A Measure of Love (3 page)

Riley barked a laugh and shoved his brother instead. “Some cripple.”

Tate grinned before he began rummaging in his pocket. He pulled out his cell and frowned at the lit screen. He pushed back his seat, reached for his cane, and put the phone to his ear as he stood. “Hey, Mom.”

While sipping his beer, Riley watched his brother make his way to the entrance of the restaurant, where presumably he’d be able to hear better. An unusual feeling of worry flittered across Riley’s throat. It wasn’t strange for their mother to call—on the contrary, she called each of her sons at least once, sometimes twice, a week. But something about the timing—it being almost 9 p.m. on a weekday—had the hair on Riley’s neck standing up.

“You all right?” Carter asked quietly.

Riley nodded, his eyes still on Tate. “Sure.”

When his brother stopped mid-step and his shoulders snapped back, Riley immediately knew something was up. That fear was confirmed when Tate turned back, his brow furrowed, his anxious eyes seeking out Riley around waitresses and other diners. Riley’s stomach sank and he stood quickly, scraping his chair across the wooden floor as Tate made his way back to the table. He was still on the phone when he arrived.

“—that’s what the doctor said?”

“Doctor?” Riley asked, throwing his scrunched-up napkin down on his half-eaten meal. “What the—?”

Tate shook his head, halting Riley’s questions. “Well, that’s usual practice. Yeah. And his vitals?” He frowned and swallowed. “Seb’s there?”

Riley pulled out his wallet and dropped a couple of twenties onto the table, paying for the two meals they’d barely touched. Carter and Max stood, too, looking ready to do whatever they could. Tate may have been Riley’s blood, but that didn’t make the two men at his side any less his brothers.

Tate rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Yeah, Mom, we’ll be there. Just hang tight, okay? We’ll get a flight out as soon as possible.”

Carter pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“What the hell?” Riley asked his brother as Tate ended the call.

Tate sighed. “Dad’s had another heart attack.”

Riley exhaled shakily, his chest tightening. “Shit. Is it bad?”

Riley watched Tate’s face carefully, noticing the medic in him shift and rise to the surface. “They’re about to take him into surgery,” he replied. It didn’t escape Riley’s attention that his brother hadn’t answered the question. “Seb’s already there,” Tate added, referring to their younger brother. “We need to get a flight out.”

Carter, with his cell phone at his ear, held his hand up, motioning
for them all to slow down and wait. “Yeah, expect two passengers,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the call. “As soon as the plane’s ready. Yeah. Direct to . . .” He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Riley.

“Cherry Capital Airport, Traverse City,” Tate offered before turning back to Riley. “He’s in Munson. It’ll be a fifteen-minute cab ride.”

Riley nodded as anxiety and helplessness traveled through him. It was unfamiliar and, honestly, it frightened the shit out of him. His father. In the hospital. Riley’s relationship with his dad had been fraught at best since Riley’s stint inside, and the thought of losing him before Riley could truly mend their differences filled him with panic. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. What the fuck would he do if something happened to his father? His mother would be devastated. This was the second heart attack in two years, and the doctors had said the last time that . . .

He pressed a hand to his forehead and cleared his throat in an effort to calm himself.

Carter ended the call and patted the cell phone against his palm. “The company jet’ll be ready for you in about ninety minutes.”

Riley stared at his friend, overwhelmed with gratitude, before clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Come on,” Tate urged Riley, moving around the two men and heading back across the restaurant to the exit. “We have time to grab some stuff from your place before we leave. We’ll walk. It’ll be quicker than trying to catch a cab.”

Riley grabbed his jacket from the back of his seat. “Get a cab, Tate—your leg can’t take that distance.” He ignored the daggered stare his brother shot back. He was immune. “We’ve got time,” Riley placated. He didn’t like pointing out his brother’s disability in front of company, but sometimes the asshole was too stubborn for his own good.

Tate sighed and pressed his lips together, his universal signal for “we’ll discuss this shit later,” and set off again, pushing through the door to the street.

Riley followed, walking backwards as he spoke to the guys who were now standing from their seats around the table. “I’ll call you when we get there.” He looked to Carter. “Thanks again. Max, dude, I didn’t get to— The shop numbers need to—”

“Go,” Max said, pointing toward where Tate had exited. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

Riley dipped his chin, turned, and pushed of out the restaurant door to see the cab Tate had hailed pulling up to the curb. Tate opened the car door and looked back at his brother. He paused for a brief moment and his eyes, always so sure and careful, flickered with fear. It struck Riley cold. The only other time Riley had seen that look on Tate’s face was the morning Tate had woken from the medically induced coma he’d been placed in by the doctors treating the horrific injuries he’d suffered while on duty.

“Fuck,” Riley uttered. “What if—?”

“Don’t,” Tate interrupted with a calm voice that reminded Riley of when they were kids. He clapped a hand to Riley’s shoulder.

“Tate, man.” Riley looked toward the sky. “I haven’t spoken to him since . . .”

Christ, it had been almost three years. The fall after Riley’s release from Kill, in fact. There’d been heated words, then silence, which was probably worse than the disappointed and angry vitriol that had spewed from his father’s lips. When the first heart attack hit, two years ago, Riley had visited the hospital, staying with his mother until his father regained consciousness, but they never spoke. His father had still been too angry with Riley to even look at him. Knowing the kind of man Park Moore was, and his need to stew and come to terms with the disappointment in his own time, Riley had simply kept his mouth shut and left with his tail between his legs.

“Come on,” Tate said, gesturing with his hand toward the cab. “We need to move. It’ll be okay.”

Riley hoped his brother was right because, if he was truly honest, it wasn’t the thought of seeing just their father that caused his heart to pound.

Twenty-one years ago . . .

He’d watched for three days before she spoke to him.

He’d just completed second grade and it was summer vacation. Each day, he’d make excuses to his parents about going to the park—which was five minutes away and was the only place he was allowed to go sans brothers but “for no longer than thirty minutes”—riding his way to her house and standing at his spot by a tree across the street from it, his bicycle between his knees, watching the fascinating blonde girl dance around her front yard.

She had a dog and a little sister, whom she played with a lot. They looked like they got along really well, which confused Riley since he and his brothers were always wrestling and falling out. Especially he and Dex. Dex was the oldest and thought he could boss Riley, Tate, and Seb around. Seb called Dex a jerk. Last time he had, Mom had overheard and grounded him for the weekend. They’d learned that whispering or using hand gestures was a far safer way of insulting their brother.

Today the girl had a water gun, which she aimed at trees, squirting leaves before turning on the hanging plants outside her front door. She was a good shot, too. Much better than he was. She’d pump the pistol, cock her head, close one eye, stick out her tongue, and fire, giving a huge fist pump every time her aim hit true.

He had a water gun at home and he wondered if she’d mind him joining in. He was busy considering how he would approach her and ask, wondering why that thought made his belly feel funny, when he noticed she’d stopped shooting and was staring at him from across the street, her hand above her eyes, shielding them from the sun.

He froze, like a rabbit caught in headlights, and began fiddling with the handlebars of his bicycle. In his periphery, he saw her start to walk in his direction, stopping at the curb, not crossing over, placing her hands on her hips.

“Hey you!” she called, the water gun upside down at her side causing water to drip down her leg. “Hey boy!”

He looked up, his tongue in knots, his eyes darting around her before pointing at himself in question.

“Yeah, you. Are you lost?”

He noticed how loud her voice was, despite her size. He shook his head.

“Are you homeless?”

He frowned and shook his head again.

“Are you a weirdo?” He blinked and she smiled. “Do you live in that tree? You’re there a lot.”

His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. It’s not like he’d tried to hide, but her noticing him made him feel a little silly.

“Do you play water pistol?” She rested the gun on her hip. All she needed was a cowboy hat to complete the look.

He nodded this time.

“Can you talk?”

He kept his mouth closed and nodded again.

“Are you allowed to cross the street?”

He glanced down the street knowing that he wasn’t really allowed, but it was quiet and no one was around. He nodded.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come and play!” She lifted the gun and fired. As powerful as the pistol seemed, the water only just skimmed the toe of his sandal, sprinkling his toes.

He smiled wider and maneuvered his bike, pushing with his feet instead of pedaling, and made his way across to her. As he got closer, he realized how bright her eyes were, like the summer sky above them, and that her hair wasn’t just blonde but white and gold and shimmery like the pond in their backyard. He’d never seen anything quite like it. On one of her arms he saw what looked like a tattoo of a flower and, on the other, a pink cat. How had she convinced her parents to let her get them?

She stared at him for a brief moment and nodded at his Batman T-shirt, seeming pleased with what she saw. “So, do you have a name, or do I call you Batman?”

He coughed gently before speaking. “Riley.”

She smiled, showing two gaps in her bottom row of teeth. “Hi, Riley. I’m Lexie.”

For the next two weeks, Riley saw Lexie pretty much every day, shooting aliens and learning all there was to know about the amazing telescope she had on her back porch, all the while assuring his mom that the park really was that awesome and asking if he could please, please spend every minute there because he was eight and he was sensible.