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Brick forced himself not to back away, but it was a testament in his strength that he didn’t by the foul order emanating off his old man. Stale beer and dirty ashtray. Not a scent he missed. Disheveled clothes, a stained white tank top with a pair of holey black boxers covered his overweight body. Hair sticking out in all directions, telling Brick he had to drag his ass out of bed to answer the door. He had no idea how his mother lived with this asshole as long as she had.
“You have two sons. Have you seen Corey at all?”
Brick wasn’t sure why he asked that. Although, it was a good segue into his reason for visiting.
“That boy is dead to me.”
Which wasn’t a shock to Brick. The old man had never shown Corey an ounce of affection. Their father had wanted one son, and he got him. Then Corey came along three years later to a surprise to both his parents. His father had always said, “Got my boy I wanted. Don’t need him.” Even on days he was sober.
It’s a wonder Corey didn’t start doing drugs before their mother passed away. Their dad gave plenty of reasons why he could’ve.
Yet, in a way, his dad hadn’t gotten the boy he wanted. From almost an age where Brick could speak, he never did what his father wanted. Always doing the opposite, which had always brought the anger out in his dad. Not with fists. He wasn’t an abusive drunk, just a useless one. Raising his voice, using words to hurt. As Brick got older, he couldn’t help but purposely annoy the old man for the hell of it.
His mother’s death along with his grandmother’s impending illness must’ve rattled his brain. More than he cared to admit. It killed him to admit that he missed the glaringly obvious signs.
“You stole Grandma’s money and blamed it on Corey, didn’t you? She believed you, hook, line, and sinker when you told her.”
The short smirk that curled his lips told Brick the truth. He stole the money and blamed it on Corey.
It had been plausible Corey could’ve stolen the money for drugs.
Just as it was likely his father stole it for liquor.
“What’s this all about? You come around here accusing me of shit instead of giving your old man a hug.”
Ha! That was the funniest shit he heard all week. Give this asshole a hug? They weren’t an affectionate family, except his mom. She had given the best hugs and kisses. Full of warmth and love and so much support in life, they were almost smothered in it. Guess she had two roles to fill instead of just one.
“Grandma always had an undying hope you’d turn your life around and stop being a stupid drunk. That’s never going to happen.”
“You ungrateful, spiteful boy.”
Then a fist came at him. It was so fast—especially with an old drunk who looked like he rolled out of bed—Brick had no time to react.
The fist connected with his right eye, pain exploding. The force of the hit sent him stumbling down the stairs and landing on his ass on the sidewalk. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse: his eye that he could feel swelling already or his pride for letting his old man get the jump on him.
“Don’t you come around here again, you ungrateful asshole. How dare you speak to me that way! After all I’ve given you. All I’ve done for you.”
He stood up in time to miss his dad spitting in his direction. Gross. He’d rather get hit in the face again than spit on.
What had this asshole ever given him? Nothing but the idea of how a father shouldn’t act.
“I got what I came for. You can rot in hell.”
Then Brick turned around, ignoring the ranting and hollering flying off the porch.
The drive home was awkward and painful with his eye making it difficult to see. When he reached the bar, he headed straight inside and pulled a beer from the cooler, placing it on his face.
“I’d say an icepack would probably work better,” Antonio said with a chuckle as he watched him sit at the bar with a beer bottle over his eye.
“Too lazy to go find one. It hurts like a bitch.”
Antonio rolled his eyes, said something to the patrons already in the bar this early in the morning, and walked away.
He came back less than two minutes later with an ice pack. “Here. You look pathetic with the bottle.”
He offered a grateful smile—see, he could be grateful—and replaced the bottle with the ice pack.
“So, care to share?” he asked, as he leaned against the counter.
