Page 90 of Diesel's Perseverance
Diesel headed to the couch and grabbed his boots and T-shirt. The first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds, and he glanced again at Myla, who hadn’t stirred. He hurried out of the room, closed the door behind him, and headed down the corridor in the direction of the stairs.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, Trenton,” a low voice rasped.
He stopped in his tracks. “Freddy, is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s your little brother.”
Buzzing traffic, distant sirens, and Freddy’s quick, sharp breathing could be heard through the phone.
“Tell me where you are,” he said.
“I’m nowhere,” Freddy whispered.
“I’ll come get you. You can stay with me and the brothers.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“What the fuck does that mean? It’s never too late for anything, dude. You know that. Whatever shit you got yourself into, I can get you out of it. You’re not alone. I’m here for you.”
A heavy sigh. “I fucked up real bad.”
“We all fuck up. I spent four years in a damn cell ’cause I fucked up. I can help you get through whatever you did. I can take care of whoever’s causing you grief.”
“The money was too easy,” Freddy said as if Diesel hadn’t said anything. “You know how it was growing up. Money was always so fucking tight. In high school, I hated the kids on the hill with their fucking Nike LeBron Elevens and Jeep Wranglers, and we got our shoes from some damned charity! Of course, Connor Brawley made sure to point that out. He loved flaunting his wealth in my face. The shoes and his damn Mercedes made me see red every time.”
“You shoulda told me you wanted the Nikes. I would’ve bought them for you.”
“Yeah, you were always hustling for a buck.” Disgust laced his voice.
“Back then, I worked at Chatfield Stables scooping up horse shit. The hustling came later.”
“I don’t know how you did that fucking job. Connor used to tease me about that all the time. ‘Tell your brother to get you a job scooping up horse shit so you can buy some decent shoes.’ Damn, I hate that sonofabitch. Probably running the stables and the ranch with a perfect wife with big hooters. Asshole.”
Diesel switched the phone to speaker mode while he pulled up his boots and slipped a T-shirt over his head. He walked outside and sat on a cushioned chair on the veranda.
“I didn’t know about Connor. You should’ve told me. I would’ve rearranged his face.”
“I didn’t need you to fight my battles.” Freddy scoffed.
“Didn’t say you did; I’m just telling you I would’ve been there if you’d asked.”
There was a long pause. He thought Freddy had disconnected then he heard his brother clear his throat.
“I know that.” His voice was so low Diesel had to strain to hear him. “Dad always had money for beer and the pool hall. I’m sure he spent money on plenty of lot lizards when he was on the road. Mom never had time for shit around the house but always managed to go out to the clubs with friends on the weekends.”
He blew out a breath and ran both hands over his face. “We got shitty parents—no argument there. But we got each other. I care about you, bro.”
“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “But we had good Christmases, didn’t we? I got lots of gifts. Remember that?”
Memories surfaced from when he and Freddy sat on the floor ripping open gold, red, and green shiny packages while their parents sat on the couch watching.
“I remember. Our people thought those gifts made up for the rest of the year.”
“But it was good, wasn’t it? I mean, Mom and Dad weren’t that bad. They love us, right?”
“Yeah,” Diesel said, but his mind screamed that they didn’t give a shit.
