Stone (Pittsburgh Titans 2)

“Well, let’s see if that letter gets him to man up and treat us with some respect.” I turn toward my office, intent on jumping back on the Graves’ discovery, hoping that this letter will light a fire under Stone’s butt, especially now that he knows his brother left it all to him and not his parents.

CHAPTER 6

Stone

The sign on the elevator says Out of Service, and I sigh. It was leg day in the gym, and I hit it hard. Climbing six flights of stairs is doable, but given the choice between the two, I’d prefer the elevator right now.

Hefting my bag over my shoulder, I take the stairs two at a time, double-timing it just to show I can.

Not that anyone’s watching.

Pulling my keys out, I unlock the apartment door, jiggling it a bit to work past the rusted springs. I’ve put in a request to the landlord to fix it, but I’m not holding my breath.

Stepping inside, the aroma of something divine hits my nose, and I can hear Aunt Bethany humming a tune in the kitchen. She’s leaving tomorrow, having declared that I am sufficiently set up in my apartment and should be able to function without her. I may be a grown-ass man at twenty-seven, but I’m not going to lie—it’s been nice having her here.

It’s not just having her support as I settle into a new city, but she’s also been fielding my father’s calls. He’s started bugging her since I’m not responding to him. She’s often stepped in as mediator, but she hasn’t had to play that role in quite a while as it was months before Brooks died that my father and I last talked. The most recent Christmas, I stayed in Cleveland, holed up in my apartment with some brunette named Cherry, but I swear I didn’t pick her up in a bar or strip joint.

Met her at the gym, which might be just as cliché, but she was a good diversion over the holidays when I didn’t have hockey games.

Of course, I’d not been invited home by either of my parents, nor did they acknowledge me in any way. No call. No card. No gifts.

Which is fine. I didn’t do any of that either, but I knew it wasn’t expected or wanted on their end. We had come to a point in our relationship where we were virtual strangers.

Brooks was a little different. We at least communicated on Christmas. He called me and left a voicemail, wishing me happy holidays and that he’d see me at home if I was going to make it in. He knew I wouldn’t, or maybe he didn’t want to know I wouldn’t.

I didn’t call him back but sent him a text. I tried to make it as jolly as possible: Thanks for the call. Going to stay here for the holidays. Schedule too busy. Great hearing your voice.

Brooks responded with a thumbs-up emoji.

And that was the extent of our communication for Christmas.

We didn’t reach out to each other for New Year’s.

He died on February 20.

I’d saved his last voicemail, and I play it sometimes just to hear his voice. Also to punish myself for not trying harder. But sometimes, guilt doesn’t get me. It’s anger that he didn’t try harder either.

Dropping my duffel bag on the couch, I walk into the kitchen separated from the living room by a half wall. Bethany is preparing to move a heavy pot of something boiling to the sink, and I spring into action.

“Let me get that,” I say, moving in to take the potholders from her.

“Thank you,” she breathes out, stepping back as I turn to the kitchen sink and dump the potatoes into a colander already there. “What smells so good?”

“Meatloaf,” she replies, and my stomach rumbles. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods, and Bethany does a mean one. I expect she’s giving me my last taste of home cooking.

Potatoes dumped, I put the empty pot back on the stove while Bethany pulls milk and butter from the fridge.

She nods toward the kitchen table. “You got some mail today I had to sign for.”

Frowning, I move that way as I shouldn’t be getting much mail at all. Just my stuff forwarded from the address change in Cleveland, but even that was only a slow trickle.

I see the envelope with two green strips left from a certified-mail ticket that had been pulled off. I flip it over and clench my teeth as I see Harlow Alston’s name and return address in the left corner. The envelope is thin and probably contains no more than a sheet or two.

Fuck, that woman moves fast. We just had our “exchange” yesterday when I offended her, her dog almost ate me, and I broke a piece of her furniture.

It’s probably the bill, which I’ll gladly pay.