That Thing Called Love. Susan Andersen
in sea-hued bits of tile on the bump-out over the marine-blue building’s three front windows. The same twin neon anchors from his youth flashed yellow and blue on either end of the sign, and what he’d swear were the same neon beer signs dotted the windows.
He felt an edge of anticipation and had to admit he was curious. He’d left town before he was old enough to be allowed in the bar. Back in the day, he’d tried to lay hands on some fake ID with the thought of going there, but it hadn’t panned out.
He snorted. Hell, even if he’d scored the best fake identification ever produced, it wasn’t as if there’d been a hope in hell he’d have gotten away with using it. Not in the Anchor. In a town this size, everyone pretty much knew who everyone else was.
Pulling open the door, he walked in.
Dimly lit, the interior sported dark wood-plank floors scuffed from years of foot traffic, and matching, if less beat-up, walls covered in black-framed photos that appeared to be black-and-white shots of midcentury Razor Bay. He wouldn’t mind taking a closer look at those.
A long bar with tall stools took up most of the back wall, and the two blackboards behind it, whose chalk menus were highlighted by art lights, showed a surprising selection of microbrewery beers and ales. A jukebox, pinball machine and a couple of dartboards took up a small slice of real estate down at the end of the front wall to his right. Tables and chairs took up the rest of the floor, and a few small booths occupied the wall opposite the gaming section.
He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this was a bar pretty much like you’d find anywhere, if a touch more hip than he’d anticipated. But at least he could kill a little time here with a beer and those photos.
“Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in,” a deep voice drawled from one of the booths.
Jake froze midstride, and for a single hot second he was a fourth-grade boy again, forgetting for a moment that his dad had walked out on him and his mom, because he was finally on the much-coveted big kids’ fourth-to-sixth-grade upper playground at Chief Sealth Elementary. He’d had one perfect moment—until a boy two grades older came up to him, gave him a shove that almost knocked him off his feet and said, “Heard you got what you deserved. If your tramp of a mama hadn’t got herself knocked up, my dad would still be with me and my mom.”
It had been a shock on every level because how many darn families did his until-recently-adored father have? And Jake sure hadn’t started the new school year expecting to be pushed around by his previously unknown half brother. A brother, he’d learned over a course of several school-yard confrontations, whom their mutual father, Charlie Bradshaw, had totally ignored even when they’d lived in the same town—the way Charlie ignored him now that he’d moved on to a new family.
But the little flash down memory lane was just that—there one second and gone the next. Shaking off the mix of confusion and rage that dealings with Max Bradshaw had always given him, he strolled over. “Well, hey, big brother,” he drawled right back. “Long time, no see. I hear somebody thought it was a good idea to give you a gun. Tell me that doesn’t scare the shit out of the general populace.”
“Oh, most people don’t have a thing to worry about.” Max gave Jake a pointed look. “You, however—” His gaze grazed Jake’s chest as if visualizing a bull’s-eye.
It was never easy to tell when Max was serious and when he wasn’t, but Jake gave him the same cool look either case would garner. “So what number wife are you up to now? Three? Four, maybe? Any nieces or nephews I oughta know about?”
The words had barely left his mouth when he felt an odd regret. He and Max actually shared several traits, and when their father had waltzed out of town, they’d had a narrow window of opportunity to bury the hatchet somewhere besides in each other’s skull. After all, they were probably the only ones in Razor Bay who truly understood how the wreckage Charlie left behind affected the other. It had been a rare chance to take comfort in having someone who got it, someone with whom you didn’t have to pretend you didn’t give a damn that Charlie Bradshaw was a great dad as long as you were his current favorite, but that he forgot you even existed the moment he moved on. And they might have.
If hating each other’s guts hadn’t been so well ingrained by then.
Even in the dim light he could see his salvo cause something dark to flash across his half brother’s deep-set eyes. But the other man merely shrugged a big shoulder. “No wives, no kids. You’re the one who started early and followed in the old man’s footsteps.”
You opened yourself up for that one, Slick. But, ouch. It was a direct hit, and one that gouged at a long-festering guilt, more than a decade old.
Because as much as he’d like to blow off his half brother’s potshot as the usual sour grapes, Max wasn’t wrong. When Jake’s high school girlfriend Kari had gotten knocked up in their senior year, he had started out with good intentions, fiercely determined to man up in a way that his own dad never had. And for a while, he had done just that.
In the end, however, he’d turned out to be nothing but a chip off the old block.
The knowledge rankled now just as much as it had back then, so instead of acting cool and shrugging off Max’s remark the way he should have, he snapped, “You don’t know a damn thing about me, bro. You didn’t when I was nine and you turned the big kids’ playground into a battleground, and you sure as hell don’t now. When are you gonna get it through your head? My mom and I didn’t make the old man leave you and your mother, any more than whoever that other woman was made him leave us. When it comes to Charlie’s wives and kids, he’s got the attention span of a fruit fly.”
His half brother dug his knuckles into his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Then, dropping his hand to splay atop the scarred table, Max looked up at him. And blew out a breath. “Yeah,” he agreed, his deep voice a tired rumble.
Jake took a seat in the booth across the table from Max. “You know what?” he said in a low voice.
“I don’t have the heart for this anymore. I’ve got enough on my plate just trying to make up for my past and hoping to hell I do a decent enough job to get to know my kid. I don’t have enough energy to fight you, too.”
Max gave him a puzzled look. “You do get that you’re handing me a whole shitload of ammunition, right?”
Jake shrugged. “You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do—it’s not like I can stop you. So fuck it.”
“Right.” Max shifted in his seat. “Fuck it. We’re not in high school anymore.” He leveled a look on him. “Don’t get the idea you’re ever gonna be my bud, little Bradshaw. But I can probably stomach being around you now and then.”
Jake had to swallow a grin at the “little Bradshaw” crack. That was a good one. He wasn’t particularly small: he missed the six-foot mark by a fraction of an inch. But Max was a good six-three and twenty pounds heavier. “Give me a minute,” he ordered. “I’m kinda overwhelmed here. I’m not sure I know how to handle so much enthusiasm coming my way.” He shook his head as he met the gaze of the man across the table. “The thrill of it all just may kill me.”
“We can only hope.”
A cardboard Anchor Porter beer coaster landed on the table in front of him and he looked up at a cheery, college-age blonde.
She gave him a toothy grin. “Well, hey there, new blood. Haven’t seen you before. Trust me, I’d remember.” Then she waved the mild flirtation aside. “Get you boys something?”
“Him another table,” Max said.
Jake flashed the waitress a smile. “My brother’s such a kidder.”
She did a double take. “Shut the front door! You two are brothers?”
“Half,” Max emphasized. “We’re half brothers.”
“Half, whole.” Jake shrugged. “What’s the diff? Blood’s blood, right?”