Page 114 of Crash Course
Once outside, the unusually warm evening air tickled his cheeks. He glanced up at the cloudless sky where a bazillion stars winked. Tonight would be a great night for stargazing.
Time for that later. Now, he had to catch up with his brother, illuminated by moonlight as he marched up the road like a thief running from the law.
"Ash," he called. "Hold up. Gotta talk to you."
His brother halted and swung back, giving Cruz a chance to catch up.
"If it’s about Zeke," Ash said, "forget it. I’ve tried—several times. All he wants is to be pissed at me. Now, I’m done. I’m here if he wants to talk, but he doesn’t get to buy me an ATV and think that fixes things."
"For what it matters, I agree. He’s being his usual stubborn self. But that’s our brother. We still love him, right?"
Cruz reached him and stopped, the two of them faced off smack in the middle of the dirt road.
"Of course, I love him. I can seriously dislike him at times, though."
"Hell, yeah. We all hate each other at some point. No big deal. Just, you know, have patience. He’s a work in progress."
At that, Ash shook his head. And laughed. "Fucking Cruz. Always worried about everybody."
Cruz shrugged. "I hate when we fight. Actually, Mom hates when we fight, and I hate that. So, yeah. I’d like you and Zeke to kiss and make up, but you’re grown-ass men and I’m not gonna hassle you about it."
Enough with this nonsense. In a rare moment alone with Ash, Cruz had other things to discuss.
He gestured toward the house and started walking. "I got something else to talk to you about."
"Great," Ash said, sarcasm dripping like tree sap. "First, we didn't get any hits on the prints from Cilla's car. Whoever left that bullet isn't in the system."
"Well, that sucks."
"Sorry. Have there been any other incidents?"
"No."
"Good. Now, what do you need from me?"
Typically, talking to Ash meant either a job that could somehow involve the FBI or something else that might piss him off.
Which, in Cruz’s mind, was kinda sad. Since Ash had moved out, they didn’t talk much about stupid, mundane things—like football or debating the merits of filet versus sirloin. The best whiskey, which, yeah, he wouldn’t mind two fingers of right now, but he hadn’t touched the stuff since getting busted by Phin and Zeke, and although he missed the routine of it, of settling down with a drink at night, he felt . . . better. Not as sluggish.
Still, part of him missed that smooth heat moving down his throat.
"Cruz? Are you going to tell me what it is and put me out of my misery?"
At the sound of Ash’s voice, Cruz snapped out of his little mind travel. "Yeah. Sorry. When you moved out—"
"Oh, Christ. Here we go."
Halting in the road, Cruz reached for his brother’s arm and the two of them faced off again.
"I need advice," Cruz said. "I want to . . ." Dang it. Just saying it sucked. "I’m thinking about . . ."
"Spit it out, Cruz."
That’s what he needed to do. Say it aloud. Let the words fly. Cruz jerked his head. "I wanna buy a place of my own."
"Like a vacation home or moving out?"
"Moving out. Maybe split my time between here and Asheville."
