... I guess I missed this story, even after all this time? The Shepards never really leave my mind :(

I always try to be nice to whatever member of my crew's ended up in my bad graces, tell myself it's all about boosting team morale instead of assuaging my own guilt. So when I hand Alex a beer at one of our endless rounds of parties, I plaster a smile on my face like everything's okay. He's been wearing a bandage around, I have to wonder if he convinced the ER doctors to give him a two-for-one deal. "You good?"

"I can't breathe out my nose, you know, I've been doin' better."

"Quit poutin' like a kid who got spanked." This time my voice is all harsh, he shouldn't have lit my olive branch on fire. "You fucked up, I had to clean up after you before someone got a bullet through their skull, you know the score. You think you deserve special treatment just 'cause we been friends since grade school?"

"Huh." He spits the wad of chew in his mouth onto the floor, sprays flecks of brown liquid onto his cheek. "That's what you still consider us?"

"This look like a fucking preschool to you, puto?" When I get hurt, I get mean, on general principle; I grasp his shoulder, dig my fingers into his flesh hard enough to leave indents. "I trusted you with that corner, I trusted you with that deal. That should tell you everything you need to know."

"Maria Teresa's got internal bleeding and a concussion, she's gonna need surgery," he says pointedly. "She was askin' why you didn't bother to visit her. Askin' what happened to my face, too."

I always liked Maria Teresa, she's a real tuff chick— we ran around for a couple months when we were sixteen, when Bonnie and I were on the outs— but I was raised by a devoutly Catholic mother, which makes me immune to guilt trips. "I'll send her a fruit basket, how 'bout it?"

"Give it a rest." Rafa comes up to him with a cigarette dangling from between his lips, trying for a note of authority he doesn't really have. "You milked this fucking broken nose like he snapped your spine in half, you oughta be glad he didn't tell Luis what you pulled. Ask the principal to let you come back to Will Rogers if you can't handle the life."

"So y'all got matching halves of a Best Friends locket now, or what?"

Normally, I let the two of them jockey for whoever gets to be my second-in-command without interfering, and I've occasionally stoked the flames for my own amusement, but I already have a wine headache pounding against the back and sides of my skull and I ain't in the mood. All my friends are my inferiors, even Rafa, in a way they weren't even when we were younger and my gang was just getting off the ground. Maybe that's why I think it's a good idea to go meet up with Dally Winston.

If you're looking for Dallas, trying Buck's place is a decent bet, no matter what day of the week it is or what time— he practically lives in one of his spare rooms when he isn't crashing with the Curtises, or trying to steal some horse off his old man. He runs actual horses for him, does rodeo, which is about the only honest thing he's ever done in his sixteen— sorry, now seventeen— years.

"Tell your new daddy I don't need his charity." I slide into the seat next to him at Buck's sorry excuse for a bar; it's barely three, but Dallas usually operates on the principle that it's five o'clock somewhere, and he's nursing a glass of whiskey between drags on his cigarette. "Before I have to tell him myself twice. Ain't I already made that much clear to Tulsa's answer to the Cleavers?"

"I don't know what you had to go steal Mom's watch for," he says, his upper lip curling. After Soda Curtis beat the hell out of me and stole it back, Dallas showed up in my territory the next day for the KO. "Jesus. She didn't deserve that shit."

"I needed to make rent," I lie. I stole it because I never wanted to be invited to that house again, and I got my wish, up until now. "And she ain't your mom."

He stubs his cigarette out onto the ashtray. "Don't be an ass, man," he says once he's lit another Kool— I don't understand how he can smoke so many menthols, they're nasty as hell. "They're all right," he adds with a brief shrug, which from Dally Winston is higher praise than you'd find in an eulogy. "Mrs. C knows the score, she ain't some do-gooder. She gets what things are like 'round here."

Mrs. C is a rich society daughter from Texas, who grew up with a preacher daddy whose congregation provided him with a parish Cadillac, so I'm not sure what kind of score she's supposed to have down. Luis told me all this when I was sixteen, so hammered he had a two-day hangover once he sobered up, in the middle of a lengthy ramble about why I should leave my white girlfriend— gabachas are the death of every man in this family, huh? I don't know what drove her to leave that cushy little Garden of Eden to have four kids with an Indian drug dealer, but I don't really feel like pressing Luis about whatever else she let slip during their pillow talk, either.

I nudge him in the side with my elbow, instead of saying any of that. "That broad's the reason why you're still stuck in school; if she had any sense, she'd realize you're the worst influence that place's ever seen. Not to mention how much you could be earnin' if you wasn't behind a desk all day."

"Eh, Soda and Johnny are there, it ain't so bad. 'Sides, I got customers there, Soc kids are real easy to fool with the ol' oregano in the grass trick."

"Christ, your gang got mixed up in murder raps in Bed-Stuy, and that's what you're proud of now—"

"Don't tell me you're tryna get me into your gang again?" he asks amusedly, like I'm a door-to-door vacuum salesman who doesn't know when to quit. "Shepard, I ain't interested in takin' your orders or suckin' your dick, for the last time."

"You really happy beatin' up spoiled rich kids from Will Rogers all day?" That's the problem with Dally, why he could never lead an outfit. He's got no fucking ambition. "Y'know I'd let you be my second. Could be convinced to add no jump-in."

"You should take the job," he says instead of answering a word out of my mouth, and I almost fall off the stool from sheer shock. "'S a good offer."

"Darrel Senior himself put you up to this?"

"Nah, but he was cussin' you real good at breakfast the other day, says you're a stubborn little shit who doesn't know an opportunity when he sees it," he says almost admiringly. "I mean, I'm happy when he's sayin' that 'bout anyone who ain't me, but he's right. You really want to be slingin' drinks until you're off probation?"

"Might be less work."

"Awh—" I walked right into this one— "would ya look at that. What, you afraid your arms are fixin' to give out, Tina—"

I take the bait he so easily offers, with Dally, I can always be taunted into a good fight— I'm a year older and stronger than him, which helps me tackle him off the barstool and onto the ground, but he's about the dirtiest fighter I've ever met, like a girl. He's driven his knee into my groin and sunk his sharp little animal teeth into my neck before Buck notices what's up.

"Not now." Buck pulls us apart by the scruffs of our necks, like we're misbehaving kittens, even gives us both a shake for the full effect. "Fuck's sake, it's not even dark yet, I gotta break y'all up again before you start smashin' glassware? Go upstairs if you want to get some of that sexual tension out."

"He'd be my bitch," Dallas automatically says, and though I'd rather answer that with another right hook, I settle for flipping him off. As usual, he's only tolerable in ten minute doses.

"Hey, Tim," he calls out just as I push the door open, the bell letting out an aborted jingle; against my better judgement, I loiter in the doorway. "It's 'cause I trust them, they're my buddies, you dig? I know they got my back in a rumble, or in a deal, they couldn't do me dirty even if they tried." Dallas Winston, being all earnest and shit. Someone should call up Lucifer and ask what the weather's looking like in hell. Then he smirks at me. "You think that's why we can always whip you an' yours?"

"... Seventeen's for babies, there's nothin' but articles about these British weirdos called The Beatles," Angela says scornfully as I walk into the kitchen, tossing a magazine onto the table and lighting a cigarette with easy practice. Since when does she smoke? "I read Cosmo now."

"Okay, Miss Thing, don't you think you're a lil' young for that?" Bonnie pulls at one of her curls playfully— wait, why the fuck is she in my house. "I ain't ready to talk to you about a girl's best blowjob tips."

At the word 'blowjob', I swear my brain just short-circuits. "The hell are you doin' here?" I snatch the cigarette out of Angela's hand and stick it in my own mouth, no sense in wasting a decent weed— that's all I need, Bonnie here, teaching my baby sister even more bad habits than she's already picked up. "Lady, I catch you lightin' up again, I swear I'm gonna tie your fingers together."

"You ain't my boss," Angela says with a pout— despite the garishly bright lipstick she has on, a shade I swear I've seen on our mama, it just highlights how young she really is under all that makeup. I changed this kid's diapers. "Like you weren't lighting up when you were younger than me."

"You talkin' back to me now?" Yeah, I was younger than her, maybe eleven or twelve when I started, but that's different. I'm a guy, she's a little girl. It ain't right.

"Tim, it's just a cigarette, quit makin' an ass out of yourself," Bonnie makes sure to cut in, and I actually grit my teeth together. The one time I saw a dentist as a kid, he recommended headgear. "She ain't wrong, you're bein' a real hypocrite. Half the girls in this neighborhood smoke."

I inhale, almost deep enough to cough on it, to soothe my nerves. Doesn't work. "Angela, go to your room," I say on the exhale, point at the hallway. "Nah, first go to the bathroom and wash that shit off your face, then go to your room."

She flips me off, but she listens to me, she's smart enough to figure out that's her best move right now. Bonnie claps. "Your dick real hard now?" she asks, taps her nails against the wood of the table. "You came home, showed the lil' women who's in charge?"

"You got a lot of nerve showin' up here, underminin' me," I say like I'm Angela's daddy, but I damn well know I'm the closest thing she's got, Luis has never had any more interest in her than telling her to be a good girl and listen to her brothers. "She's already been a little salvaje lately, I don't need you encouragin' it."

"She's a real salvaje, huh, real cabrona— that your biggest problem with her right now, Tim? That all you care about?"

I turn my head towards her, show off the silvery scar cutting down my face, temple to chin. "Don't question what I care about. You know damn well she's my top priority. I don't get what you're playin' at—"

"I ditched you, Tim, I didn't ditch your family. Angel needs someone in her corner who has the first clue what they're doing, and God, with your mother—"

She's right, as little as I want to admit that. Closest experience I've got is creepy ass Father Declan trying to go in for a kiss and shove his hand down my pants when I was fourteen, which marked the end of my career as an altar boy after I broke his nose— I swear all priests are closet perverts. Angel says that's all Liam did, grope at her, steal some kisses when no one else was home. I don't believe her for a minute, but I'm too much of a coward to push her, ask if that's what she told the cops or social worker. "I'm her corner," I say, my mouth tasting sour. I'm too much of a coward to ask what my mother has to do with anything, either. "I think you really oughta go."

She gives me a withering look before she gets up— I'm pretty immune to her withering looks at this point, fortunately, they don't have close to the same effect they did on me when we were dating. Our lives, they're still entwined too thoroughly. You know why she cheated on me, the reason I turn over in my mind at night? Because she probably wanted to do something I didn't know about.

Second time in about as many weeks that Gabi's shown up on my porch. I guess lightning really does strike twice.

"I leave my wallet behind again, or what?" I drawl with a lot more sarcasm than she deserves, my arms crossed— I feel like dog shit after I do, I shouldn't take my lingering frustration with Bonnie out on her.

She looks genuinely crushed, which makes me feel even worse, if that's possible. "Tim, I—"

"You don't have to say it," I can tell what she's about to before she does, and I don't want or need to hear it from her; I scuff my foot on our weatherbeaten welcome mat. I've never been great with apologies, giving or receiving them. I keep looking at the neat bow of her lips while I think about this.

"No, I..." There's a stray strand of hair that's come loose around her forehead, a curl, does she straighten it? I want to sweep it behind her ear, and wonder where the hell that urge came from. "I'm sorry. What you did was real sweet, I shouldn't have had such an attitude about it. Or said you'd slap around— I just—"

"It's okay," I say quickly, I don't need to hear any more gratitude out of her. The few times someone intervened when Ed beat on me, I wasn't so grateful either, only felt sticky shame and turned on them in my misplaced anger. I get it. I'm real proud, too. "I was showin' off, anyway," I admit with some warmth rising in my cheeks, remember how I called her 'my broad' like I owned her. Like I have any kind of claim over her at all, sleeping with her at a party. "I just... didn't want to see him touchin' you, that's all."

She looks at me with liquid dark eyes, and maybe that sentence came with a few more implications than I intended. "Yeah?"

I should let this nice girl work out her complicated feelings towards her ex, who obviously wasn't much to write home about, in peace. I should maybe work out my complicated feelings towards my own ex, who I didn't exactly end things with on good terms, or even halfway decent ones. "Do you want to go out?" I ask instead, my mouth working before my brain can get a leash on it. Once it's out, though, I can't bring myself to take it back. "Like. On a real date. I ain't completely incapable of romance."

She blushes, stares down at our rotting floorboards. She looks real cute in pink; hell, she'd look real cute in any color. Smiles at me, though, which eases my sudden lurch of nerves that she might say no, that I'm pushing my luck with her. "Yeah, Tim, I'd like that."

"You free this Saturday?" I try not to sound too eager, play it cool with her— broads don't always take that so great. "I'll pick you up—"

I've always prided myself on not doing my thinking with my dick, unlike most of my male relatives, and I'm smart enough to realize, in my heart of hearts, that I shouldn't be going after anything more serious than a one night stand. I don't know why I can't get her out of my head. Or why I thought about her in the shower yesterday morning, when I only have blurred outlines of what she looks like naked in my head, ones I had to fill in with my imagination. Maybe the universe, hell, Jesus Christ himself, is trying to tell me something.

Maybe I'm just not half as immune to thinking with my dick as I always considered myself.

On the drive home from another shift, I mean to go down my own street, to my own house. Instead I pull over, cuss to myself for a solid minute, then turn around and head in the opposite direction.

I'm interrupting when I show, it's a bad time— Mrs. Curtis pulls the door open after I ring the bell, and I get an earful of the loud clatter of forks, their equally noisy conversation. She could look happier to see me, gives me that thin-lipped smile you get from white people when you pass them in the grocery aisle. "Hi, Tim," she says anyway. "We're havin' supper right now... do you want me to fix you a plate?"

"No, ma'am." My stomach clenches around nothing, giving me a rush of nausea, and I'm tempted. Money's been coming in real slow lately, without Ed around to provide even the odd paycheck, and whatever I have I obviously use to feed the kids. But it'll be a cold one in hell before I start taking charity— you can always get full again, after you've been hungry, it's not so easy to get your pride back— and especially from her. "Your husband home? I need to talk to him."

My one sad act of good manners softens the tension in her face, like she never expected me to have any at all. "Yeah, he's just inside— Darrel, can you come out here for a second? Tim's at the door, Tim Shepard."

He could stand to look a little more humble when he sees me on his porch. At least a touch surprised. "Everythin' all right, son?"

Goddammit. I've never liked swallowing my pride, I'd be better at swallowing ground glass. "Um. 'Bout that job..."

"Yeah?" Guess he really doesn't plan on making this easy for me; his mouth scrunches up like he's trying to keep from laughing. I'm glad he finds this so fucking funny. "What about it?"

He's gonna make me say it loud, isn't he. "I can't take another day at that bar," I crack, "I got more cousins than I ever suspected, and I swear every last one of them wants to fight me if I don't let them drink themselves unconscious. I didn't need to know who they're fucking or planning to shoot or who's got what problem with their brother-in-law, I ain't no psychotherapist. This job's gonna kill me. Or I'm fixin' to kill myself before my uncle gets to teach me some valuable lesson 'bout the importance of social skills."

"So you want a place on my site after all?"

"Do I have to beg for it?"

He does laugh then, a loud bellow, and claps me on the back hard enough I stumble forwards two steps. "Shit, Tim, think you're gonna fit in with us just fine."