L Akers - Fight Like a Man

He felt like a fool. For years, Grayson had warned to always keep his gas tank on full. But that was a pain in the ass. That meant stopping to fill up nearly every other day. Who does that?

Olivia had driven the girls to the beach and he was using Gabby’s car. But it was nearly on empty, the red light shining bright. Not nearly enough gas to get to the farm. He could drive it as far as it’d take him, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon it on the side of the road—Gabby would wring his neck.

And his own everyday truck was at the dealership on an airbag recall. His other truck, an old ’57 Chevy, was in Grayson’s barn, ripped apart. If he could get it back together, he could fill up with the gas they stored behind the barn.

One more look over supplies and he’d take off. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d barely ridden the bike since Gabby had brought it home, hoping he would use it as therapy for his leg. He and Gabby had been in a terrible car accident years ago. He’d been banged up pretty bad, Gabby had been shook up too, but worst of all, his mother-in-law had lost her life. Jake now carried the limp from the accident as a grim reminder of that dark night. Riding to the farm was going to be painfully slow—emphasis on the pain part.

He snapped a warm bottle of water into the holder, and hung Gabby’s TSS ball cap from the handlebars. It had an attached mag light on the bill. He dug in the bag, his fingers pushing aside his wedding picture, three bottles of water and one Gatorade, six Cliff energy bars, a Lumens flashlight, two Bic lighters, a map in case his regular route was diverted, a bandana, a good knife, a small bottle of Monkey-Butt to help with the chafing from riding, a bundle of paracord, a tarp, and a change of clothes, including several pairs of good, thick hiking socks, and a small first aid kit.

At the bottom, his fingers brushed the shammy-towel. He was careful not to unroll it. Within that towel, he’d hidden a Glock .40. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but if he did, at least thanks to his brother-in-law, he knew how—logistically anyway.

Grayson had been adamant that they all learn to shoot, and Jake was the worst shooter of the bunch. He’d lined up at the range beside Gabby, Olivia and Emma as Grayson played Range-master and Instructor and paced behind them. His wife, Gabby, was a crack-shot. Soon, they were calling her Annie Oakley. Her first day there she marked a tight grouping and sometimes dead-center hit on her targets.

Her little sister, Emma—who was married to a cop and got plenty of instruction on the side—did almost as well and felt very comfortable with a firearm. Emma’s husband, Dusty, was beaming with pride for her.

When comparing targets, Grayson had teased him and said with more practice, he too could ‘shoot like a girl.’ Jake had thought he was being insulted until a few other guys at the range had made the same remark amongst each other. Apparently, women seemed to be natural shooters.

Except poor Olivia, Gabby’s twin sister. Grayson had been thoroughly aggravated at his wife’s inability to get comfortable with the gun and remember even the basic instructions. When he’d step behind her to give her a pointer, she’d frequently turn with the gun in her hand, aimed at Grayson. Jake had a hard time not laughing as he watched Grayson hit the floor, screaming “Don’t muzzle me!” over and over again. Olivia would lift her ear protection to ask him what he said, only to be startled by the blast of the other shooter’s firing, and Grayson yelling for her to keep her ears on while on the range. Olivia would get so flustered, she couldn’t remember a thing.

Jake, Gabby and Emma would all laugh at their antics. They began calling them The Honeymooners . In reality, they kind of were. Married just shy of two years they were still feeling their way around each other. Dusty and Emma weren’t married much longer; only three years. It was their wedding where Olivia had met Grayson, when he’d come in to stand up for his little brother as best man. He and Olivia had been caught in a hurricane on the island together, and fell in love, marrying exactly one year later in the same lighthouse that Emma and Dusty had married in.

After only one day on the range, Olivia had asked if Emma’s husband, Dusty, could give her instructions instead. Jake wondered if it had stung Grayson’s pride to be replaced by his little brother. But Olivia didn’t do it out of malice—she’d never intentionally hurt Grayson’s feelings—she’d just felt it would be safer and less stressful for Grayson if he wasn’t trying to teach his own wife. Not to mention avoiding marital conflict.

As a police officer, and Grayson’s younger brother, Dusty knew as much as Grayson did abut firearms, and was at least as good a shot. They’d trained together for years growing up and as adults. Dusty did work out to be the better instructor for Olivia than her husband was. He spent days on the range showing her the basics, and when she’d finally mastered loading, unloading, clearing misfires and a healthy grouping, he’d declared her trained, much to Olivia’s relief—since she hated guns.

But Jake was glad they’d all gone through it. He knew the girls had their Get-Home bags with them. Grayson would’ve never let them leave home without them, and those bags had their guns and ammo. They might be needing some fire power, and he was glad that at least two out of the three could ‘shoot like a girl.’

Jake walked around the bike for one more inspection. It was as good as it was going to get. He’d have to push it out the side door rather than wrestle with trying to manually open the garage door. He rolled it that way, but came to an abrupt stop when he saw Kenny, his neighbor, through the glass pane of the door. Red-faced and sweating, he looked to be in a panic.

“Jake! Come quick, there’s a fight at Tucker’s house!”

A fight? Shit. What was this, eighth grade?

Kenny ran away, toward Tucker’s house and Jake hurried to get his bike out the door. He jumped on, pedaling as fast as his throbbing leg could manage. What did they want from him? He hoped it wasn’t a stupid disagreement over some lame Home Owners Association—HOA—issue. That crap could wait. This wasn’t the time for nitpicking over lawns, driveways, and dues. Times were about to get rough.

In normal times, TullyMore —the neighborhood—was already divisive. Half the residents followed the orders of the HOA, regardless of how ridiculous they were, and the other half blatantly ignored them or outright opposed them. The two sides had many small disagreements, as well as large disagreements; some ultimately resulting in nearly physical altercations. There had even been court battles over stupid things such as a camper being parked in a driveway.

Neighbors reported neighbors to the cops for noise. Walls were built. Feelings were hurt. Sides were chosen. At the worst of times, it felt like the Hatfield’s & McCoy’s.

But somehow, Jake and Gabby had managed to straddle the line and keep friends on both sides, maintaining a quiet and Switzerland-like sort of relationship with them all.

And now, here they were. Jake took a sharp turn into Tucker’s driveway.

He saw people from both sides.

In a bloody brawl.

“SIR, I know we’re not allowed to go to our cars. But I just need to get my backpack. See, these are my keys.” Graysie held up her keys and jingled then, smiling innocently.

The security guard gave her a stern look. “Sorry, miss. I’ve got my instructions. I can’t let you leave. It’d be my job on the line. We should know more about the situation in the next few days.”