Table Of ContentMy Brother’s Keeper | Abigail Roux
I
“IT was a lovely service, dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hapscomb.”
“If you boys need anything, you know where to come.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Fitzgerald, thank you.”
“Such a shame, Brayden dear. It’s just such a shame.”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Mattie, it is.”
The line went on and on; each of Coral Gables’ finest
and, apparently, oldest, offering their condolences to the two
brothers as they droned by in a procession of black lace and
heavy tweed.
During the first lull in the line, as Mr. and Mrs.
Henderson VI tried desperately to disentangle Mother
Henderson’s oxygen line from one of her wheelchair wheels,
Addison Satterwight turned to glare at his half-brother. He
pulled at his tie, betraying his twitchiness. “Told you we
should have done a private ceremony,” he growled
disconsolately under his breath.
Brayden Bainbridge merely smiled serenely in response
and wondered what the social repercussions would be for
laughing hysterically at your own dearly departed father’s
funeral. He thought it might be frowned upon, especially
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when the object of hilarity was a little old lady slowly
suffocating because she was too stubborn to take her hand
off the “Forward” button on her high-tech, pedestrian-
flattening, motorized wheels.
“Are you laughing?” Addison asked him incredulously
through gritted teeth.
“I’m honest to God trying not to,” Brayden answered in a
high-pitched, wavering voice as he fought back the laughter.
He covered the lower part of his face with one hand and
lowered his head as the line began to move again.
“Oh, my dear, the grief will pass,” Mrs. Henderson
soothed as she took Brayden’s free hand and patted it with a
sorrowful shake of her head.
Brayden nodded and closed his eyes, covering his
snorting with what he prayed was a believable sniffle.
ADDISON and Brayden sat alone in the back of the Town
Car, lingering long after the funeral had ended and the other
mourners had dispersed. They sat staring past the front
seats and out the windshield blankly at the darkening
coastal sky, both of them mentally and physically exhausted
after the past several days of hectic scuffling and very public
mourning.
“Ready to go home?” Brayden finally asked his brother
softly. Addison nodded silently, and Brayden knocked on the
window to let Wilkins know they were ready to go.
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“You want to join me for a drink?” Addison asked, his
tone of voice saying he knew Brayden would turn him down.
“Not tonight,” Brayden murmured. “Got a club to run.”
He sighed, turning to look at his half-brother.
Addison merely turned his head and leaned his forehead
against his hand, watching the scenery pass silently.
ADDISON Satterwight lay back on a wooden lounger and
watched the iridescent waves beat relentlessly against the
dark sand, his sweating glass held to his temple. His dark
hair had become wild and unruly with the long exposure to
the salty sea air, and his lithe body was draped ungracefully
across the wooden lounger.
“Let’s just… take the boat and go disappear off the edge
of the world,” he grumbled.
“I see two problems with that little plan,” Micah Parrish
remarked happily as he walked up behind Addison and sat
down on the lounger next to him.
Addison peered through the darkness at the club’s
tennis pro and sailing instructor, taking in the blue polo
shirt and white shorts the man wore. He raised an eyebrow
at him, briefly leering at the tanned, muscular view for a
moment before it sank in that Micah was wearing his club
uniform. “Did you work today?” he asked incredulously.
“Who were you talking to?” Micah asked without
answering as he looked out onto the ocean.
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“The sea,” Addison answered with a distant, slightly
drunken smile. “Why are you in uniform?”
“I’ve been working,” Micah responded in an equally
incredulous tone. “The whole place didn’t get the day off, you
know.”
“Day off,” Brayden Bainbridge drawled darkly from
where he had been sitting in the shadows, drinking and
watching his younger brother talk to himself. Micah was
immediately on his feet with his hands behind his back,
head lowered as he tried to peer into the shadows for his
boss.
“Jesus, Brayden,” Addison breathed after they had both
finally spotted him where he sat in the deep shadows of a
palm tree. “Are you skulking in the shadows?” he asked with
a hint of amusement.
“The only father I’ve ever known is dead,” Brayden
murmured as he eyed them both. “I’m drowning my
sorrows,” he said grimly.
Micah shifted his feet nervously and cleared his throat.
Brayden raised his chin and narrowed his eyes at the
man before he could speak. “How were your lessons?” he
asked deliberately.
“Uneventful, sir. Mostly the vacationers,” Micah
answered curtly. “Teaching their debutantes and trust-fund
babies how to play a little tennis for all the free time in their
futures,” he muttered almost under his breath.
“You seem to be awfully condescending when referring
to the people who help pay your salary,” Brayden observed
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coldly. He saw Addison turn his head and sigh audibly, and
he watched Micah raise his chin defiantly in the silhouette of
the moonlight.
“My apologies,” the man murmured in place of the
vitriolic comment Brayden had expected from him. “I’m sorry
for your loss,” he added with just a hint of sarcasm before
half-turning to Addison. He petted him on the top of the
head and then walked away, down the moonlit path and
back toward the clubhouse.
“You’re a real fuck sometimes, you know that?” Addison
said to Brayden as soon as Micah was out of earshot.
“You keep talking to the ocean, I’m going to have you
put away and steal your inheritance,” Brayden responded
before taking another sip of his drink.
“Hmph,” Addison offered sulkily, but he didn’t respond
otherwise.
Brayden smirked triumphantly and sighed contentedly.
It wasn’t often that Addison couldn’t come up with a
smartass response to something he said. Even though he
knew it was the liquor at fault, he still counted it as a point
for him on their imaginary chalkboard. He closed his eyes
and lifted his face to the cool night breeze and tried to enjoy
the sound of the ocean.
The country club pretty much ran itself day to day.
When they’d returned to the club after the funeral, there
really hadn’t been much for Brayden to do. He just hadn’t
wanted to go home to a house that would echo his footsteps
in the darkness. Why Addison hadn’t gone home either,
Brayden couldn’t guess. He had long ago stopped trying to
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keep up with his brother’s mind. He’d come out here,
knowing this was where Addison would eventually show up if
he was still at the club, and he’d sat down with his drink to
wait. Just in case.
“How long were you sitting there?” Addison asked after a
while.
“Actually, I was sitting here when you came stumbling
out,” Brayden answered as he picked up his glass and
turned it around through the air until the melting ice inside
was going in circles.
“Did you see me face-plant into the sand?” Addison
asked with a drunken laugh.
Brayden huffed and answered, “I did. I thought briefly
about helping you up, but watching you wallow was more
entertaining, in the end.”
Addison responded with a disgruntled huff, leaning
back in the lounger and flailing briefly when the thing almost
tipped him out of it. He wound up wearing what was left of
his melted ice and cursing softly as he brushed at it.
Brayden chuckled. His half-brother was probably the
only person in the world who could fall out of a lounge chair
that was literally bolted to the deck.
In the distance of the still night, there was a shuffling
sound on the wooden boardwalk, as if someone had started
down the path toward the beach, heard Addison and
Brayden out there talking, and turned around. Brayden
knew that the cleaning crew was still out and about, and he
figured one of the janitors had expected to find Addison
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sitting out here alone. One thing Brayden knew about his
brother was that he was generous with his stash of pot.
Addison turned to look, peering into the darkness to try
to see who it had been. He looked back at Brayden,
shrugged, and then settled back into his chair.
Brayden watched him, knowing what was running
through his brother’s mind.
“Hey, Brayden?” Addison murmured after a long silence
in which they both sat with their own thoughts. “Why do you
think he did it?” he asked softly.
“Huh?” Brayden asked in feigned confusion. He shifted
uncomfortably and swirled his drink nervously. He wasn’t
good at this kind of thing. The less of it he could do, the
better off everyone was.
“Father. He killed himself, didn’t he?” Addison
responded with a certainty Brayden had rarely heard in his
capricious brother’s voice. “Why, do you think?”
Brayden sat up and blinked through the dim light,
squinting to see past the blurry vision of his whiskey.
Sometimes Addison still surprised him. “What makes you
think he killed himself?” he asked, his voice laced with
morbid fascination.
“He was in good health his last checkup,” Addison
pointed out.
“He was also a heavy drinker, and his kidneys finally
gave out, man,” Brayden countered as he leaned forward into
the light, glancing back down the path with a frown. He
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wasn’t sure if they were being overheard. He supposed it
wasn’t really important, though, in the end.
Addison glanced at him with a shake of his head and
then looked back out to the sea wordlessly. Brayden sighed
and flopped back onto the lounger.
His younger brother had always been the black sheep of
the family: flighty and hot-headed and restless. He had even
taken his mother’s maiden name just to piss off their dad
when he had turned eighteen. But Addison had never been
one to come to conclusions hastily, nor was his mind easily
changed once he reached a decision. Everyone in Coral
Gables knew that.
If Addison believed their father had killed himself, then
he would believe it until the day he died or someone proved
him wrong.
“MR. BAINBRIDGE, you have a guest waiting at the reception
area. Mr. Bainbridge….”
Brayden looked up at the cleverly hidden speaker when
the announcement started and then back down at the club
member with whom he had been chatting for one last word
and a smile.
“Excuse me, will you, Mr. Graham? It seems my brother
is nowhere to be found today, and suddenly I’m needed
everywhere,” he said in a honey-smooth voice as he shook
the old man’s hand.
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“You’re doing a fine job, young man, fine job. It’s as if
old Reggie were never gone,” Mr. Graham assured him with a
manly pat to his shoulder before he stuffed his cigar between
his thick lips again and turned back to the game of cards he
and his cronies had been enjoying.
Brayden smiled as he straightened and said goodbye to
the group of some of the club’s oldest, most important
members. He smiled right up until he had turned away and
made sure no one could see him. Then the smile dropped off
into a snarl as he stalked toward the reception area of the
country club.
He glided up to the greeter’s desk and pinned Julie with
his dark eyes. “How many times must I go over the not using
the PA system for anything but emergencies?” he asked
sarcastically, his voice a soft, threatening growl.
“I know, sir. I’m very sorry, but—”
“There are no three strikes here, Julie,” Brayden snarled
as he held up one finger and pointed it at her threateningly.
“I… I think you need to see these gentlemen,” the timid
little brunette stuttered desperately. “I didn’t want to keep
them waiting, and no one could find you,” she protested.
Brayden narrowed his eyes and snarled a little more
before turning around to head for the Hospitality Room, the
room in which all things unwanted were stored: hats, coats,
umbrellas, children, non-members.
He stopped short when he entered the atrociously
decorated room. It was intended to dissuade anyone from
staying past their very short period of welcome. It had always
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