ZEKE

ZEKE

Breaking the Declan Brothers

Published by Kelly Gendron

Copyright ©
2016 Kelly Gendron

All rights reserved

Edited by: J Sims

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews.

“Dad, I wanna fight Jax,” I say as Slate sways to the right just before Jax’s glove makes contact with his jaw. Slate may have missed that shot, but when Jax follows up with a quick right hook, he grazes Slate’s left cheek. I love watching my brothers fight in the ring. My dad’s friend, Benny, owns the joint, and after he closes up for the night, sometimes he lets us use it. Mom says the gym smells yucky, but I like it. Smells like Dad’s leather jacket, sweat, and a little like my oldest brother, Jax’s room. Mom says that smell is puberty. I’m not sure what puberty is, but ever since Jax got it, he got some muscles and he shot up a few inches too. I want some puberty. Mom says I’ll have to wait a few more years before I get it. I hate being the youngest. I’m always the last to get anything.

“Dad, let me in the ring. Give me a try.” I bounce on my feet, pumping my fists, restless to prove to him that I’m ready. “Come on, Dad!”

His dark blue eyes shift over to me for a split second. “Jax is too strong,” he says in that deep, unwavering dad tone.

“But it’s not fair.” I stomp my foot. “You let Slate fight him, and he’s only a year older than me,” I say, talking to my dad’s stern side profile. Jax is the spittin’ image of Dad. People say that I favor Mama’s side of the family. I know it’s my eyes. They’re the same color as Mama’s.

“Slate’s got his technique down.” Dad points at the ring. “See.” He glances at me then back to my brothers. “He knows when and where Jax is going to strike next,” he says with a huge closed-mouth smile; the same one he had when I peed outside the car on the side of the road while on our way to Grams’ house instead of in my pants. It was a few years back, but I’ll never forget how proud he was of me ‘cause I didn’t pee in my pants. And, after that day, I never did it again.

“Yeah, that’s it, Slate. You got it, boy.” Dad stands up, grabs the ropes, and leans toward the ring. “Now, Jax, you need to mix it up. Slate’s on to you, son. Toss something new his way.”

“Dad.” I look up, watching my father as he coaches my brothers. “Jax is strong, and Slate’s got technique, but what about me?” I raise my squeaky voice, wanting my dad to look at me like that in the ring, wanting him to be proud of me too. “I’m never gonna be a good fighter, am I?” My shoulders drop. “I know that I ain’t big. I ain’t got no technique, but-”

Dad’s eyes snap to me. His eyebrows lower, and I can’t tell if he’s mad or confused. When it comes to those two things, Dad wears the same expression. He crouches down to my level, grips his big, strong hands around my twig-like arms, and gently pulls me closer to him. “No, you’re not strong like Jax yet, and you still need to find your own technique,” his dark blue eyes hold me, “but, Zeke, you’re gonna be just as good a fighter as your brothers are.”

“I am?” I stand up tall, believing him. How can I not? He’s my dad.

“Yeah, son.” He nods. “You’re quick on your feet, fast with your hands, and you move like lightning.”

“Really, like lightning?”

“Yes, just like lightning, son.” He smiles.

I felt so proud that day, but one week later, when I walked into my parents’ bedroom, I couldn’t find the lightning my dad had talked about that day. With the color red splashed across the walls, all over the bed, and all over my parents, not a single muscle in my body would move, frozen solid by the monster standing before me ... the monster holding a gun ...

CHAPTER ONE

Bayou Vista, Texas is beautiful. It’s nothing like California. Where Cali has wild flashing lights, the Bayou has a certain kind of calming charm. I can’t believe Rayna came from this place. She’s more like someone who’d hail from the wild streets of Los Angeles. But I can see why Emmie loves it. Only spending half her childhood here, Emmie does seem to fit right in. I’m glad my two closest friends dragged me to their hometown for the summer. And the reason as to why we’re here, yeah, now, that reigns from Rayna’s inner craziness. Still, this evening, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than sitting on this bench watching the sun slowly set over Galveston Bay.

Even the way the waves quietly dance across the water is calming. Well, until that jogger just crashed into my tranquil scenery and ... Oh, my God! He’s stopping to check his phone. Bye, bye charming Bayou Vista. Hello crazy-busy Cali. Really, who stops to take a call while out jogging? Doesn’t that kill the cardio intention? Better yet, text. He’s texting, and now, he’s coming my way. As the shadowy figure gets closer, eyes glued to his cell, I see that he has headphones on. He plops down beside me on the bench. Does he even know that I’m here?

Taking full advantage of my invisibleness, I check out my tranquil scenery-breaker. Bright-white sneakers, athletic pants that cling around a pair of thick thighs, and a light grey tee hangs loosely on his upper body, breaks of dark perspiration mark the crevasse of a muscular chest. With his baseball cap pulled down low, I can’t see his face. He’s concentrating on his text.

“Oh-ho.” He shakes his head. “That’s not happening,” he says as his fingers work the cell screen.

Maybe I should give the bench a shake with the wiggle of my ass. Ya know, to inform him that he’s not alone. After a few seconds, I shrug. It’s a free country. I’ll just sit back, enjoy the sunset, and forget about my unwanted guest.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I hear a raspy voice say and turn just as he pulls the buds from his ears.

“What gave me away?” I drop my head to try to make eye contact, but the low baseball hat shadows his eyes.

“The way you’re looking at the bay,” he says in a pleasant masculine tone.

“It’s beautiful.” I shrug with the truth.

“Yeah.” He nods, shoving his cell into the front pocket of his pants. “What you call beautiful, I call home. But,” he folds his hands and places them on his lap, staring straight ahead at the bay, “no object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.”

Oh, my God! Did he really just quote London’s renowned poet from the late 19th century? I try to compose myself as I push a strand of hair behind my ear. “Oscar Wilde fan?”

Ever so slightly, his lips turn up. Then a dimple strikes the corner of his cheek. I feel a smile tugging my own lips as his head sways my way, his eyes still masked by the hat.

“Beauty,” I point at my chest, “to me, it is a word without sense because I do not know where its meaning comes from nor where it leads to.”

“Ah.” His head tilts back just a little and the sun slips beneath his cap, revealing a pair of unique, gold-speckled eyes. “Picasso fan?”

“Yes.” I smile thoroughly impressed. I glance at the calming bay, not giving away my astonishment. “And that is why, what you call home,” I turn back to gaze into those exceptional eyes once more, “is beautiful to me.” Apparently, the bay isn’t the only thing worth looking at. I can’t say that when I came to this little town, I thought I’d find a guy who could quote Oscar Wilde or recognize a quote from Picasso for that matter. Yet here he sits.

“Actually,” he taps the side of his head, “it’s your brain's medial orbital frontal cortex that’s telling you the bay is beautiful.”

I gaze at the mysterious scenery-breaker. He’s ... wow. I like him. “You’re speaking of the pleasure center of the brain.”

“Correct. It’s responsible for telling us what’s attractive and what’s not.”

“But it only tells us what we like to look at,” I’m quick to point out.

“True.” He nods with a low chuckle, setting his arm along the back edge of the bench. “We must rely on the rest of our brain to tell us if what we’re seeing is actually worthy of its attraction.”

He’s so right but most men don’t get that. I giggle, not recognizing the girly sound that just came out of my mouth.

“So …” He turns to face me and his head lowers, again the hat hiding those unique eyes. “Will you be around long enough to make that deduction?”

“I’m here for the summer,” I say without pause.

“Well.” His chin shifts upward and those enchanting eyes find me. “I’d say that should be enough time for you to decide if what I call home is truly beautiful.”

“Yes. I think that it should,” I say watching as he rises from the bench.

He lifts the ear buds toward his head. “Maybe, I’ll see you around then, Picasso.” He smiles and places the buds in his ears just before jogging off.

Me. I sit on the bench, mouth slightly ajar, as I watch the mysterious scenery-breaker slowly disappear from the horizon. “Huh.” I slouch back; who would’ve thought the first guy to get my girly-giggle on would hail from a little town called Vista Bayou in Texas.

CHAPTER TWO