Love Lies Bleeding, Remmy Duchene [moboreader .TXT] 📗

morning and needed sleep. But Anderson needed someone—he craved and ached for arms to hold him.

He wanted a drink—something hard—but he knew should he start, he wouldn't stop. He knew he didn't want to think about anything.

"Dude, you are nuts." Byung laughed when he tossed the football across the short space to Anderson. "There's no way your dad would ever agree to that. He wants you to become a cop or something like that."

"Well, it's not really about what he wants." Anderson frowned. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to tell him I want to quit school to become a male stripper named Stretch Marks."

To his utter shock, Byung broke out laughing as the football sailed towards him. The ball missed Byung by mere inches and spiraled through the air to land against a large tree in the backyard. "It's not that funny." Anderson smirked.

"Stretch Marks!" Byng explained. "Come on! That's comedic gold!"

"What Stretch Marks?" Jazmon's voice called from behind the friends. While Anderson turned to speak with his father, Byung kept on laughing.

"Hi Mr Williams." Byung stopped long enough to call while walking by the older man into the house. "Stretch Marks," he muttered just before disappearing into the house, his mirth continued to echo from inside. Anderson glared at the house. He shook his head with a chuckle then turned again to his father. "Dad, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Sounds serious." Jazmon eyed his son. A hint of nervousness danced through the older Williams' eyes. "What did you do?"

Anderson grinned. "Nothing—yet. But seriously. I don't know how to tell you this."

"Just spit it out."

"Dad, I don't want to be a cop," Anderson blurted out. "I don't want to carry a gun. I don't want to chase bad guys or vice versa—none of that."

"All right." Jazmon's lips were pressed into a thin line. Together, father and son walked away from the house and towards the swimming pool a little further down. "What do you want to do?"

"Teach," Anderson explained.

Jazmon laughed. "There is nothing wrong with that," the judge said as he nodded his head. "I didn't want you to be a cop per se. I just wanted you to do something that will make you happy and make a difference. There's no better way than becoming a teacher. Hopefully with you in the classroom, I won't have to get any more young ones in my courtroom."

"I highly doubt that." Anderson smiled. "I was afraid I'd let you down."

Jazmon smirked—his big, brown eyes grew misty with love and mirth, "The only way you could let me down, Andy, is if you became a stripper named Stretch Marks."

Anderson's eyes widened in shock after his father's final words. He opened his mouth to speak but was left speechless. How could a person reply to something like that? His feet stopped moving but his father continued walking away, laughing.

That laughter was one of the things Anderson would always remember about his father. Even at sixty-five, Jazmon had a laugh so warm and contagious when he was having a good time, everyone wanted to be with him. It was a sound that made your heart happy when you heard it. It was steady, strong, and something that had lulled Anderson to sleep so many nights as a child. Before Patricia, his mother, died when he was a boy, Anderson would stay up long after his parents thought he was asleep. On Wednesday nights, he would listen to Patricia and Jazmon in their room, clinking wine glasses together and laughing softly as they whispered. After his mother's death, Anderson thought his world was over. He had his father then, but now his father was dead.

Banging on the front door pulled Anderson from his memory and he stood up. Wavering slightly on his feet, he hauled his body down the stairs and yanked the door open. Byung stepped forward and Anderson walked into his friend's body, pressed his face to Byung's neck and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

"I'm so sorry," Byung whispered. "I heard it all on the news on my way over. They didn't explain what happened."

Byung rubbed Anderson's back and in some strange way, it took just a bit of the ache away. Still he clung to the only rock he had left. When he stepped back, Byung cradled his face to peer into his eyes. "I know this is a stupid question but how are you feeling?"

"Like any minute now someone is going to jump out of a corner and tell me it's some kind of sick, practical joke."

"Oh, Andy."

The two discussed what happened in hushed voices until Anderson was all talked out. His throat was dry as if he'd swallowed sandpaper. He wasn't sure what to say next, so Anderson walked away, leaving Byung to enter the kitchen. He flopped against one of the stools. He rubbed his tired eyes and yawned.

"Have you eaten?" Byung followed.

"Byung…"

"That's your way of saying you don't want to talk about it anymore," Byung spoke up.

Byung brushed by him and pulled the fridge open. "Since I know I can't get you to eat anything much, how about fruit? Yes, that's what you'll eat. I want you to eat some fruit."

"Bee, I'm not hungry." Anderson frowned.

"I don't care if you're hungry or not." Byung put his foot down. "Now, you're going to eat. Then you're going to get some sleep. When you're up to it, you and I are going to sit down and you tell me what Pops wanted."

"Funeral arrangements and stuff?"

Byung nodded.

"They haven't done the autopsy yet."

"Yeah, but the decisions still need to be made—okay, we'll wait until then."

Moaning, Anderson nodded stiffly. He knew he would not win once Byung got that stubborn look into his eyes. "Fine," Anderson surrendered. He sat there like a perfect moron while his best friend silently prepared a fruit platter and placed it before him. He hesitated but when he looked up to see Byung eyeing him intently, Anderson picked up a