The kitchen was filled with the sounds of gently tapping cutlery and amiable conversation, generally dominated by Tara’s friend, Lucy, who ate with them every Tuesday.

Lucy had long since been Tara’s best friend and had recently adapted teenage rebellion, much to Mister Brooks’s concern, who was afraid that Tara would pick it up. Mrs Brooks however had assured him Lucy’d grow out of it and their daughter could never be worse than she herself had been at her age.

Mister Brooks simply didn’t want his princess to take over Lucy’s look.

The girl had very little parental supervision, which had let to her taking the scissors and safety pins to her old clothes, turning them into a wild mesh of holes and metal, finishing the look off with a bolo hat that was too small for her teased out hair. A hat she refused, much to Mister Brooks annoyance, to take off at dinner. What concerned Mister Brooks most however was the girl’s makeup, which held the middle somewhere between Boy George and Cyndi Lauper, though applied with an extremely unsteady hand. Mrs Brooks had told Tara that she was allowed her first makeup when she was thirteen and her father was dreading that day now that he saw what was en vogue.

He showed this by making sure he cast a disapproving look to Lucy any time Tara looked at him,

Zach didn’t mind Lucy generally. When she was around at least Zach wore a shirt and deodorant to dinner.

When the conversation had veered away from Lucy’s neon yellow nail polish, she turned to Zach.

“So, Zach,” she said, tapping the edge of her plate with her knife to get his attention, “I hear your friend moved.”

Four pair of eyes moved to look at Zach, hoping his face wouldn’t be going into the dinner plate.

Zach nodded and continued cutting his pork chop, “Dawn? Yeah, she left yesterday.”

Lucy took a moment to hide her snickering in her hand, then gave him a mean-spirited smile, “Maybe you can find some friends who are not straight-to-video now.”

Frowning, Zach stopped his fork towards his mouth. The girls had been calling all sorts of things straight-to-video after coming back from the pool. He hadn’t thought much of it, because Lucy was always inventing phrases the two shared. It clicked now that it was a way of calling things lame without explicitly using the word.

He opened his mouth, knowing exactly what to say to get under Lucy’s skin, but a single withering look from Mrs Brooks silenced him.

He put a forkful of peas into his mouth and ignored the girl.

Thirty seconds of chewing followed, in which Lucy kept her eyes firmly on Zach, much like a cat would with its prey.

“You’ve been quiet,” Mister Brooks said to Sawyer, attempting to break the tension that Lucy’s comment had created, “Something wrong?”

Sawyer took an overlarge bite of his meat, then shook his head, “Just processing today.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Sawyer muttered with his mouth full, “The guy we bought the horse from. He pulled a gun on Zach…”

Mrs Brooks threw her youngest son a concerned look. Zach shrugged, this was news to him as well.

Sawyer swallowed his food,

“So naturally I had to step between them, but you know. Getting a gun in your face isn’t cool.”

Mister Brooks put his fork down and wiped his face with a napkin.

“I need to make a phone call,” he said and retreated to his home office.

Mrs Brooks scraped her fork against her plate at the words, then very deftly moved the conversation to Tara’s birthday next week.

Zach had set his alarm for two in the morning, though he needn’t have bothered as he had been unable to sleep, watching the red numbers change from minute to minute.

When they finally turned to ‘02:00’, he hit the button as soon as the first buzz started, then lay still in bed, listening if anyone had woken up.

Nothing.

He slowly got out of bed and walked quietly towards his door, pushing his ear against the poster of the A-team that hung on it. The only noise he could hear was the muffled sound of music still playing from Sawyer’s room.

Instead of quietly opening the door to his bedroom, he threw it open like he usually would, letting the light from his reading lamp spill into the hallway. He muttered to himself that he had to pee, turned left on the upstairs landing and threw open the door to the bathroom. Instead of entering it, he shut it just as quick, slamming it loudly against the frame.

He used the resonance of the slam to open the door again, leaving it slightly ajar, then tip toed down the carpeted stairs.

Across the hall, he heard his father grumble not to slam the door.

When he was downstairs without being stopped, he rushed to the kitchen phone and took the phone from number from the pocket of his pajama bottoms, which were just his old sweatpants.

A moment later he had a dial tone in one ear and the other out to listen for movement from upstairs.

After it rang five times it was picked up and the first thing Zach heard was some smooth jazz, the ending of a store transaction and then finally the voice of the man answering the phone.

“Sweet Sammy’s Sex Chateau, Purveyor of porn, pleasure and pussy so fine it makes you alliterate shit. This is Sweet Sammy himself, what can I do you for?”

“Good evening, mister Sammy, sir,” Zach as softly as he could while stile being audible, “This is Zach Brooks… Your brother gave me your number. I’m calling about the karate videos.”

“My man!” I thought I would never get rid of those. That ain’t the hand work my cli-en-telle is in-te-res-ted in. How many you want?”

“Just...the series?”

“That’ll be three videos at twenty bucks a pop. When can you pick them up?”

“Uh, mister Sammy Sir…”

“What is it?”

“I can’t go into your store. I’m a minor.”

“My friend, as long as you keep your drill in your pants and wipe the soot of your brow, any profession is welcome in my den of deeeee lights.”

“Minor,” Zach reiterated, “With an O.”

It was quiet on the other end of the line or a moment. A short cough, then some fingers tapping on the counter, neatly following the beat of the music.

“Do you live in the city?”

“No, sir…”

Zach told the man where he lived and there was some further tapping.

“Well, Zachy boy, you are in luck today! Sweet Sammy himself will be there in person next week. Leave your name and number and I will be in touch.”

“Can we make the appointment now?” Zach said hastily, “I’d rather not have my parents know I called you.”

“Zach, my man, if you’re getting any of this German karate stuff off my hands, Sweet Sammy will deliver them to your house himself.”

“I’d rather not, I think my brother might recognize you….”

“Then your brother has a keen eye for quality, Zach, but if you want to make this look like a crack deal and get me in trouble with the man, it’s going to cost five bucks extra per video.”

“That’s fine with me…”

“Good, you can find me at your local mall, the record shop, on…”

A loud yell interrupted the man giving the date, a request for silence followed and he repeated the date.

“Thanks, mister Sweet Sammy, Sir…” Zach sighed in relief, “How will I recognize you?”

“Zach, my man. You will recognize Sweet Sammy when you see him. How can I help you?”

The last was directed to a customer in the store and the phone clicked. Sweet Sammy had hung up.

Zach put the horn back, then quietly listened for any sounds in the house. Still only the music from Sawyer’s room and Zach, put at ease, returned to the upper floor.

After rushing up the stairs, he headed into the bathroom and flushed the toilet, pretending to wash his hands after. He closed the bathroom door and smiled when there was no challenge, then froze mid step when a door opened.

“Took you long enough,” Sawyer teased, “Lay off the peanut butter next time. I’m not a ghost, little bro. Christ, you reek. See a doctor.”

Sawyer closed the door to his room when his father yelled to turn the music off and go to sleep.

Zach grinned when he was sure he had won. His distraction had worked better than he’d hoped.

When he returned to his bed, he opened his dresser and retrieved a brown package…