonely. I prefer it here.”
His sincere and unwavering loyalty and neediness would be charming, if only it was a little less annoying. Beneath the man-body and arrogant attitude is a little boy who was never held or loved or raised properly. His father was too busy running a cartel, and his mother was probably buried in a shallow grave once she’d served her purpose. He only had four other little lost boys to show him the way.
