8. 8
I Wanna Remember – NEEDTObrEATH Ft. Carrie Underwood
T he front door barely swings shut before I’m greeted by chaos. Joseph’s toy car skims past my boot, followed by Callie shrieking, “Mine!” at the top of her lungs.
Harrison’s already perched on the couch, beer in hand, grinning like the menace he is. Imogen’s tucked beside him, under a throw blanket that reads Home is where the wine is, because of course it does.
“Oi! Sharing is caring!” Xavier yells from the kitchen, halfway through cooking and a full sentence away from losing his mind, no doubt. “They’ll break their bloody necks before they’re five,” he mutters, mostly to himself, but Harrison and Imogen snort in response.
Another toy sails through the air. I catch it one-handed without breaking stride. This house is too damn small for this much chaos.
“Fuck me. Two minutes in and I’m already dodging missiles.”
“Language!” Imogen calls from the couch, not even looking up.
“Mick! Uncle Mick!” Joseph’s voice cuts through the noise like an alarm. He barrels toward me, arms flailing. I bend just in time to scoop him up before he takes out my knees.
“Hey, bud. Still giving your old man a cardiac episode every other day?”
Harrison mutters something about ‘doctor visits’ and wings a pillow at my head.
Joseph, ever the mimic, picks up the pillow and does the same—with less aim, but more enthusiasm—and mutters, “F-uck!”
My eyes widen before snapping over to Harrison. No one else seems to notice. I drop to his level. “Hey, wanna mess with your dad?”
He nods quickly.
“Go tell Daddy he’s a shithead.”
Joseph tilts his head. “Shi-head?”
“Close enough.”
He sprints across the lounge with full confidence. “Daddy! Shi-head!”
Harrison chokes on his drink, and Imogen doubles over laughing. “What? Where’d you learn that, Jay?”
Joseph beams. “Daddy. F-uck. Shi-head.”
I’m already halfway to the kitchen by the time Harrison realises. “Michael!”
I try to duck behind Xavier, who just laughs and shoves me forward like some human sacrifice. Harrison gets a few hits in—light punches, mostly to the ribs. I grunt and swat him off.
“Jesus, alright! You gonna hit me in front of your kid now?”
Imogen’s standing now, with little Hope, on her hip. “Real solid parenting, boys.”
“At least he’ll grow up tough,” I mutter.
She ignores me, looking at Joseph, where he stands between us. “And what did we say about copying Uncle Michael?” Joseph hangs his head. “No more bad words, okay?”
He nods his head quickly, and Imogen shoots me a glare sharp enough to peel paint.
I raise both hands in surrender. “You got it, Immy.”
Isla wanders in, just as things cool down, carrying a plate of cut fruit. “What’d I miss?”
Her hair’s pinned up, green eyes sparkling. Xavier smirks, about to say something smug, but I beat him to it. “I got attacked, that’s what. You missed the show.”
Xavier tosses a tea towel over his shoulder. “You better pray my daughter doesn’t start dropping F-bombs, mate. You’re out if she does.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Harrison jerks his chin toward the back door. “Now go be useful and grab the veggies off the grill.”
“F—” I don’t even get the word out before Imogen steps forward. “Fudge off,” I say instead. “Why don’t you get them? And why’s he”—I jab a thumb at Xavier—“cooking in your kitchen?”
“Because he offered,” Harrison says, lifting his beer like a peace treaty.
“Because your brother can’t cook toast without setting off the smoke alarm,” Xavier adds with a smirk.
“Oh, piss off,” Harrison grumbles, dragging himself toward the door.
“Don’t forget the tongs, babe,” Imogen calls after him.
“That’s right,” I say. “Wouldn’t want you burning your delicate hands, princess.”
“Careful, Mikey boy,” he calls from the doorway, “I’ve got tongs and no adult supervision out here.”
“Oooo, I’m terrified.” I wiggle my fingers in the air.
Joseph, still perched on Imogen’s hip, points at me. “Pith off!”
Everyone freezes. Harrison pokes his head in the door, and I point straight at him. “Right. Now that one’s on you now.”
“Michael!” Harrison groans.
“I’ll be outside,” I say, already heading for the door.
Behind me, Imogen mutters, “Lord help this child,” and Xavier bursts out laughing.
The clang of a spanner hitting the concrete echoes through the shop, followed immediately by Jono’s muffled curse.
“This bloody transmission’s possessed, I swear to God,” he grumbles from beneath the lifted ute, tools rattling around him.
Typical Monday. Slow, sticky, and already testing everyone’s patience by ten-thirty.
The kind of day where you question every life choice that led to being elbow-deep in grease while the rest of the world enjoys their aircon.
Jono wipes his hands on a rag, a streak of black across his cheek as he leans against the tool bench. “I swear that thing’s got a vendetta, mate.”
I huff out a laugh, bent over the open bonnet of an old Falcon that’s been giving me hell since this morning.
The radiator’s stuffed, and the plugs look like they haven’t been touched since the ‘90s.
I run a greasy forearm across my forehead, the heat of the day building already.
Burnt oil clings to everything. Smells like work— familiar and safe.
“You reckon you’ll finish that one today?”
The sudden voice makes me jump slightly. Harrison appears, rounding the Falcon with that loping stride of his, wiping his hands on a rag before slinging it over his shoulder.
“Should do. Just needs the radiator flushed and plugs swapped.”
He tosses me a cold water bottle from the Esky, the crack of plastic on metal loud in the lazy hum of the garage. “Mum dropped off muffins again. Blueberry.”
I pause. Not because of the muffins, but because a year ago, that sentence would’ve sounded like bullshit. Now, it’s just… normal. Our mum’s sober. Present. Knitting weird scarves and baking her way through guilt and second chances. “I’ll take two if she added lemon zest this time.”
Harrison chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
It’s good—this, us. Working side by side, not walking on eggshells around him or waiting for another spiral.
Seeing a psychologist, opening up—hell, becoming a father—it’s done wonders for him.
Grounded him in a way I didn’t think possible.
As his brother, watching that shift… It’s everything.
Just as I’m about to ask when we’re headed out for lunch, the squeal of tyres crunching over gravel draws my attention to the shop’s open roller door.
A low growl of an engine follows, and a blue ‘85 Holden Commodore VK rolls in, its paint still good as new, gleaming in the sun.
A muscle car that growls like a beast and purrs like sin.
In the driver’s seat, a cigarette perched between his lips, sits Jax—all tanned skin, sun-creased eyes, and an ego that never aged past his teens.
We met when I was sixteen, doing dumb, reckless shit together before I even had a license.
He’s in his thirties now, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he still dresses like a burnout and grins like he’s hiding fireworks in his pockets.
Jax leans out of the window, that cocky smirk already spelling trouble. “Oi, you free in two weeks?”
I squint into the light, walking over as I dig out a smoke of my own. “Depends on who’s asking and what for?”
“There’s a race on. Next Saturday night. Out past Cobden. You remember Dutton’s track?” Panic settles in my gut. Shit. I thought I had more time.
“You serious? Thought that wasn’t happening for another three months.”
Jax shrugs, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, nah, that’s still the main event. But the organisers wanted a pre-run. Smaller thing. An evening run. Invite-only. Just a bit of a taster.”
“Like hell I’m missing that,” Harrison chimes in, sidling up beside me. He slaps a hand around my shoulders, pulling me into a rough hug. “Just like old times, eh?”
I grunt, trying to shove him off. “Yeah, you mean when you flipped the bike into Mrs. Godwin’s blackberry bush, mate?”
“Which broke my fall, saved my ass, and your Yamaha. You’re welcome.”
I eye Jax, doubtful. “Last time they did a late pre-run, the place was crawling with cops.”
Jax’s grin stretches wider. “Nah, this one’s clean, promise. No cops. No drama. Just engines and egos. Bring some friends and family.”
I rub the back of my neck, already feeling the heat of the sun sink into my skin. “Shit, man. That’s soon. I need time to warm up.”
“You’ve got two weeks. Chop, chop, mate. Bring the WRX, Harrison. And Michael…” He smirks. “Bring your A-game.”
Harrison ruffles my hair, smearing grease across my temple. “He hasn’t had an A-game since I beat his ass in my WRX, but sure.”
I swat at him. “Oh, piss off, you’re getting grease all over my face, and I let you win. Don’t forget that. It’s about the only race you’ve ever won anyway.”
Jax laughs, pointing. “Still the most dramatic bloke in the garage. Never change, mate.”
I chuck the nearest rag at his head. He ducks, still grinning as he rolls his window up and starts reversing out. Harrison and I watch him go before my brother flicks me a sidelong glance.
“You going to do it?”
“Maybe. Depends how the Ducati handles. And if I can stomach…” I trail off, then shake my head. “…doing this shit all over again.”
Joe’s voice calls out from under the ute . “You’re an idiot if you get into that crap again. You’ve got enough trouble without chasing more, and not enough time to dig yourself out of it when it hits.”
I grin. “Which is exactly why my gut is telling me yes.”
If there are two things I’m good at, it’s trouble and proving people wrong. I step away from the Charger, walking back into the shop, stretching my spine until it pops. The creak of my joints reminds me I’m not in my teens anymore, no matter how many races I pretend I can still win.