Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

Prologue

The brisk San Diego wind blanketed the city as I walked down the streets. May always ushered in the type of weather which was perfect for the city goers. Women walked out in flowing skirts, ruffled by the wind, so men could peek at their legs. Men’s heavy, tailored suits became polo shirts and khakis, making the men who still wore the suits look like sweating marionettes tied to the strings of their bosses. I kept it simply. I enjoyed the way the wind whipped through my hair. The way it seemed to draw the eyes of people passing by before they got a look at my tattoos.

Some people were drawn to the ink, while others mindlessly crossed to the other side of the road.

Reminded me of my parents, honestly.

I took in a deep whiff of the city as the salt water swirled around me. This was the thing about the California coast. The saltwater breeze would blow in for miles. It didn’t matter if I was digging my toes in the sand or cruising the streets of El Cajon, the sea breeze would follow my back and comfort me on my travels.

I crossed the road and headed into the local homeless shelter looking around. The eyes of women and children fell on me, their faces hovering over their paper plates. The smell of rice and beans wafted through my nostrils while a barber in the corner offered his temporary services during his lunch break. The tattoos cascading up his arms flexed with every snip of hair he made, and the moment his gaze caught mine, he gave me a friendly nod.

That was the thing about tattoos. They seemed to bind together others who had them too. An unspoken language, a connection without knowledge. An understanding of a road travelled without needing explanation.

I blinked, refocusing on my task—searching for the man I’d seen the other day. He’d been on a corner a few days ago next to a pizzeria, begging for scraps. I’d taken him in and bought him an entire pie, thinking he would devour it before going and sleeping it off. But instead, he threw his arms around me and thanked me before running off. I wondered where he’d gone, wondered if he was coming back for the pizza I had purchased for him.

But he walked in with four kids surrounding him, and I watched as he divvied out the slices.

Out of the extra-large three meat pizza, he only ate half a slice and a couple of crusts.

I spotted him in the corner, cradling the four children he’d brought to the pizza shop. They were sleeping on him, empty plates surrounding them in the corner. His long arms were sprawled around them as a hat rested on top of his face, but I knew it was him. Those same scarred knuckles and those same ratty orange shoes.

I went over and tapped him on the shoulder, and it caused him to grunt.

“Just five more minutes and then I’ll get ‘em all outta here,” he said gruffly.

“Just want to talk for a second,” I said. “If you have the time?”

The children kept sleeping as I pulled the hat from his face. Even with the dirt on his skin and the overgrown beard that was matted to his cheeks, I recognized those eyes. Hazel. Dark. Eyes that had seen a great deal of pain over the course of his lifetime. I studied him, really studied him, and took in the protective way he cradled these four kids to him.

None of them looked like him at all, and it got me wondering. “They yours?” I asked as I sat down beside him.

“Might as well be,” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Ain’t got no parents. City doesn’t care ‘bout homeless kids.”

“So you take care of them,” I finished.

“I’m all they got.”

I knew then and there I had the right man. “I have an offer for you, if you’re willing to listen,” I said.

“What kinda offer?” he asked, his eyes guarding me suspiciously.

“An offer for work.”

The man looked at me warily as the kids shifted on him. They crawled up his body, clinging their arms around his neck as he hoisted them up. Like baby bears cuddling against their mother, their nails dug into his skin. They weren’t merely there for comfort. They were there because they were scared, because they knew they would be safe with him.

As he was gripping the children, I saw his jacket sleeve fall on his arm. Pockmarks riddled his forearms, boasting of a drug use that made me sigh. I wasn’t one to judge. I wasn’t even one to bring it up. I simply reached out my hand, brought it down onto his marked skin, and squeezed him tightly.