Chapter Three-Hundred and Nineteen
Tyler laughed as he focused his video camera on John and Claire in their shared bunk. "Good morning!" He smiled as John's eyes opened and he tried to blink the sleep from his lashes.
"Ty… at least wait to video me until I don't look like an extra from Night of the Comet." His words were sloppy with sleep, and he was still curled around Claire as if protecting her from one of his own demons.
Claire giggled, kissing his throat right where his morning scruff started to thin out. "I like your morning look." She breathed, her lips bare centimeters from his skin.
He gave a tired smirk, leaning toward her. "Brains…" He groaned, kissing her head before he rested his brow against hers. "Brains too sweet for Zombie John."
Tyler laughed, shutting his camera off as the red light started to blink, telling him that the tape was used up. "You two are nauseating." He smirked, picking up a new cassette from his bunk and popping it into the camera, after he'd taken the old one out and labeled it with the words 'Florida rebuild (part one)' and tucked it into the case that Mary and Paul had bought him for Christmas. "Come on, the hens made pancakes for breakfast."
John wolfed his breakfast down, and bolted to the site to get to work. He knew that Clarissa would be on his ass all day with the concert being that night, but he still needed to get as much work done as possible. His body ached with sore muscles, and the old wounds on his skin felt like they were being scraped with sandpaper from the sunburn he'd gotten yesterday.
Phoebe watched her brother for a moment, before she bounded after him; in her torn jeans and old t-shirt she almost looked like a miniature female version of him. "Wolf!" She called, stopping as he bent down to grab a chunk of bricks that had been busted apart with the storm. "Let me help."
John laughed, hefting the bricks into a truck and pointing to a pile of drywall. "You can start loading those into the trucks." He grunted as he lifted another huge bunch of concrete and yelping as something in his shoulder popped. "Fuck!" He dropped the concrete, cradling his arm for a moment until it stopped hurting. "Mouse, can you give me a hand?"
Phoebe nodded, shucking her gloves off and clapping furiously with a dopey grin that matched John's perfectly. "There you go."
He rolled his eyes, pushing his fingers into a mud puddle and wiping them over her face. "Smartass." He chuckled, lifting half of the rock and letting Phoebe help him put it on the tailgate. "Thanks." He gave her a little kiss on the head, nearly jumping out of his skin as a camera flash went off and a man with slicked back hair and a tape recorder sidled up to him.
"Excuse me, are you Johnathan Bender?" He asked, smirking when John pushed Phoebe behind him.
"Yes…" John stated, cautiously looking the man over. "Why?"
"My name, is Howard Barton, I'm the head reporter for the New York Times." He smiled at Phoebe, noticing the resemblance between the two. "Is this your daughter?" He asked, knowing that many singers and performers had children who were kept out of the lime light, and sometimes looked older even though their parents were young and sometimes not yet old enough to drink.
"Fuck no." John snapped, raising a brow at the red light on the recorder. "She's my little sister." He turned his back on the man, walking away to get back to work. "Now shut that damn thing off and let me get back to work."