Write Your Own Song

Chapter 10

There weren't any gunshots this time.

Bobby was met with silence as he stared at the open, empty doorway. Any number of scenarios were running through his head - none of them good.

The move to get the gun that was tucked into the waistband of his jeans was practically a subconscious one. He methodically ejected, checked, and reloaded the clip of bullets and clicked off the safety in what looked like one fluid, practiced motion.

He spared a quick glance at the recliner in the corner to make sure the kids were still there, huddled together, sleeping, unaware that Uncle Bobby was getting ready to bust some heads.

He hurried to the doorway, staying off to the side to keep from tipping off any possible assailants. There were voices just outside on the porch. He couldn't make out what they were saying and edged closer to the door.

"Bobby Mercer, is that you?" a woman's voice called out and he almost tripped down the step leading onto the enclosed porch.

"Fuck," he muttered as he allowed his momentum to carry him into the room. He'd been found out anyway, no sense in pretending he wasn't there.

The sun was going down and it was hard to see exactly who was out there in the fading light. Jack was leaning against the newly installed window frame, his weight supported on his good leg as he chatted with some lady who was standing opposite him. A plain white box was in her hands. It was tied with a string and Bobby had already surmised that the chances of her concealing an assault rifle in it were pretty slim.

"Bobby, you remember Miss Harriet, right? She lives down the street and --" Bobby knew the minute Jack spotted the gun he was holding. His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. He looked pissed, which Bobby supposed he deserved.

"Of course he remembers me." Her smile was warm and he felt really silly standing there, holding a gun, seconds away from telling her to get the fuck away from his little brother or he'd shoot her full of holes.

Yeah, Ma would've been proud.

XxXxXxXxXx

Harriet didn't stick around too much longer. Claimed she had a pot roast she had to get back to, but Bobby wasn't buying it. She didn't let on about the gun, and Bobby couldn't be sure if she'd noticed it or not. But he had a hunch he was going to be the topic of this week's knitting circle, or Tupperware party, or whatever the hell it was the old ladies in this neighborhood did for kicks.

"I'm not a kid," Jack said as he limped through the doorway, holding onto the door jam for support with one hand, the white box balanced in the other.

"I never said you were," Bobby said as he took the box from his brother.

"I can answer the door on my own."

"Never said you couldn't." Bobby shrugged.

"Bullshit, Bobby," Jack said. "You practically waved a gun in the face of an old lady who was bringing us a pie. It's a pie, Bobby. Not a machine gun. Not a bomb. Pie."

"Is it apple?" Bobby asked as he raised the lid and peeked inside.

Jack just stared at Bobby for a second, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "Unbelievable, man," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he slumped onto the couch.

"I believe there's a rule out there that if you threaten to shoot the lady bringing the pie, then you forfeit the right to have a piece of the pie," Jerry said as he stepped into the room and grabbed the box from Bobby's hands. "Ain't that right, Angel?"

Angel was still seated at the dining room table and took a sip of his beer, a thoughtful look on his face - as though he was actually giving the matter some consideration. "It's actually in The Constitution," he said steadily.