Scratch the Surface

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t want to hear the name Bear ever again!”

God, he was kidding himself if he thought those guys were going to stop with the shoving and elbowing and cuffing him on the back of the head just because he’d been elected mayor. Maybe years from now, when serious people protected him—like the Secret Service—the roughhousing would stop. Until that time, though, I didn’t see it ending. But the nickname? Yeah, if he ever did get elected president, I could almost guarantee he’d go by the code name Bear.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I had always been wildly jealous of them, of the brohood and the football and the college scholarships, but I wasn’t athletically gifted—not that I’d ever had the chance to try, being consumed by work and worrying about where my next meal would come from.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. I had decided years ago that feeling sorry for myself did nothing to help; it only hurt. Being jealous led to bitterness, and bitter was not something I ever wanted to be. I’d seen resentment eat my mother alive, and I vowed it would never happen to me.

“Becoming mayor of a town your family pretty much owns is not much of a stretch, Bear,” McCauley snarked. “Now, when you become Governor Barrett or Representative Barrett, Senator Barrett, then maybe we’ll let it go, but I can see Bear Barrett going to Congress more than I can Merrell.” He drew the name out like it was dirty. “Who did that to you, anyway?”

"Okay, McCauley, now you’re just being an asshole,” I interjected. Making fun of someone’s name, something they had no control over, was a dick move. But they both ignored me like I wasn't there.

“It was my grandfather’s name!” Merrell yelled.

“Yeah, it’s awful,” McCauley apprised him with a shrug. “Always has been.”

“I can’t believe you just––”

“Bear Barrett for Congress sounds far more badass,” he interrupted.

It took Merrell a moment to move his focus from McCauley to me, and he still sounded annoyed when he finally spoke. “I…you’re moving? Where are you going?” he asked irritably.

“Across town or something,” McCauley answered for me as though, again, I wasn’t in the room. “He needs to be away from the liquor store where all the degenerates hang out, and the motel where they go to bang the hookers.”

“You know I’m going to clean that all up, right?”

“Sure,” McCauley patronized him. “Just like every mayor before you.”

“No,” Merrell groused, “I’m the one who’s finally going to do it.”

“When you’re in office, calling the shots, we’ll get right on it,” McCauley agreed. “But for now, Jacobson’s still the mayor, and he prefers to pretend the ass-end of Barrett Crossing belongs to Loomis.”

“Which it does not.”

“No, it doesn’t,” McCauley agreed, “and everybody knows it.”

“Maybe you guys wanna take this outside,” I offered, “because this is not restful.”

“No, I…still need to talk to you,” Merrell assured me, his gaze meeting mine. “We didn’t get a chance to speak—”

“Listen, I got the shit kicked outta me last night, and I’m not feeling up to a heart-to-heart with you right now, okay? I hafta be at The Mission on Monday for my shift, and talk to Betty about moving things around. We can talk then.”

“What are you moving around?” he all but growled.

“Why are you snapping at him like he pissed you off?” McCauley wanted to know.

Merrell turned to him. “Would you leave?”

“No, I need to know where Jeremiah’s going to be. He still needs to give a statement about what happened to him, and as you know, Creese Robinson’s case is ongoing.”

Merrell glanced at me. “You’re involved in the Edison Barnum case?”

“I have to move to Sacramento,” I told McCauley, ignoring Merrell. “The universe wants me there.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“I agree with Bear,” McCauley stated. “You don’t need to move out of town.”

“Yes, you do.” Cheyenne Bryson added her opinion as she breezed into the room, a grease-stained Kingman’s bag in one hand and a large Styrofoam cup in the other. “I’ve had an epiphany.”

“Did you bring me a mushroom burger and a chocolate shake?”

She nodded, smiling wide, and put the bag on the rolling tray table, pushing it closer to the bed. Then she put the straw in the cup and passed it to me.

“Did you make the shake yourself?”

“I did,” she assured me. “I put the vanilla syrup in the bottom just the way you like it, and added a shot of espresso too.”

“Aw, Chey,” I whimpered and took a sip. The shake was a bit melted and not as thick as usual, the drive from Barrett Crossing to Sac having turned something great into utter perfection. “You do love me.”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” she said pointedly, “and I wish you believed it. I swear to God, it’s like trying to help a feral cat. You want to feed it and deworm it and drown it all at the same time. But I have more important business than trying to get you to trust me.”