Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 2
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Thomas shoulda brought along a toddler’s bumper chair, considerin’ how he struggled to see over the OM’s—Ogre Motors—dash. He turned his head to look out his window.

Ten seconds of watchin’ the pines flip passed, he shouted, “Pull over, pull over.”

Maybe I reacted a little slowly, because he barely got his glass down, before he lurched over the side and lost his stomach. Aw, stink. Prolly did stink. Worst part, he was prolly splashin’ the side of my truck. I love my truck. A high school graduation present from Grandpapa Klow, for the whole valedictorian thing. Or was it for that first ten-million Continental contract Kriz and I inked the week before? Grandpapa thought that was a pretty cool deal, for a couple teens.

Kriz and I never saw many Continentals from that contract. Grandpapa Klow made sure we rolled it into the company. Our first thirty full-time hires, I think. Think Papa was in agreement. Didn’t think a seventeen and fourteen-year-old needed a lot of cash in our pockets. So I guess the truck was a consolation prize—to get me off my motorcycle. He’s always hated my motorcycles.

By the time I got the truck hung over the highway’s narrow shoulder with my hazard lights on, Thomas was hangin’ halfway out of the truck, prolly on maybe his fifth hurl, his hands strugglin’ to mind a proper grip on the door frame. Appeared a bit uncomfortable. Besides the whole turnin’ his stomach inside out, thing.

What the blazes. I waited for a couple hundred cars to pass before I could safely slide out of the truck. In the back, I grabbed about inside a duffle til I found a tee, and hurried over to the other side, scrapin’ my back against the cliff face I pulled up against. I grabbed Thomas’ skull in my hand to give the human a little support. Figgered that was the best way I could help.

It’s a character flaw I considered accidentally grippin’ a little too tightly and bustin’ his skull into pieces. Never woulda done that. Why the thought entered my brain—no figgerin’.

Once he appeared to be finished hurlin’, I handed him my tee as he slumped back inside the cab.

“Ya’ve never been on a mountain road?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry about that.” He spit into my tee and wiped a bit more, includin’ his tongue. Gross. Won’t be askin’ for that shirt back. “Stomach went from a four to a ten like nothing.”

I guess watchin’ the trees fly past can do that. “We need to turn around?” Say yes. Say yes.

Didn’t know humans could look that embarrassed. On the face of the biggest trash-talker I’ve ever played B-ball with. About that time an eighteen-wheeler gushed by. My dreads fluttered in my face. Maybe a bit of gravel. I wiped grit off my lips.

“Ya might have warned me ya get car sick,” I said.

“Never gotten sick before,” Thomas mumbled. Still looked a bunch whiter than usual. “Not a lot of winding roads with a million switchbacks on the North Plain.”

I laughed. Something I don’t do often, but in my mind I imagined the mile-long yardsticks engineers use layin’ out highways on the plains. I asked Thomas if he had any gum to chew. “That’ll help, maybe.”

He shook his head, really slowly. “Can ya, maybe, just drive a bit under the speed limit? Easier on the tight curves?”

Not like I’m eager to get home. I could imagine the hug Ezra will lay on me. Love that cousin so much. She puts the S and W in sweetness—maybe a couple more letters. With the hundreds of Birs cousins dropped everywhere across the Range, I’m glad I got the two best to call best friends.

“Or maybe a bit more than a bit?” Thomas added. Sweat beaded his forehead, though it’s a good fifteen degrees cooler here than the plain we started on. It’ll be thirty degrees cooler by the time we reach the Hamlet. Funny how fourteen-thousand-foot peaks avoid the change of seasons.

Another rig with a double trailer flashed past, the driver givin’ us a horn toot, as though I didn’t know this was a terrible place to pull over. I waited a full minute before traffic allowed me to get back in the truck.

A week from officially bein’ summer yet, half the population of the Plain is headin’ into the Range. Prolly-definitely still a bunch of broken up ice in shadowed coves on the Lake. Another couple miles into the mountains and all the south-facin’ cliffs will still be painted with snow and ice.

Buckled up, still had to wait a couple minutes for a lull in the traffic to pull out. And quickly a long line of cars piled up behind me.

~ Ezra ~

I grabbed Kriz and lifted him up good, twirled him around. Twice wasn’t good enough. I went for three whirls. As much because he hates to be touched as for my excitement for his return. A hen has to get her grins where she can. Bulls are so sensitive.

I could feel his resentment in my bones. “Hen,” he growled into the side of my head. “Spec—ta—cle.”

“Don’t care,” I said. “Ya’ve been gone over four months. Ya coulda called me a couple times.”

Like he could get a conversation out on the phone, without textin’. The family didn’t realize he was a genius until he was three and picked up a cousin’s trigonometry book. Thought it was funny until he got to the end of a unit and began completin’ the review problems, correctly. He’d hardly said more than mama, before then. Since I was in second grade, I always had a quiet math tutor at hand. He was very patient with me.

He embedded a tusk lovin’ly into my head so I let him down. “Ya miss me?” I asked.

“No,” he growled.

“Did too, ya idjit. Or ya wouldn’t have texted me, ‘good night,’ at seven every night.” He had started the habit at ten when he first went away to university—had to explain to him brusquely that my duties at the Inn get me out of bed at four in the morning.

“Was—bored,” he said.

Was all I could manage, not to laugh up a gizzard. “So. Ya finished with two master’s degrees, huh?” I’d never admit I was proud of him.

He shrugged, like his accomplishment was nothing for a seventeen-year-old, and picked up the five-foot-long duffle he’d dropped when I attacked him. I reached to grab it from him and he fought me gallantly. I still got it out of his hand. Not that I was rubbin’ in that he’s somewhat small in stature, for an ogre. But I could see it had to have a couple tons of books in it. Course he didn’t ship em home.

“Ike?” he asked.

“Texted. Evidently his new human buddy gettin’ car sick. Be a little bit later than he expected.”

“Why—humans?” He shook his head. Funny. Not that Kriz shows an appreciation for any giants or little folk either. He’s generically rude and disrespectful to everyone. Distrustful as well. Though he’s always displayed a quirky appreciation for orc hens. Go figger. Hmm. Grandpapa Klow does too. All his ranchhouse staff are orcs, pretty sure.

“Why’d he go to school on the North Plain to begin with?” I countered. “Shoulda been out east protectin’ ya from yarself.”

“Didn’t—need—”

“Of course ya can keep care of yarself. Even though ya’re a halfwit.” I gave him a shoulder to shoulder shove.

He growled. I gave him a big grin. Stink, I love the weird little bull.

“Said—one more—semester.”

He meant, until Ike finished his bachelor’s. “Not everyone can complete six years of university with double majors before they’re eighteen,” I said.

“Ike—always was—a bit—slow.”

“Yep. Yar mama’s excited to see ya. I caught a tear in her eye when she handed me her car fob and told me to come pick ya up.” Funny, that she appreciated how excited I was to pick him up.

“Papa?”

Surprised he asked about his papa. The two have an odd, hands off relationship. Razi always struggled havin’ a youngling who couldn’t talk. Talk right. Despite his obvious genius. But the average bull is ignernt when it comes to relatin’ to just about anyone or anything in general. My experience. Aunt Dorig once explained, donnin’ a severe expression, that we hens have to use itty bitty words with bulls.

“At the office, of course,” I answered. “Texted me to give ya a hug for him. Sorry. Forgot to tell ya that. But he’ll be home early for dinner.”

“Hmm,” Kriz mumbled.

“Yep. He acknowledged ya were returnin’ today. He’s aloof, but he isn’t a complete—” I shouldn’ta used the Ogrish noun I used. That wasn’t respectful.

“Hmm,” Kriz mumbled, ignorin’ my poor choice of words.

I had to laugh. Don’t really think he thinks his papa’s a— Not like Kriz understands any facet of emotions to begin with. I know in his heart he loves as big as anyone, there’s just a lock on the box that would allow him to show it.

“Ya gonna give me any time before ya stop by yar office and never come out? How many employees ya got now, in the Hamlet? Seventy-two?” ’Cause they got a bunch of sales crews all over that work on commission.

“Hired—a QT—and—a resource manager—hen—last week.”

That last one, Ike told me humans call an HR manager. Very racist title. Like only humans require whatever those folks do. “Don’t think ya’re sposed to refer to employees as hens, this day and age.”

He blew a raspberry. Strong emotion for him. I had to give him a look. Don’t think he noticed me studyin’ him.

“Bein’ home now, full time. Ya know ya’re gonna have to give yar employees breathin’ room, huh?”

He gave me a glare as we sided up to the suitcase delivery slide-along-thing. “How’d ya get this duffle on the plane? And why didn’t ya just check it?”

He shrugged. Too funny. They prolly got tired of arguin’ with the mute fool about it being too big for a carryon. Packed it behind the pilot’s seat. Too funny. He could have just explained that his clan owns the airline. Maybe they took note of the d Birs on his ID.

~