Any Closer

I had been proud of him, proud that his company didn’t give a damn about his sexual orientation, that the only things that mattered were who he was and what he could accomplish. What had hurt was that he never, not once, asked me to go. I was never considered in the big picture of his life. The fight had turned out like I thought it would—why would he ask me to go to New York when I wouldn’t even go to LA? But even as we were going through the motions, I knew the truth.

He wanted more than I could give. He was the World Series, and I was Little League. I wanted what my parents had; he wanted the jet-set lifestyle that never held any interest for me. We had both made a mistake.

“He’s back?” I was so confused. It made no earthly sense.

“I think he’s just flying through, but—”

“Oh.” I smiled because my world had tilted back to center. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“So he wanted you to call him. I have his number if you want it.”

I shook my head. “That’s okay. I’m not some charity case he has to see just ’cause he’s in town visiting his folks.”

“Didn’t sound like that was it,” Paul assured me. “He seemed kind of anxious.”

“You talked to him too?”

“Yep.”

“So he’s called more than once.”

“Yessir, he did. I’m thinkin’ he wants to see you.”

But even as much faith as I had in Paul, my ex-brother-in-law and business partner, what the man didn’t know about people could fill a book. Observant he was not.

“Hey, after I take Brian to the airport tonight, you wanna shoot some pool?”

“Actually, me and Stace and Roy are gonna hit the new bowling alley on Whitmore tonight. Why don’t you come along?”

New bowling alley? Translation: meat market. “You lookin’ for your next ex?”

“You lookin’ for your next ex?” he parroted, making me sound like a three-year-old. “No, smartass, just need to get laid. You should try it yourself once in a while.”

I was actually giving it some thought.

It was lucky I didn’t actually make plans to take anyone out, because my sister called at a quarter to six and asked me to stop by on my way home and look at her garage door opener. Apparently “general contractor/electrical contractor” actually meant “free labor to your family.” I had just not read the fine print. Back when she was still married to Paul, I never got the handyman calls, but the divorce made her not want to ask, even though it had been his house as well as hers for many years.

When I reached Theresa’s house, there was another car in the driveway, an enormous SUV with all the bells and whistles that I had never seen before. Before I could knock on the front door, my niece, Amanda, came out with the cordless phone to her ear. She was crying, and when I bent to one knee, the six-year-old wrapped her arm around my neck.

“No, Daddy, Uncle Leo’s here now. It’s okay. He’ll stop him.”

Stop him?

I told Amanda to stay right there and bolted into the house. I heard something crash as I came around the corner.

He was big, the man who had slapped my sister and sent her to the ground. She had been standing beside the kitchen counter, and whatever she had been making her kids for dinner was all over the floor.

“Stupid bitch! I told you I would fix that for you!”

The only thing that saved his life was that I saw his hand. He had not made a fist.

“Who the fuck are you?” he shouted at me as I charged across the room.

I didn’t answer. I just blocked the punch he threw at me and swung. He staggered back and then came at me. I took one to the face, and then another, but I landed my second blow. It threw him back into the refrigerator and from there onto the floor. He was out like a light. I turned in time to hear the yell.

Paul was there, holding my sister, having come, I was sure, when his daughter called him. Knowing I was there had not altered his course. I would have yelled at her, asked her how stupid she was for bringing a stranger, a sociopath, into her home, near her kids, putting them all in harm’s way. But not Paul. Paul, whom I never gave credit to for having a brain at all except in business, was holding my sister tight, pressing her to his heart, and telling her that he was there and everything would be all right. She was wrapped so tight around him it was a wonder he could breathe.

The police were there minutes later—apparently Paul had called them from his car—and I had Amanda in her room quietly watching Pokémon. Theresa gave a statement, I gave mine, and then Paul finished with his. They didn’t question Amanda. They didn’t need to. They took Brent Cussler—that was his name—out in cuffs now that he was awake.