A series of one shots where Jack needs picked up. Some will be longer than others!
I recently watched Mark Wahlberg in Patriot's Day and fell in love all over again. I'm hoping to continue my other stories but need time to redo/edit some of the chapters before I can carry on. Note to self – shite at doing multi chapter stories.
Here we go…
Disclaimer: MINE. ALL MINE. (kidding on)
WARNING: involves a shooting. May be sensitive.
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Number one: Bobby gets a call in the night – his kid brother's cracking voice is on the other end…
The phone rang, cracking across the hum of the TV like lighting.
Bobby, sprawled across the couch and mouth dry from snoring, bolted awake and automatically reached for his – empty – waistband.
The room was dark. A classic hockey game lit up the scene in a white light, too bright.
He checked his watch. 2:45am. The phone cut off.
"God damn it," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and relaxing back into the couch. "S'posed to be my damn vacation."
For the first time in his career, Bobby meant that. Although he usually retreated home for his suspensions and injuries in the guise of a vacation, the league was in the middle of a lockdown and Bobby had leapt at the chance to come home and hang out with his family for a few weeks.
Although his brothers – and even his mother – had seen fit to completely abandon him tonight, which probably explained why he was surrounded by empty beer cans and watching a replay of that '76 Flyers game where the players fought the fans –
The phone rang again, loud and unrelenting.
"God damn it," he said again. Who the fuck was calling him at 3 in the fucking morning?
He knew Jerry was at Camille's house, sucking his new father in law's balls no doubt. Angel was chasing a new skirt in Garden City, and there was no fucking way Bobby was going to drive all the way out west to bail his brother out of that.
"Sucker should know rich girls don't stay out late," he chuckled to himself.
The phone cut out again.
Bobby flipped the channel, shifting in his junk nest to get comfortable. Evelyn was out working a late shift, covering again to fill the gaps. And Jack was staying at a friend's house, no doubt out using some fake I.D. to get fucked up in a bar.
Technically, Evelyn didn't know that her youngest son, still the baby even if he had sprouted to 17 years old, was out with his boys – that was between Jack and Bobby. But Bobby had learned that it was better to be on Jack's good side than anywhere else – at least if Bobby knew he was going out, he could keep tabs on him. He had developed a ninja-like ability to escape through windows early on in his residency at the Mercer household and the eldest brother thought it was best to just let him use the door than break his good arm several times a year.
The phone rang again.
A rumble of uncertainty circled Bobby's stomach.
It's just one of ma's coworkers calling in, not knowing she's on shift, he told himself, focussing on the pretty lady reading out the news on his new channel. It had happened before. That's why she had a phone in her room.
The phone cut off after two rings.
Bobby sat up straight, his heart beating. I swear to God, Angel…
For the fourth time, at 2:47am, the phone rang again.
Bobby caught it before the first ring finished. "Angel Mercer, if you want me to fucking drive all the way to…"
"Bobby?"
A small, slurred voice croaked at the other end of the line. Bobby's hand tightened around the phone, his heart starting to pound a little harder. "Jack? Is that you, bud?"
A shaky breath wobbled in response. Bobby could hear a cold November wind howl in the background, a few voices.
The eldest Mercer swallowed. "Jack, what is it?"
"Can… Can you come pick me up?"
"Has something happened?" Bobby knew it was a stupid question. Of course something had happened. Why else would his kid brother be calling him at 2:48 in the morning, from outside, on a Friday night?
"Oh God…" the voice cracked, "Can you…"
Bobby could feel the heat rise in his chest, the panic crease his face. He reached for his jacket. "Are you hurt?"
"Bobby, someone got shot. Can you come get me?"
"Fuck, Jack are you hurt?" He desperately tried to keep his tone calm, his voice gentle, his frustration hidden.
"I'm okay… I'm fine – fuck that's my last quarter. Bobby I'm at The Lamp Room – it got shot up. Derek… Derek is in… Can you come get me? Please," his voice broke again, and he sniffled. "God, please come get me, Bobby, I-"
"Stay where you fucking are, Jack. Do not move. You hear me? I'll be fif-"
The phone line cut off. "Shit!" Bobby threw the handset back into the receiver. Grabbing his keys, he threw himself out of the door, not locking it behind him.
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Jack roared with laughter, his right leg failing beneath him. He caught himself on the bar, knocking into the big guy next to him. The guy shoved him back, shooting him a dirty glare. Jack only laughed harder, spurred on by his good friend Jacky D in his glass.
"Jesus, Mercer, you need to relax," his friend, Harrison, shook his head, putting himself between the youngest Mercer and their pretty pissed neighbour.
"Awh c'mon man, it's a fucking bar. If you're wanting paid to get touched, go to the strip club," Jack took another mouthful of his drink.
His other friend, Derek, snorted. "Jack, you wouldn't know the inside of a strip club if it hit you in the face."
"Yeah, yeah," Jack rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the pretty girl behind the bar. God, she was hot. And she had the booze…
"You wanna go tonight? I mean, my brother works as a bouncer in a club above the Sugar Pill… He could get us in. Even with your embarrassing excuse for I.D.," Derek smirked.
Jack laughed again, in too much of a good mood to let his asshole friend get to him. He loved being out in bars, where he could be whoever he wanted to be, pretend he was a famous musician, or that he was confident and ballsy, get any girl to take him home… "Fuck that, man. Not my scene."
Derek shrugged. "Don't knock it 'til you try it, man." He turned to sweep the room, keeping an eye out for a new conquest.
Jack ordered another round of bourbon, feeling bad that he knew they were never going to pay for their pretty big tab. He decided he'd leave a tip for the barmaid anyway.
"There's a house party up in Chaldean Town if you wanna hit there after this?" Harrison suggested, his voice getting lost in the rising noise of the bar.
"What? Chaldean?" Jack shouted back.
"Yeah, my girl's cousin is having his birthday or something… There might be more juice there," Harrison pointed at his glass.
"Sounds like a fucking plan, brother," Jack grinned, patting Harrison pretty hard on the back.
So much so, that Harrison, who had been standing guard between Jack and their pretty-unhappy-neighbour, lost his own balance and fell to the floor, grabbing at the stranger next to him as he fell.
Before Jack had time to laugh, the guy turned around, slamming his glass into the bar. "That's it, punk!"
But before Jack's heart had a chance to stop, before the feeling of impending doom could fall over him, and before he could set his wits about himself to run as fast as he fucking could, the front door to the bar burst open.
A flurry of snow followed three men into the bar.
All three were packing.
Jack's mouth fell open, and before he could draw a breath, the shooting started.
The room erupted into screaming. Glass fell from the sky like rain. The music, which had been getting louder, and louder, suddenly cut off. Jack watched the pretty barmaid fall to the ground, her own blood draining from a bullet hole in her shoulder.
"Get down!" Jack was dragged to the ground. Harrison huddled him into his arms, pulling him beneath the small roof of the bar. The shooting carried on, random burst of bullets into the ceiling, the walls, into bottles of spirits.
Jack felt the alcohol drain out of him as if he'd had an electric shock. He fought the desire to bolt for the nearest door, and trusted his friend to hold him tightly to the ground.
"Tell your fucking boss not to mess with Collier's daughter again," a strange voice shouted, and the shooting stopped just as soon as it had started.
Jack stayed, almost in a foetal position, where Harrison had entangled him to stop him running. Harrison breathed heavily. Slowly, as the dust settled, the small screams became louder as people began to take stock, to breathe and to dare open their eyes.
Jack patted Harrison on the arm, both as a comfort and as a silent request to be released. "Are you okay?" He asked shakily.
Harrison blinked, slowly letting go of his friend. He quickly ran his eyes over Jack. "You're all good?"
Jack nodded. "You're all good too." He looked around to Derek. Derek held up a weary thumbs up, his face pale.
The big guy, who had been about to kick the living shit out of Jack, shot to his feet, holding onto the edge of the bar for balance. "Someone call a fucking ambulance!" He yelled, jumping over the surface to get to the barmaid.
Jack pulled himself to the bar, grabbing Harrison up in the process, and peeked over the side. The girls hair was surrounded by a red halo, and she blinked blindly at the ceiling above her. The neighbour ripped a cloth from the bar and pressed it into her shoulder. He looked up at Jack. "I said call 911!"
Jack took half a second to be spurred into action, and rolled himself over the bar. He grabbed the phone, miraculously not shot up by the destructive attack, and forcefully brushed aside the desire to call his big brother.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
The girl breathed once more.
Jack crushed the phone in his hand and fell to his knees.
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Bobby drove like a fucking maniac.
The snow was falling heavily now. His Chevy struggled on, back wheels sliding desperately on the freezing surface. But Bobby saw no lights, no patrols. He hoped to see one, so he could be assured that it wasn't all bad, that not all the squad cars were at the scene…
Worst of all, he couldn't remember where the fucking Lamp Room was.
He slammed his steering wheel with his fists. "Fuck." It hadn't been that long since he'd been drinking around here.
Where the fuck would Jack go out? Or more importantly, which run down shithole would accept his embarrassing fake I.D.?
Bobby thought back to his own underage days, and sure enough, his own childhood favourite, Salem, had simply had a revamp.
And, he decided as he pulled up next to the circus of dancing blue and red lights, was coming to the same sticky end.
The place was a fucking warzone.
Ambulances were parked across the street, blocking the road. Droves of people stood around the site, staring at the rink of broken glass and turned up furniture outside the Lamp Room. Cops milled around with notebooks, on radios, taking pictures.
A stretcher held a covered body, surrounded by paramedics.
Bobby felt a renewed urgency to find his brother.
He searched desperately, stopping people to ask "have you seen a guy, he's seventeen, twice the height of my, scruffy blond, leather jacket… have you seen my brother? Jack?"
He looked for the nearest phone box, hoping his brother had maybe listened to him and stayed put…
"Sir? Sir?" A police officer approached him, her hat in her hand. "Sir, were you a witness to the incident?"
He looked down at her, briefly, annoyed at the distraction. His eyes searched behind her. "What? No. I'm here to find my kid."
"Your son is here?"
"Uh, no my… my kid brother? Have you seen him?"
"What's his name?"
"Mercer. Jack… But he had a fake I.D." He felt a rather crushing guilt for dropping his brother in with the cops.
She raised her eyebrows, but flicked back through her notes. "No Jack Mercer yet. We're trying to get a hold of witnesses."
"Ma'am, he doesn't do cops. He's probably…" He sighed. "What the fuck happened here?"
She scratched her head, obviously exhausted. "Gang shooting. This bar is unofficially owned by Eric Collier, and they came to redecorate. We've had a fatality… a staff member," she said quickly, seeing his expression change. "And a couple of injuries. But no one who has gone to hospital goes by Jack Mercer."
He knew she'd said too much, but he was grateful. He excused himself, and descended into the carnage, looking for his brother.
He saw blood. People had bloody hands, faces, scratches on their arms, many shivering in the cold, in the shock. Bobby had seen his fair share of violence, but very rarely outside of his own violent circles… never involving this many innocent people, out for a drink.
He didn't see Jack. Anywhere.
His kid brother usually hid from crowds, from any aftermath of aggression. He was becoming more confident, more comfortable in his own skin. But his aversion to violence was something that Bobby knew wouldn't change. And this situation was one he wanted to get his kid brother out of immediately.
"Bobby?"
A familiar voice struggled through the wind. Bobby's heart skipped a beat.
He turned to find it.
Jack appeared, from what looked like a bin store. His arms were wrapped tight around his chest, his stupid leather jacket obviously and famously not keeping him warm enough.
Bobby didn't speak. He leapt over to his brother, and threw his arms around him. The kid, a head taller than him, stiffened momentarily – before relaxing completely into the embrace. Bobby pulled the kids head to his shoulder, cupping the back of his neck with his hand, and quietly thanked whatever fucking being that was watching over them in the sky.
Jack felt his shoulders heaving and held his breath, desperate not to let himself be too vulnerable here.
Bobby gently lifted up the kid's head, saw a familiar look of fear in Jack's bright eye, and looked him up and down. He grabbed Jack's arm. "Blood?" He said, pulling up the sleeve.
"Not mine, its not mine," Jack breathed back. "The barmaid… Bobby she died." Jack strained and let out a sob, her blind blinking eyes trailing him as he called 911…
Bobby shuddered. He pictured his brother helplessly staunching the blood of this girl, too familiar with the violence, and the desperate fight for life. He grabbed his brother's shaking hands. "Jack, look at me. Jack. You're okay, okay? I'm here now. I'll get you home."
Jack held his breath and nodded, blindly grabbing Bobby's sleeves, like he did when he was a kid, waking up from a nightmare.
But this was real. "Okay Jackie, lets go home, okay? Did you talk to the cops?"
"No."
"Okay. Let's not, huh?"
Jack nodded.
"Where's Harrison? And your other pal?"
"Derek. Derek got hurt, I think he hurt his arm when he dropped to the ground… Harrison went with him. Harrison saved my fucking…" Jack paused when they went past the ambulance and the covered stretcher.
Bobby placed a gentle hand on his brother's back. "Let's get home, Jackie, okay?"
They disappeared into the snow, unseen by the anthill of police who swarmed the bar, the name Jack Mercer forgotten.
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Bobby led Jack into the house, relieved to see no one else had made it home yet. He pulled of Jack's jacket, partly because it was wet, mostly cause he wanted to check Jack had no bullet holes in him, and gave him a sweatshirt he had abandoned on the couch during his hockey binge.
Jack, weary and still pretty drunk, swayed in the hallway. His ears were ringing from the music and the gunshots. His hands didn't feel like his own yet. Bobby bustled around him, switching on the heat, getting him a glass of water and turning on the coffee pot, silent.
Jack had stayed quiet in the car. He could sense anger, rage, in Bobby. He knew it wasn't at him. But it made Jack tense, uncertain. Now at home, where he felt so safe, it was even worse.
"I'm sorry, Bobby," he mumbled, edging towards the kitchen, "I'm sorry I went…"
"Jack, this isn't your fault. Or my fault, for once." Bobby sighed. He wet a towel under the faucet, and came towards his brother. He rolled up the sleeves and started to wash off the blood that, somehow, miraculously, wasn't Jack's.
"Are you mad I called?"
"Fuck off. Of course not. I mean, I'm glad you called, and not…" He trailed off.
Jack stayed silent and watched as the pretty girls' blood disappeared. "They came 'cause it was Collier's bar. They shouldn't have killed anyone…"
"They shouldn't have shot up a bar full of fucking customers, Jack," Bobby seethed, forcing himself to calm down as his brother winced in his grip. "Sorry. It's just… It's hard. 'Cause how can any of you, any of us be safe, when a couple of fuckwads can just walk into a bar and shoot it up? When did this shit start happening in broad daylight?"
"It was 2am on a Friday, technically," Jack smiled weakly.
Bobby swatted his hair with a gentle hand. "Fuck off. You know what I mean." He took the towel and threw it straight into the laundry. "The worst thing, is this has nothing to do with me. Or any of us. It's not like any of us did anything, or asked for it. It was just bad luck and… and you could have died."
"They weren't there to kill us –"
"But they could have. They could have wiped you all out. The rules are changing here, Jack. These assholes care less about the people they hurt. And its all levels…" he stopped himself. Jack was staring at his feet. Bobby sucked his teeth. "Hey. Wanna watch TV?"
Jack nodded, sleep tugging at his eyes. Bobby waved him into the living room. While Jack's back was turned, he snuck into the closet under the stairs, and grabbed his 9mm from his jacket pocket and slipped it into his waistband. He knew it was going to be a long watch tonight.
He quickly stepped back into the kitchen, grabbing the kid's multiple drinks. Jack flopped onto the couch, kicking off Bobby's cans and chip packets. "Dude, gross."
Bobby smirked, taking the single seater next to Jack's head. "Fucking house fairy."
He flicked off the news, which he knew would soon show images of the shot up bar. He switched the channel back to classic hockey replays. 4:23am.
Jack's breathing started to fall rhythmic. Bobby sat and listened, comforted by the noise, the promise of life. The eldest brother started when Jack spoke.
"Harrison saved my life, Bobby."
"Really? The short guy?"
"He's taller than you, man." He blocked the pillow Bobby threw at him. "Seriously. I froze, and he pulled me down and kept me there. I think I would have been…"
Bobby considered this. He thought about the fear that would have overcome his kid brother, the realisation of what was about to happen… and maybe the acceptance.
"Remind me to tell Harrison that I owe him one," Bobby said quietly.
"Remind me to tell Derek he's an asshole," Jack said wearily. Bobby could tell he was fighting sleep. Jack suffered with night terrors, still screaming himself awake. Bobby had spent many nights on Jack's bedroom floor, and could already tell he was going to spend a few more there this vacation.
"Go to sleep, kiddo. I'm not moving. I'll be here when you wake up," Bobby promised. Jack nodded, settling, his breath still shaking slightly.
A couple of moments later, Jack spoke again, slurring. "Thanks for picking me up, Bobby."
"Any time, squirt."
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Please review for encouragement!
Any suggestions and requests cherished.