A loud pounding sounded on the living room door. The boisterous voice demanding attention disturbed him.
“Charlie-boy, I know you’re in there. Open the fucking door.” The door rattled. “Charlie-boy, open the fucking door!”
The sound of Jerry’s voice, combined with Charles’ childhood nickname brought back memories. Memories that could make it hard for him to do what he had to.
He stared down the hall at Justin’s room. He had no way of locking the door, so, he had to make sure this didn’t happen here. Another time, another place, and he’d detach his guest’s head from his damn body.
The stench of cheap liquor filled the air as Jerry stumbled through the opened door, his unsteady balance throwing him into Charles’ chest. Odd purplish-black bruises marred Jerry’s fair complexion.
As kids, they were the “two musketeers.” They didn’t need a third. Back in their day, two light skinned brothers didn’t have to do anything but walk into a room.
Charles heaved Jerry up against the open door, attempting to block out the memory. “What in the hell are you doing here, man?”
Jerry tugged at his bloody, torn t-shirt. His hand brushed across his lips, wiping away blood and drool. He stiffened his back and stared at Charles. His words dragged. “I—I heard you’ve been looking for me.”