Free THUGLIT Issue Seven by Michael Sears, Edward Hagelstein, Ed Kurtz, Joe Clifford, Christopher E. Long, Marie S. Crosswell, Justin Ordonez, Benjamin Welton

changed in him.
    " How much did you hear?" he asks.
    " Nothing," Cole says.
    Mitch sticks his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans, thumbs hooked over and out, shoulders hunched up. "That was Delilah."
    " Delilah?" And for a brief moment, Cole's voice sounds light again. "I thought she was done with you."
    And God damn it, Mitch wants nothing more than to lie and say that Delilah did show up t o ask him out. He wants to go find Bud Wolfe on his own and take care of him, one way or another. Never let Cole know.
    But all their lives, Mitch hasn 't kept anything important from his brother, and he sure as hell isn't going to start now.
    " She is done with me," he says. "She came by to warn us."
    Cole frowns. "About what?"
    " Bud Wolfe."
    " Mitch. I'm not going to drag it out of you. I don't have the energy for that."
    Mitch sighs and looks away, trying to figure out how to phrase this. Doesn 't take him long to give up. There's no way to make it sound better than it is. "Bud Wolfe says he's Ruby Jean's husband. He heard she's gone missing, and he's looking for us."
    Cole looks down into his lap and doesn 't answer for a few beats. He's straight-faced.
    " If you're going to tell me I fucked us both, go ahead," Mitch says.
    Cole 's silent.
    Mitch shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hands still in his pockets. "All right. You're pissed. You're scared. This is the last thing we need right now, I know. But you gotta believe me when I tell you that I will not let this guy or anybody else touch you. I'm going to keep you safe, Cole. Do you trust me?"
    Cole looks up and meets his brother 's gaze, everything about him tired. "I'm not five years old anymore, Mitch. I'm not scared. I ain't pissed at you neither. And it's not your job to keep me safe."
    " Yes, it is," Mitch says. "Always will be."
    Cole lowers his eyes again. "I trust you," he says, voice soft. "What are we going to do?"
    " I'm going to find Bud Wolfe, and I'm going to talk to him."
    " What if talk's not enough?"
    " Then, I'll deal with it."
    " What's that mean?"
    Mitch pauses. "I don't know. Depends on Bud."
    Cole stares at him, and Mitch can 't read the look.
    " Think I'm gonna lie down for a spell," Cole says.
    " All right. You want your painkillers?"
    " No. I'm good."
    Mitch lays his brother down on the left side of his bed, cradling his back with one arm and his head with the other hand. Every move hurts, with those busted ribs and pounded flesh. They both know it. Cole doesn 't ask for help, and Mitch doesn't mention it. Big brother does what he has to, and little brother takes it without complaint.
    Mitch sits on the bed next to Cole, back against the headboard and legs straight in front of him, drinking whiskey on ice and wondering when their lives are going to be beer material again. He looks down at his brother who 's supposed to be sleeping, and Cole opens his eyes to look up at him, meaning he can't get comfortable and maybe he's still a little afraid of falling asleep and never waking up again.
    Mitch sets his glass of melting ice on the night table next to him and slides down on the bed, head and shoulders lifted on two pillows. Cole lies back against Mitch 's chest, head on his brother's shoulder, and Mitch curls his arm around Cole's belly. Mitch can smell the Irish Spring shampoo in Cole's hair.
    He can feel his brother breathing.
     
    Bud Wolfe looks a hell of a lot fiercer than a moose. But the size comparison's accurate. He's six foot five with a lumberjack build—the kind that's never seen the inside of a gym but came from doing manual labor just about every day since he was eighteen. His shoulders threaten to pop open his shirt seams any minute. His eyes are lead-gray, bright and ornery.
    Mitch finds him in Black Moon, same dive where Ruby Jean convinced Cole it 'd be a good idea to fuck her. He doesn't know how he knows to go there, but he figures Bud can smell Ruby Jean everywhere she's been, like one of those coonhounds that live