Kick Start (Dangerous Ground 5)

by Josh Lanyon

  Grant unsnapped his seatbelt, shoved open his door and got out. “I’ll walk back,” he said, and slammed shut the door with all his force.

  “Shit.” Taylor undid his seatbelt and opened the driver’s door. The night air was very cold and rich with the spicy scent of pine and earth.

  He followed Grant who was moving fast, fueled by rage, and already several yards away. Grant’s compact silhouette stomped up the steep incline. Taylor loped after him.

  “Do I really scare you that much?”

  Grant rounded on him. “You don’t scare me at all.”

  “Then why are you running away?”

  “Because Will won’t like it when I kick your skinny ass from here to Portland.”

  Taylor chuckled.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  He did, yeah. And the offended note in Grant’s voice struck him as even funnier, but Taylor didn’t want to escalate this any higher than necessary.

  “Kind of. Don’t you? What are we really fighting about?”

  “We’re not fighting. And we won’t fight so long as you stay the fuck away from me.”

  “Only the problem is, we’re family now. So I can only stay so far the fuck away from you.”

  “You’re not family! You’re just Will’s…friend. He’s not going to — you’re not going to be here forever.”

  Ouch. Would it have been different for David Bradley? Taylor had to wonder. Bradley’s military background, even his size and looks, would probably have been more palatable to Grant.

  “I wouldn’t bet on that. Why don’t you just tell me what the problem is.”

  He could feel anger and frustration coming off Grant in waves. “You know what the problem is.”

  “Sure. I have a pretty good idea, but why don’t we get it out in the open.” Taylor gestured at the towering trees and moonlit mountains. “It doesn’t get more open than this, right?”

  He could feel Grant’s inward struggle. At last, Grant spat out, “You’re a queer.”

  “I don’t like that word, but yep. I’m gay. And you have a problem with that.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you are,” Grant said. “I don’t care about you. I care about Will.”

  “I understand that. But Will is who he is. He didn’t become gay for me. I didn’t make him gay.” Taylor’s sense of humor sparked back into life — did Grant think he’d forced Will to watch musicals? Eat quiche? — but he squelched it. This was serious because this angry young man was Will’s little brother and his feelings and opinions mattered to Will. Therefore they needed to matter to Taylor.

  “He was never queer before.”

  “He’s been queer for as long as I’ve known him.”

  Grant made a sound of fury and launched himself at Taylor.

  Taylor was ready. Mostly. He had known from the minute he forced Grant to go with him, this was probably going to happen. In fact, he had been pushing Grant into it. Even so, he’d had a long and exhausting day, and as Grant piled into him like a young bull charging a red cape, he felt a flicker of alarm.

  He had underestimated his own weariness and stiffness. He had also underestimated Grant, who had been taught to fight by Will.

  Grant tackled him low, burying his head in Taylor’s gut, wrapping his arms around Taylor’s knees, and Taylor, who relied on kicks and footwork to avoid getting thrown to the ground where his lack of weight was a dangerous liability, couldn’t maneuver. The wind was knocked out of him and he went down hard in the damp earth with Grant on top.

  Worst case scenario. Thirty seconds in and he was about to be pinned in a double leg takedown his own sister could have avoided.

  Instinct and adrenaline saved him. That and Grant’s unsportsmanlike attempt to knee him in the balls. Possibly a subconscious wish to neuter him, or maybe not subconscious, but Grant’s shift allowed Taylor to twist and bring his own knees up. He used his left forearm to trap both of Grant’s in an arm bar. That left his right hand free. Taylor swiveled, grappling under Grant’s legs, and throwing his left leg behind Grant’s neck. He was trying to pin Grant face down, but Grant knew that move and yanked out, rolling away to his knees.

  Taylor let his own momentum carry him to his feet, and he scrambled ungracefully up. Standing, he was no longer vulnerable. He faced Grant who was upright again as well.

  He needed to prevail here. It was that simple. Partly because he would not be able to live down the embarrassment of pushing for a fight he couldn’t win. Partly because with a young guy like Grant, winning was nine-tenths of the law. The law that said Might Makes Right. But he had to do it without seriously hurting Grant — and without letting Grant seriously hurt him. Because Will wouldn’t forgive either of them for seriously harming the other.

  Now aware of his own limitations, Taylor waited, breathing hard, for Grant to charge back in — which he did, still too angry to be cautious, throwing a powerful right punch that would have taken out a rib or a lung had it connected. Yeah, that power strike was straight out of the Will Brandt book of hand-to-hand combat. Taylor deflected, grabbed Grant’s lapel and hauled him sideways while delivering a hard kick to the inner knee area of Grant’s weight bearing leg. He was careful not to take out Grant’s knee, but even so the strength and speed of that blow should have brought Grant down.

  No such luck.

  Oh, Grant was hurting, limping, but he was still on his feet, still looking for a way past Taylor’s defenses.

  “Come on, Kwai Chang,” Grant jeered. “What else have you got?”

  It was the Kwai Chang comment that did it. It sounded exactly like Will, and Taylor started to laugh, albeit breathlessly. “You little shit. Why do we have to do this? Will is exactly the same person you loved and respected two days ago. He hasn’t changed.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to think.” Grant crowded in on him, and Taylor realized the kid was shrewdly trying to maneuver him onto the wet grass where his footing would again be precarious.

  Taylor’s aggravation bubbled over. “I’m not telling you what to think. I’m pointing out what oughta be obvious even to a boneheaded jarhead like you. As far as you and Will are concerned, nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change unless you change it.”

  “Things are already different if you’re going to be around all the time.”

  That note of childish grievance said it all. This was exactly what Taylor had thought, and the reason he had thought it, was he too had been the youngest kid in a family where failure was not an option and most attention and affection had come from his two older siblings. So yes, he understood the instinctive fear of being supplanted. And it would be worse for Grant. With a woman, a girlfriend or wife like Madonna, there would be clearly defined roles and parameters. But another man…

  “Sorry. I’m not going anywhere,” Taylor told him. “Will and I are partners in every respect. But I’m not going to get between you. I’ve got a brother of my own. I know how it works. I’m not going to push in where I’m not wanted.”

  “You already did. You’re not wanted.”

  “No. You don’t want me. Will does. And how come his feelings don’t matter?”

  He couldn’t read Grant’s face in the darkness, but he saw his rigid figure deflate a little. “He shouldn’t have done this,” Grant said sulkily.

  Taylor shivered. “For all I know, he agrees with you,” he admitted. “But he did do it.” The cold was sinking into him now, perspiration drying, muscles stiffening up. He really did not want to go another round with Grant. The morning would be hell as it was. “You know what, I don’t have energy for this. I’m too tired to disable you without actually disabling you.”

  Grant instantly flared up. “Oh, you think you can take me?”

  “I know I can take you.” Taylor said wearily, “But it won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. So I’m going to go pick up a couple of six-packs of beer. If you can’t handle being in the car with me, start walking and I’ll pick you up on my way back.”<
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  He didn’t wait to hear Grant’s response, instead turning and striding back to the SUV. He had started the engine and was just rolling forward when the passenger door flew open and Grant slid in. He didn’t say anything and neither did Taylor.

  They bumped back onto the road. Taylor turned on the CD player and punched the button for Lifehouse.

  * * * * *

  It was closing time at the liquor store in Mist Bend, but there were two other customers wandering the aisles, and Taylor had the impression the elderly man behind the counter was not sorry to see him and Grant enter the store.

  “Evening,” Taylor nodded.

  “Five minutes, boys,” the old man said. He looked uneasily at the two long-haired men in camo and sunglasses, holding a low-voiced conference in front of the shelves of Bushmills and Jamieson.

  Taylor gave the men a considering look — and recognized the yahoos who had got his day off to such a lousy start. The Dooleys.

  He glanced at Grant, and Grant’s black-browed scowl said it all.

  No. He really, really, really did not have the energy for this.

  “What’s your dad like to drink?” he asked Grant.

  Grant looked at him blankly.

  “Beer,” Taylor prodded. “What’s your dad’s favorite?”

  “Kölsch.”

  “Kölsch?”

  “Yeah. The Occidental Brewing Company in Portland has an agreement with Germany.”

  Taylor nodded and proceeded to the refrigeration units in the back, relieved when Grant trailed after him.

  Taylor studied the racks of bottles. Grant disappeared but then reappeared with a six-pack of Deschutes River Ale. Taylor found the Kölsch, grabbed a couple of six-packs, and they returned to the cashier.

  “That be it, folks?” the old man asked, ringing their purchases.

  Taylor nodded.

  The camo clones had finally noticed them. One of them said, “Hey, it’s the Brandt kid. And that other guy.”

  Taylor said, “Evening, gentlemen.” He handed over a twenty, keeping one eye on Grant and one eye on the Dooleys’ reflections in the glass windows. Grant stared unwaveringly at the Dooleys.

  Taylor took his change. “Grant?”

  The Dooleys were whispering to each other and chortling at some private witticism. Grant’s face turned red.

  Taylor sighed inwardly. He must have been this young once, but he couldn’t remember it. He said, “Are you getting that to go or are we drinking it here?”

  Grant looked at him in confusion and then paid for the six-pack. By then the Dooleys were inching toward them. They smelled of tobacco, whisky, and something animal. Goat? Weird, whatever it was.

  “Hey, other guy,” the taller and skinnier brother said. “What’s your name?”

  Taylor knew better, of course, but somehow the words just popped out. “Why?” he asked. “Are you going to invite me to your birthday party?”

  Grant laughed.

  The tall, skinny Dooley turned red, at least on the patch of skin visible to the eye. “You got a smart mouth, mister.”

  “I know,” Taylor said. “I keep signing up for self-help courses, but then I forget to go.”

  The second Dooley, shorter and squatter and browner than the first, took a couple of steps forward like a rottweiler trying to decide whether to charge. He swung his attention to Grant.

  “Kid, you better tell your daddy Jem is looking for him.”

  Grant retorted, “He can’t be looking very hard then.”

  Dooley’s head went back as though Grant had punched him. For the first time Taylor understood the instinct that had Will wanting to clap a hand over his mouth and drag him away from trouble. His scalp tingled, and he wondered if his hair was standing on end.

  He pulled open the glass door, which jingled merrily, nodded to Grant, who sauntered unhurriedly out, nodded to the man behind the counter, and nodded — levelly — to the Dooleys who were glaring after Grant.

  They stowed the beer in the back of the SUV. The Dooleys were at the counter buying cigarettes and booze as Taylor sped out of the parking lot. “How many Dooleys are there?” he asked.

  “Four. Not counting their mother.”

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t count her?” Taylor watched his rearview mirror, but the road behind them was empty. “So neither of those two was Jem, I’m guessing?”

  “No. Jem is bigger. A lot bigger. And he has these weird tattoos all over his face. Or he used to. They kind of make him look like a skeleton. Or maybe a wolf.”

  “Does he have a beard as well?”

  “He didn’t use to.”

  Taylor turned this information over as they drove out of town and started up the winding road leading back to the cabin in the woods.

  No one resembling Jem had been in the truck that morning. Not unless Jem had seriously altered his appearance. As far as Taylor knew, there was no way of getting rid of tattoos like the ones Grant described.

  “How long has Jem Dooley been out of prison?” Taylor asked Grant, breaking the silence of the last few miles.

  “A week or so I guess.”

  “But he hasn’t made any effort to contact your dad?”

  Grant shrugged.

  Maybe Bill was right. Maybe there wasn’t a real threat here. Maybe there was just a lot of blustering and posturing.

  Or…maybe not.

  A pair of headlights that had been meandering miles back on the road behind them suddenly blazed into the back window of the SUV.

  “What the hell…” Taylor pressed the gas, and the Land Cruiser sprang forward.

  Grant half-turned in his seat. “They’re still right on your ass.”

  “Are you buckled?”

  Grant fumbled with his seatbelt.

  Taylor floored it and the SUV raced ahead, tires squealing as they whipped around a sharp curve in the road. The lights behind them fell back but then loomed large again.

  “Shit, man.” Grant sounded disbelieving. “I think they’re going to ram us!”

  Taylor swore. The Land Cruiser had the horsepower but he couldn’t risk going any faster than he already was. Even if he had been familiar with this route, this road with its hairpin turns and sudden dips wasn’t made for speeding.

  The Land Cruiser’s headlights picked out the black outlines of tree trunks like motionless sentinels as they flew past.

  “Is there anywhere I can pull over?”

  There was a bang as the truck rammed their bumper and the Land Cruiser bounced forward and skidded. It was a heavy vehicle though, and Taylor was able to maintain course. Barely.

  “Shit,” Grant warned. “Here they come again.”

  There was another bang, and the Land Cruiser flew forward, fishtailing slightly. Taylor fought for control. If they went into a skid on this road, they were finished. They’d be over the edge and down the mountainside.

  “Grant, is there a place coming up where I can pull over?”

  “They almost went over the side that time,” Grant reported.

  “Is there a place I can turn off?” Taylor repeated. “Grant?”

  “There’s the Sawmill Road turnoff. It’s about another mile on the right.”

  Another mile. God. Every second felt like an eternity.

  Taylor risked it and punched the gas. The Land Cruiser shot ahead once more, screeching around the next two S-curves in the road.

  The truck behind lagged and then lunged forward.

  “Right there, where that white fence post is,” Grant said suddenly. “That’s the turnoff.”

  Fuck.

  Four. Taylor tapped the brakes.

  Three.

  Two. He tapped the brakes again. Harder. Slowed as much as he could in hopes of avoiding a skid that he already knew there was no avoiding —

  He wrenched the wheel, and turned into the inevitable spin, hand over hand, going with it, praying as the Land Cruiser hit the dirt, spraying sand and gravel, kicking across the moonlit stretch of grass a
nd shrubs, the rough terrain grabbing at the tires, slowing…slowing…

  Not a road, just a large, round turn-off or staging area. Thank God. Thank God for that much.

  The Land Cruiser rocked to a hard stop, the shoulder restraint cutting into the still- sensitive scar tissue on his chest. Beside him, Grant was breathing hard. “Christ.” He sounded exactly like Will at that moment.

  “You okay?” Taylor asked him.

  Grant nodded.

  Taylor expelled a long breath. The SUV’s engine was still running. More good news. He checked the dashboard. Green lights everywhere.

  “Hang on,” he muttered, and got out to check the tires.

  His heart was still hammering as he walked slowly around the Land Cruiser. All four tires looked fine. The bumper had taken a beating, but it was still attached. He got back inside and buckled up.

  “They tried to kill us,” Grant said. He sounded like he couldn’t believe it.

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it.”

  “If it was the Dooleys, I’m guessing drunk, stupid, and dangerous is their natural state. They could have just as easily killed themselves.”

  “If it was the Dooleys?”

  “I didn’t see who was driving.”

  “I did.”

  “Okay. Well.” Taylor didn’t have the energy or inclination to argue. They could easily have been killed, Grant was right about that. Malicious intent had certainly been present.

  He shifted into drive and pulled slowly, cautiously back onto the now deserted road.

  The rest of the trip back to the cabin went without incident. Taylor parked and they went inside only to find the lights down low and everyone but Bill apparently retired for the evening. Bill was nodding over his pipe in front of the fireplace. The dogs slept near him, Riley’s feet twitching in sleep as he chased dream rabbits or deer.

  As Taylor followed Grant into the room, Bill opened his eyes and straightened. The dogs lifted their heads, blinking sleepily in the firelight.

  “Where is everybody?” Grant asked.

  “Cousin Dennis was tuckered out from his adventures. Your brother is taking a shower.”

  Grant relayed the story of running into the Dooleys at the liquor store and their subsequent near mishap on the road.