Outside the Lines by Lisa Desrochers Page B

to step in when I turned eighteen and become everything Pop needed so he didn’t look toward his younger son. It worked. While Pop focused molding me into his image and turning me into a cold-blooded killer, Grant was free to become a womanizing Chicago club rat. Even though he was underage, our name was the currency that got him a pass at certain establishments, and he spent it freely. It was the lesser of two evils, I figured.
    But now I need him to step up and be the big brother that Sherm needs.
    I duck inside Sherm’s and my room and change into running shorts, then head downstairs.
    Ulie is just picking the keys to the Lumina off the hook near the door in an outfit that would turn heads even on the crowded streets of Chicago. It looks like something out of
Xena the Warrior Princess
, with snakeskin straps from what was probably a purse, and leather fringe on the shoulders, and a skintight long green skirt with a slit to the knee.
    â€œChrist, Ulie,” I snarl. “Where did you get that?”
    She looks down at herself. “I made it out of some of the crap they put in my suitcase and called clothes. You like?”
    I give her a bewildered shake of my head. “This isn’t Manhattan. You can’t wear that shit in public here.”
    Grant drags his sorry ass down the stairs. “Watch your fucking language, Rob,” he mutters on his way to the kitchen.
    â€œIt’s one of my designs,” Ulie protests. “My professor loved it. She said it shows ingenuity and functionality.”
    â€œAll it shows is that you don’t belong here. Take it off.”
    â€œNo,” she says, reaching for the doorknob.
    I punch my hand into the door, slamming it shut. I get in her face so Sherm won’t hear. “If you give a shit about your little brother’s safety, take it off.”
    She gives me a razor-sharp glare, turns for her room.
    â€œSo what the fuck is this all about, Rob?” Grant says from where he’s at the counter, hovering over a steaming cup of coffee.
    â€œCome on,” I say, yanking open the door.
    He takes a long swallow, then sets the mug down and follows me out into the cool, overcast afternoon. We wind down the path to the beach. When my bare feet hit the cold, wet sand, I start running.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” Grant calls, but I’m only a couple hundred yards up the beach when I hear the pound of his feet coming up behind me. He’s always been fast.
    We run along the beach in silence, the only sounds the roll of the waves, the squawk of an occasional seagull, and the steady cadence of our breathing. It’s pretty secluded up at this end of the island. Only a half-dozen homes have access to this beach. We haven’t seen another soul twenty minutes later when we come to the spot where the beach disappears into reedy marshland. I stop and drop into the sand on my back, staring up at the gray steel of the forming storm clouds.
    Grant braces his hands on his knees and breathes out, “So what’s going on? And what does Sherm have to do with this little jog-a-thon?”
    â€œI need you to teach him how to fight.”
    He pulls himself upright, looking down at me with suspicion. “Why me? You’re the one with all the training.”
    I prop myself up onto my elbows. “Do you want to help him or not?”
    He drops into the sand next to me. “Why does Sherm need to know how to fight?”
    â€œThere are some kids picking on him at school. I don’t want him to initiate anything, but he needs to know how to defend himself.”
    Grant rests his forearms on his bent knees and stares out over the rolling waves. “Okay.”
    I sit and mimic his position, look straight ahead at the endless ocean. “Thanks.”
    For a long time, neither of us moves. I watch as egrets and pelicans dive into the roughening sea, wondering what it would be like to be that free.
    â€œWill we ever be able to go