Born To Be Your's

Chapter 4

The next morning, Wednesday, the house was already vibrating with a familiar, manic energy that didn't care about suspensions. Blake, wearing a faded black pullover sweatshirt and dark jeans, descended the stairs, his jaw still aching faintly where Xander had landed his punch. His face, handsome and guarded, usually looked like he hadn't slept in a week, but today it carried the added weight of enforced unemployment.

The kitchen was a minefield. Maddie sat at the table eating her cereal, her sweet face focused. Ryan was trying with intense concentration to wedge one of Maddie’s dolls into the microwave, muttering about molecular breakdown. Mark sat in his booster seat, methodically picking every dehydrated marshmallow out of his off-brand Lucky Charms and tossing the undesirable toasted oats onto the already littered floor.

Laura was a blur of motion, preparing lunches and fighting off Ryan simultaneously.

Blake stopped at the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips. “Ry, is the microwave really the best use of your energy? It’s not structurally sound for combustion, you know that.”

Ryan looked up, his eyes wide with mischief.

Blake walked over, grabbed his younger brother, and turned him toward the dining room table. “Here’s a better target: you can blow up the teacher’s lounge microwave at school. Right now, eat breakfast. We’re out the door in five.”

Ryan’s eyes lit up with genuine, sociopathic excitement at the thought of a more public display of chaos. Laura shook her head, making a peanut and jelly sandwich.

Blake grabbed his mug, dancing expertly around Laura as she spun between the counter and the fridge. “Coffee, please, before the reality of being suspended hits me.”

Laura pushed the coffeepot toward him. “Since you’re home all week now, you can drop Mark off at Headstart. I need the break, and Mrs. Chin at the laundry mat has some extra work for me today.”

Blake took a slow sip of the scalding brew, the caffeine offering a momentary reprieve from the anxiety of the house. He nodded. “Fine. Drop Mark off.”

Laura’s face broke into a massive, tired smile, but then it quickly turned into a look of predatory glee. “After you drop Mark off, I got you some work over at Old Lady Barbie’s house.”

Blake almost choked on his coffee, sputtering the dark liquid back into the mug. “No. Why?”

Laura laughed, sealing the last sandwich bag. “It’s your punishment for the suspension, and for dragging Travis into it, you idiot.”

“First of all, I didn’t drag Travis into anything; he willingly jumped into that fight like a deranged spider monkey! Second,” Blake dropped his voice, his handsome features scrunched in genuine disgust. “Old Lady Barbie is… creepy. She’s always trying to touch my junk and get me to take my shirt off while I’m moving boxes. She tries to offer me ‘special’ drinks. I swear, she’s trying to roofie me and sleep with me.”

Laura’s smile softened, though the humor didn't leave her eyes. “You’ll be fine, just don’t drink the ‘special’ drink. Now listen,” she said, her voice dropping, forcing the sarcasm out of the air. Her face went serious, emphasizing the crushing reality they lived under. “The rent is going up next month. And Christmas is around the corner. We won’t have enough for both if we can’t make some extra cash, and we’re going to have to turn the heat up. It’s going to be a cold winter, Blake.”

Blake’s jaw tightened. He knew the numbers better than anyone. He took a deep inhale, forcing down his pride and his rage. He hated the idea of that woman's grasping hands, but he hated the thought of his siblings freezing more.

“Fine,” he said, his voice flat with forced compliance.

Laura kissed his cheek quickly, her lips dry and warm. “Thank you, B. You’re the best.”

Blake took a deliberate sip of coffee, walking past her toward the hallway. “But if I get raped, I’m blaming you.”

Laura merely chuckled, the sound brittle but real, as she began the process of cleaning up Mark’s discarded cereal.

The morning walk was loud, dominated by the rhythmic clatter of the twins’ cheap sneakers and Ryan’s non-stop monologue about the most efficient ways to disable a smoke detector. Blake and Travis walked on either side of them, both carrying the cold weight of their suspension.

They dropped off Maddie and Ryan at the elementary school, giving a stern, redundant warning to Ryan about using the microwave. Blake then shifted Mark to his hip. The four-year-old was nestled into Blake’s neck, quietly sucking his thumb, his small body heavy and warm. Travis walked silently beside them, the guilt of the suspension still shadowing his normally mellow face.

As they passed the industrial rail yard, a freight train suddenly blasted its horn, the sound deafening and immense. Mark instantly popped his head up, startled by the noise. He patted Blake on the thick, strong base of his neck, his non-verbal communication suddenly breaking through.

“Dada,” Mark mumbled, pointing a small finger toward the massive steel cars rumbling past.

Blake felt the usual unexpected pang of affection mixed with melancholy. Mark rarely spoke, but when he did, he used the only parental labels he knew—Blake and Laura. He chuckled, smiling down at the boy.

“Yeah, buddy, I see it. Choo choo,” Blake said, matching the sound effect to the train.

The train passed, and Mark settled back down, thumb returning to his mouth, resting his head into the crook of Blake's neck. Blake took a deep breath, letting the moment of quiet connection sink in. “Maybe Santa will get you a train for Christmas,” he murmured, knowing damn well that Santa was probably going to be Blake himself, buying something cheap at the corner store.

Travis broke the silence, his tone now professional and focused on the hustle. “So, the construction site near the river. We packing up at eleven?”

“We pack up at eleven,” Blake confirmed, looking straight ahead. “Wait until everyone’s asleep. Sneak out the window, hit the site, grab the copper wiring, maybe some power tools they forgot to lock up. I’ll pawn it off first thing in the morning.”

Travis nodded, the plan settling his nerves. He glanced at his cheap plastic watch. “Oh, I gotta peel off here. Mr. Chin gave me extra hours this week since I’m off school. He needs help stocking the shelves.” Mr. Chin, the owner of the convenience store, was usually reliable for small, legal income.

Blake stopped. “See you later then. If Old Lady Barbie doesn't try and lock me in her basement.”

Travis chuckled, a brief, genuine sound. He headed down a side road toward the town center, leaving Blake alone with Mark.

Blake walked the rest of the way to the Headstart facility, the weight of Mark’s small body a comforting burden. He entered the classroom and set Mark down. Mark immediately headed for a quiet corner, ignoring the blocks already piled in the center of the room. He located a container of new blocks and began the ritual.

Blake lingered, watching from the doorway. He saw the precise, focused movements. Mark wasn't building a tower or a house; he was systematically lining up the blocks on the floor, sorting them first by color, then meticulously by shape, and finally by size. When another child wandered over and accidentally knocked one block slightly out of alignment, Mark didn't cry. He simply let out a frustrated, guttural sound and started the entire line over again, his thumb immediately popping back into his mouth.

Blake watched the repetition, the rigid demand for order, and the complete disengagement from the loud, swirling activity of the other kids. The young teacher's words from yesterday—exhibits several markers for autism spectrum disorder—echoed in his head.

He dismissed it instantly, hardening his heart. Mark was just a quiet kid with a lot of noise in his life. The Coppers didn't get diagnoses; they got judged.

Taking a deep breath, Blake turned and left, stepping back into the Detroit cold. He had a roof to keep over his family’s heads, and that meant facing a geriatric predator. He set his feet toward Old Lady Barbie’s house, mentally preparing for the humiliation of his afternoon assignment.

Blake arrived at the slightly better part of town where Old Lady Barbie lived. Her house was ostentatious, sitting on a lawn that was actually maintained. Barbie, 75, was a relic of a different era—a former "entertainer" in her youth who had been smart enough to marry a wealthy man who promptly died, leaving her comfortably morbidly rich.

Blake knocked, dread tightening his stomach. The door swung open almost instantly.

Barbie stood framed in the doorway, wearing a sheer red robe trimmed with white fake fur over a silk nightgown. Her makeup was thick, hiding some of the lines of time but magnifying the predatory gleam in her eyes. She wore a heavy perfume that smelled like expired gardenias and desperation. She smiled, revealing perfectly capped, unnaturally white teeth.

“Oh, Blake! My gorgeous handyman!” she purred, throwing the door wide.

As Blake stepped inside, he was hit by a wall of heat. It felt like walking into a sauna; she clearly had the thermostat set to the temperature of a tropical fever dream.

Barbie closed the door, giving him a knowing, deeply disturbing wink. “It’s a bit chilly today, darling, so I turned up the heat. You can take off that sweatshirt if you’d like.”

Blake politely ignored the suggestion, keeping his black pullover firmly in place. “Just tell me what you need, ma’am.”

She started her tour, dragging him through rooms filled with gaudy, oversized furniture. She had him installing shelving in the pantry, moving heavy antique boxes in the attic, tightening bolts on a rocking chair, and replacing light bulbs—literally finding everything and anything to keep him occupied and sweating.

The whole time, she hovered.

“Oh, darling, that little thermal shirt really shows off your shoulders,” she’d hum, running a long, manicured finger over the material of the black thermal shirt he eventually had to shed his sweatshirt for. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a nice, chilled drink? I make them special.”

“No, I'm fine,” Blake replied for the fifth time, beads of sweat running down his temple. He was a smart ass, but he was smart enough not to drink anything offered by a woman who looked at him like he was a delicious piece of meat. He kept his back mostly to the wall, his muscles aching from the deliberate heavy lifting she demanded.

Finally, after four hours that felt like ten, he finished bolting down the last piece of furniture. He grabbed his sweatshirt.

“I’m done,” he said firmly, not meeting her eye. “I have to go pick up my siblings from school now.”

Barbie huffed, clearly annoyed that her time was up. She gently approached him, standing far too close. She raised her hands and let her fingers trail softly, lingeringly, over the muscular expanse of his chest and arms, humming in approval.

“You’re a good, strong boy, Blake Copper. A real piece of art,” she murmured, her perfume making his eyes water. “Laura says you’ll be home all week, so I’m sure I can find more things for you to ‘fix’ later.” She gave him a seductive wink that was grotesque in its execution. Then, she pressed a crisp twohundred-dollar bills into his sweaty palm.

Blake’s fingers closed around the money instantly. He offered a quick, nervous chuckle and practically sprinted for the door, pulling his sweatshirt on as he went. He could feel her gaze on his back as he walked fast down the street.

The cold afternoon air felt like heaven against his hot, clammy skin. He stuffed the money deep into his jeans pocket—enough to cover some of the rent hike.

He headed straight for the Headstart center, his chest still tight from the encounter. He walked into the classroom and spotted Mark almost immediately. Mark was, as usual, in the corner.

But today, he wasn't alone.

Mark was sitting next to a cute little girl, about his age, who had dark, jet-black hair pulled into two neat braids and beautiful, inquisitive brown, almond-shaped eyes. They were focused on a pile of wooden blocks, not just stacking them, but stacking them in alphabetical order based on faint letter stickers.

Ms. Kennedy saw Blake and walked over, a genuine, delighted smile on her face. “Blake! You actually missed something. He made a friend today.”

Blake smiled back, the tightness in his jaw finally easing. “I see that.”

Ms. Kennedy leaned closer. “Her name is Lainey. It’s sweet, she seems to understand exactly what he wants without him talking. She’s been speaking for him all day, and she doesn’t crowd him or break his space.”

Blake chuckled, watching the tiny, focused pair. Mark looked up, saw Blake, and immediately abandoned the alphabetized tower.

“Dada!” Mark shouted, standing up and running straight into Blake’s legs.

Blake picked him up, holding him tight. “Hey, buddy.”

Lainey walked up, her small head tilted, observing Blake with profound curiosity. “Are you his daddy?”

Blake tried to find the right words for a four-year-old. “No, I’m his brother. Our daddy is away, and I’ve been taking care of him since he was born, so he calls me Dada sometimes.”

Lainey nodded, accepting the complex truth with a simplicity that only a child could manage. “Okay. Bye, Mark. See you tomorrow.”

Mark gave a sleepy wave, then nestled his head back into Blake’s neck, thumb back in his mouth.

Blake felt a heavy relief as he walked out, the twohundred dollars burning a hole in his pocket. He had money, Mark was fine, and he had thirty minutes before he had to meet Travis to plan a felony. It was a good day, by Copper standards.