2. Max
TWO
max
“ FUCK !” I shouted, slamming my hand down on the steering wheel of the hunk of scrap metal that my dad called a tractor. Hours bled into each other as I struggled with the machine, each attempt met with a sputtering groan and the irritating whir of the starter.
“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?” My brother Wade called from the barn doors behind me. The smile in his voice was evident in its cheerful, uplifting tone. His arrogant smirk, that self-satisfied expression, ignited within me an overwhelming urge to choke the life out of him.
I took a fortifying breath before responding. He knew just how to push my buttons - pretty sure he’d learned it in the womb.
Wade was my fraternal twin. Although people confused us for being identical because the differences were slight, we were one hundred percent fraternal.
“It’s not a fucking computer, dick weasel.” I grumped back in his general direction, not bothering to turn my head to see the wry grin that was plastered across his face. He’d been telling me for hours to give up on trying to get this tractor to run, but I was determined.
I lifted the ball cap off my head and grabbed the rag I’d draped over the throttle to wipe off the ever present sweat that was clouding my vision.
June in Georgia wasn’t my idea of a good time. It was always oppressively hot and humid; the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the incessant whine of unseen insects.
I threw the rag back onto its resting place, knowing I’d need it again in a couple minutes and placed my hat back on my mop of chestnut hair. A head of unruly, sandy-blonde hair popped up over the side of the rusty red tractor, his mocking grin still stuck smugly on his face.
Wade and my hair were only one of many ways that we couldn’t be more different - I had our father’s chestnut brown shade that I kept cropped short on the sides and a little longer on the top.
I was constantly working outside and needed to keep my hair out of my face, especially in the months that felt hotter than Satan’s ball sack.
Wade’s hair was a couple shades lighter, bordering on light brown or a dark sandy blonde.
He got that from our mother. He had always kept his hair longer, claiming that the ladies thought it made him look like Tarzan and that he was bound to find his Jane.
I thought he just looked like a damn city boy, especially when he pulled it back in a “man-bun”, as he liked to call it.
“It’s almost quittin’ time. You coming out to Jack’s with us tonight or are you going to hole up in the house and watch reruns of Grey’s Anatomy with your face mask and wine?” he teased .
He loved to give me shit about my quiet lifestyle. His jabs portrayed me as a lonely bachelor with nothing better to do. In reality, well… he wasn’t wrong.
It’s not that I didn’t want to go out, it was that the thought of going out to Jack’s, the lone bar in our little town, a dive bar at that, and being social, sounded like a fresh form of torture.
Wade thrived on being social. He was constantly the life of the party. He possessed an undeniable charisma; the moment he entered a room, people were drawn to his magnetic personality. Meanwhile, people skirted around me, their faces a mask of indifference.
I’d always been told that I was the grumpy brother - Wade was the sunshine, and I, the storm cloud.
“Not tonight. I’ll probably hang out here and try to get this thing runnin’,” I groused, slamming a hand down on the rust bucket I’d spent countless hours tinkering with.
“Dude, you’ve avoided coming out with me for weeks. Get out of this barn immediately, or I’ll think you’ve suddenly turned into a horse.”
“I get out.” I retorted under my breath, knowing that the last time I’d gone out to the bar with Wade was months ago, and I’d left before even finishing my beer.
Wade’s laugh was boisterous as he bent forward and pretended like what I said was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his entire twenty-eight years of life. I didn’t find it amusing and shot him a glare.
“Bro. Broski. Brother from the same mother. The grocery store, feed store, and your yearly visit to Doc Jericho for your physical don’t count.” he wheezed out “When is the last time you got your dick wet? ”
I reached for the rag again and wiped my forehead, avoiding the topic.
It had been a while since I’d been with a woman. Shannon leaving me for my supposed “best friend” the night before our wedding turned me into an even grumpier recluse. I had avoided getting close to someone again, knowing that it often ended in heartache.
Town, a local girl, and their usual routine held absolutely no appeal.
Anyone I’d met recently had been when I’d gone into the city, which in the last couple months hadn’t been that frequent.
Leaving the farm for a weekend in the city proved challenging following Pops’ retirement.
There was always something that needed to be done around the ranch.
I managed the daily operations of our small working ranch.
Though the old man still lived on the property, having moved out to the bunkhouse shortly after Ma passed, he had turned over most of the responsibility of the ranch day-to-day business to me.
When he moved out of the big house, Pa claimed he didn’t need all the space, but we both knew it carried the oppressive memories of the love he had lost.
The ranch sang with the memories of Ma, her touches clear in each and every thing. Losing her had been one of the biggest hits to our family, and I don’t think Pa would ever recover. I don’t think any of us would ever fully recover.
“I’m good, Wade. Stop trying to play wingman for me. I can find my own chicks,” I grumbled and threw the dirty rag directly at him. He sidestepped, narrowly avoiding it before it whacked him directly in the face.
“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying you won’t ,” he countered with a quirk of his brow.
I sighed. It had been a while since I’d been out with my brother and our friends. I’d been so busy keeping the ranch running that I had taken no time for myself.
“Give me thirty minutes to shower, shit and shave, and I’ll come out for a beer.” I mumbled, reluctantly accepting his offer, hopping off the tractor to pick up the fallen rag, draping it back over the steering wheel of the tractor.
Twin senses tingling and before he could hoop and holler, I held up a hand to settle his excitement.
“One. Fucking. Beer,” I emphasized.
The big house’s front door clicked shut thirty minutes later; the earsplitting blare of Wade’s truck horn immediately followed the purr of his engine. An immediate and profound wave of regret washed over me. What the hell had I gotten myself into?
I patted my pockets to make sure I had everything.
Wallet - check.
Cell phone - check, even though I never used the damn thing.
Keys - check .
I went to the passenger door and got in.The sound of new age country music was blaring through the speakers. I reached across the center console and turned the dial down, hoping to preserve my hearing. Immediately after I lowered my arm, Wade returned the radio to its offensive volume.
“Get in the mood, bro!” he shouted over the music before throwing the truck in reverse and cruising down the dirt road to the property line.
I watched out the window as we retreated away from the dim lights of the ranch and out towards town.
The ranch was my safe space, a quiet haven where the only sounds were the gentle breeze and the distant mooing of cows.
Having grown up in Firefly Cove, we weren't strangers to small town living.
The ranch offered a small slice of privacy from prying eyes and wagging tongues.
The city of Firefly Cove was small. Our route took us through the main downtown area, which included a large park, many locally owned shops, a small grocery store, a feed store, and finally, Jack’s—the dive bar we were heading toward.
When we reached the edge of the town, the headlights of Wade’s truck shone upon a small, dark-colored sedan that was stopped on the side of the road.
We didn’t get many “out of towners” as we liked to call them here in the Cove and it wasn’t a car I recognized. Hackles raised, I reached across the console to turn the music down again and Wade grumped with frustration.
“Slow down,” I instructed, craning my neck to get a look at the car and who might occupy it. I couldn’t see the driver, but the Missouri plates told me that it was more than likely not anyone from around here.
“Doesn’t look like anyone I know,” Wade surmised, echoing my thoughts.
“Pull over behind ‘em,” I instructed.
Wade slowly eased the truck onto the side of the road behind the car and cut the headlights so they wouldn’t blind the occupants.
Unbuckling my seatbelt and throwing open the door, I stepped out into the muggy night air. “I’ll be right back”
I walked up towards the car, keeping my eyes open and a hand on my belt where I always carried my handgun. Even small towns required vigilance. I always kept my .44 holstered on my hip tucked into the waistband of my jeans, just in case.
As I got closer to the car, I could make out a female occupying the driver’s seat.
Her forehead rested on the steering wheel; the car wasn’t running.
As I stepped closer, I could hear crying coming from the back seat.
A quick glance revealed a small child in a car seat, their face barely visible but their crying audible even through the closed window.
Approaching the driver’s side door carefully, I gently rapped my knuckles on the glass, doing my best to not scare the woman.
Even so, she was startled. I could see her quickly wiping tears off her face as she reached for the button to roll the window down.
With the window opening, the toddler’s cries from the back seat intensified.