108. Satan’s Road Trip
SATAN’S ROAD TRIP
LAYTON
“What do you need, Lay? I’ll get Willa on it so that you’re set up when we get home.”
We must be an hour into Satan’s road trip. That’s how I’m referring to it in my head. Only that devious fucker could create something so disgusting and brutal.
“Son,” Pop barks. “You can keep this up, but I’m still your father. I have no problem pulling this truck over and laying your ass out.”
I smirk at that and mumble under my breath, “I’d like to see you try.” It’s the first thing I’ve said since they forcibly took me from my home like a kidnapping victim in a poorly choreographed movie.
I’m five inches taller and have twenty-five pounds of muscle on him.
Pop pulls the car over onto the shoulder of the interstate as the cars whiz by and turns his full body to me. I’d be lying to say I don’t feel like a sitting duck right here, just waiting for someone to clip us. Or worse.
As discreetly as I can, I rub my hands over my pants pockets feeling for my pills. I have no idea what Pop packed, but the chances of him going into my makeshift nightstand and grabbing the bottle was slim, so I emptied it into my pocket as I grabbed my phone just in case.
“Layton Alonzo Ranger—”
“Move along.” I’m agitated and shaking. The sunlight glinting off the cars blinds me and the whirring sound as they fly by is more than I can handle. “Move. The. Fuck. On.”
“Pop.” Exton’s voice cuts through my panic and Pop’s lecture. “Pull back out onto the road.”
“Exton, don’t you start with me too.”
“PTSD, Pop. He’s trembling and pale. A road trip probably wasn’t well thought out, but something more is going on, and it’s too much. I’m watching his pulse grow more rapid and erratic as we sit here.”
Pop turns back and begins inching the car forward. I’ve never been more thankful for Exton’s training. A body language expert is annoying to play cards with. I never could pull a fast one on him in any kind of prank. But right now, he saved me from shitting myself, and I’m grateful.
“You can lecture him as we go.”
Correction. I was grateful.
I turn as much as I’m able to look at Exton in the back seat from my place shotgun and hold his eyes. I hope I’m communicating my appreciation.
He holds my eyes for several beats and nods once before turning his face back to his phone, his thumbs flying over the keyboard in messages.
“Three fucking months.” Pop bites out his words. They’re quiet, but angry.
I say nothing, no clue what he’s on about.
“Three months, Layton. And you bring some bullshit I’d-like-to-see-you-try comment?”
Again, I stay silent. I don’t know what he’s fired up about and there’s no sense in arguing when I don’t know what’s going on.
“You have nothing to say?”
I shrug.
“Exton.” Pop looks up into the rearview mirror. “Talk some sense into your brother so I don’t have to beat it into him.”
“Twenty-nine, Pop. I’m twenty-nine, and you never once beat sense into any of us.”
“Layton.” Exton’s words are cautious. “Give him a break. I haven’t seen him this worried in…” His words trail off. He means since Mom was dying. “In a long time. It’s been hard on him.”
I drop my head back onto the headrest and close my eyes, absorbing that.
“What are you worried about, Pop?” I don’t mean to sound annoyed, but the words are what they are.
“Oh, I don’t know, Layton.” His tone drips with sarcasm.
“My son won’t return a call or a text. My son went through hell and sucks at asking for help, especially from those who love him most. My son lost something meaningful and has decided to be a shell of his former self instead of rejoining the living. ”
“Hey. That’s unfair.”
“Is it?”
I turn to my brother. “Exton, tell him I get time to process.”
Exton, always strategic in every word, levels me with his quiet reply. “Time’s up, Lay.”
“Time’s up? What the fuck does that mean? It’s been…”
“Almost four months,” Exton offers quietly as Pop turns incredulous eyes on me.
“No, it hasn’t. It’s—” I stop and grab my phone, staring twice at the date. “It’s almost August?” I scratch my cheeks through my fluffy beard before staring at my hands. My nails are craggy and broken. My fingers are thin and pale.
Exton nods as Pop grinds his jaw.
“I missed your birthday, Ex. I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I’ve lost a lot of time. Time I didn’t know was slipping by.
I should be in two-a-days. What’s my playing status? I mean, I’m fully aware I can’t play, but am I still on IR? What else have I missed? I go with the easiest question I have. “How’s Willa? Is she okay?”
The smile that breaks across Exton’s face is his most genuine.
“She’s just entered her last trimester. She’s complaining about the heat.
To be fair, we’re all complaining about the heat.
It’s summer in Texas, but she’s doing really well.
It’s a boy, by the way, and he’s growing well.
Ten fingers and ten toes and all, so we’re just waiting for him to finish baking. ”
Pop looks in the rearview and addresses Exton, “My second grandson. I can’t wait.”
At least the topic is off of me. Eventually I guess I need to find George. I need to talk business with him. But I have to be able to face that conversation, and there’s no amount of drugs for that kind of reality. Not today anyway.
I pat my pants pocket and exhale, knowing there’s comfort there and wonder what the hell is in store for me in Texas.
“What sounds good for dinner?” Pop asks Exton and me as we cross the Mississippi line into Louisiana.
“Anything works for me,” Exton offers as I stay silent. I shrug in order not to get the ire of either of them for not participating.
I’d expected we’d stop at a hotel somewhere around here to break up the trip. I am sorely mistaken and just plain sore. I haven’t been upright or awake for this length of time for so long that I’m tired of sitting, definitely out of practice with conversation and in fucking pain.
I’m also jittery. Not a ton, but enough. I can feel my pulse, and that’s not something I would say before. It thrums at my neck and pounds inside my ears. I consciously still my fingers since I know everything inside me is vibrating and I need to look less on edge.
Somewhere outside of New Orleans, Pop pulls into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant with huge yellow letters glowing from the roof. “Does this look okay?”
“Sure.” I unbuckle my seat belt as Exton says, “Works for me.”
If I could create a caricature of a Cajun cabin on the bayou, it would be this, only on a much smaller scale and without the neon writing.
It’s our second stop, and the first where I’ve realized how much I need to take the edge off.
The first stop I was still coasting on what I took as we left the house.
I’ve had too much caffeine, which is a diuretic, and it’s exacerbated the jitters.
The former has all but left me, and the latter is doing a number on my guts and my bladder.
I make my way out of the vehicle, fighting to not audibly groan at what it takes to do so.
The twisting and stretching pulls and tugs something inside me that isn’t interested in being manipulated in this way.
Waiting for Exton or Pop to grab my walker is almost as emasculating as my dick’s refusal to participate in life.
“I’ll meet you at the table.” I grit my teeth as my brother and Pop pull open the front double doors of the restaurant. “Need to hit the restroom.”
It’s not a lie. I do my business, taking way longer than I’d like, but needing all the time I take.
Today to and from the car is more than I’ve walked in any given day, and my arms are sore from their reliance on the walker. My body—folded to sit to walking longer distances to fold again—misses my bed and not being required to be overexerted.
I make my way to the table in the mostly deserted restaurant and set the walker aside as I drop ungracefully into the old wood chair.
The menu is comprehensive and one I’d pore over in the days we’d play in New Orleans.
But nothing here makes my mouth water. Nothing makes me wonder if I’m missing out.
Nothing makes me wish for a fat wallet so I can taste one more dish.
The server comes around taking drink orders and placing French bread and hush puppies on the table.
“Water for me please,” I offer to Exton’s and Pop’s request for tea. I can’t handle any more jitters. I need the half a tablet I took in the bathroom to kick in and mellow out my nerves and smooth out the edges of my pain.
“Are you ready to order?” the young girl asks when she drops our drinks on the table.
I offer a hand to Pop, not wanting to be the focus.
“I’ll take the sampler.” He folds the menu and looks at Exton, a smile dancing around his mouth. “Not a word about cholesterol. I’m in Louisiana.”
“I’d like a shrimp poboy, please.”
“Blackened or fried?”
“Blackened.”
“Fully dressed?”
“Just as it comes. Thanks.” He takes a long sip of his tea. He always comes off easygoing. Exton is intense, but only those who truly know him know how much.
“And for you, sir?”
Sir. Apparently long gone are the days when I was the man at the table to flirt with, to slide a number to, or to ask for a quickie in the bathroom. The last one is gross and a no-go, but at least I wasn’t Sir, the bearded cripple who doesn’t grab a woman’s attention.
“The seafood gumbo, please.”
“I’ll be right back. I’m Hailey if you need anything.” She tucks the menus under an arm and bounces to the kitchen.
“When did they start looking so young?” Exton muses, not asking either of us specifically.
“When did we start looking so old?” I ask back.
Pop rolls his eyes at us both. “Your mom was about that age when I married her.”
The arrow through my heart stills my breath. Mom. He says it so casually. My raw pain and his nonchalant comment. I swallow past the sand in my mouth.
“And that was eons ago.” Exton offers, poking fun at Pop’s age. “And now you’re a grandfather.”
“Of almost two.” Pop plays along. His eyes dance with joy and mischief. “Can’t wait to meet the little man. Do you know how big Colt will look next to an infant? Night and day. You and Braxton were further apart than that. So were Brighton and Lay, but it’s doable.”
The look that comes over Pop’s face is humor. “How soon are you going to have another?”
Exton lifts his hands in a don’t-shoot gesture. “I’m not asking Willa about that while she can’t see her toes.
“She can see her toes.”
“Okay, in record July heat in Texas when she’s pregnant.”
“Smart man,” Pop and I say in unison. I smile inwardly at that. Pop and I aren’t in unison on much, but on this, we agree.
The server drops our food on the table, and Exton and Pop dig in.
I eat, too, but mostly to avoid looks or commentary.
The soup tastes muddy and salty. I’m sure it’s fine and just that my taste buds are off, but I choke down what I can, making sure I eat the protein before pushing the bowl away from me.
Exton looks between me and the bowl but says nothing. He works on his poboy and fries as he and Pop discuss the next leg of the drive. Exton will take over from here. They may switch out again once we get through Houston.
Their concern is the roads just inside the Texas line. They’re not great, and the bumps could jolt the vehicle.
“What do you think?” Exton looks to me, finally including me in the plans. It sucks to be talked about and around as if I’m not in the room.
I shrug.
“Lay, I need honesty from you. The ride hasn’t been bad so far, but Louisiana and Texas roads will be the worst part of this. I can go up and over through Dallas. It’ll add some time—significant time—but I’m not interested in pain in the name of expediency.”
“It hasn’t been bad. I have some Tylenol 4 if it is.”
Pop’s head whips to mine. He holds his fork aloft, etouffee dripping from the tines. “Why would you have that? Why would you need that?”
I lift my hands, palms facing him. “They prescribed it. And I have it just in case. Pop, I’ve been prescribed stronger with other surgeries.” Little does he know.
“Do you think you’ll need it?”
With what’s currently in my bloodstream? “Doubtful. It makes no sense to add four hours to a trip to avoid a bump here and there. I can handle it.”
We finish eating, and I hit the head one last time. Not to pee, but I want to break a tablet into quarters in case. It’ll be easier to maintain if I need and smaller to dissolve.
Shit. I sound like a junkie.
Ten hours. I need ten hours and I’ll be alone in my own home at the lake.
Alone.
And back to oblivion.