by J. A. Rock
Daniel was supposed to have attended a hearing to determine if he’d violated his parole in going to fight Clayton. But the hearing had been abruptly canceled, and no matter how Bel pressed Dav, she wouldn’t give details. Daniel would catch plenty of flak for that too.
So they needed Charleston. They weren’t running, Bel had decided, they were starting fresh. They’d both earned that.
Dav eased herself down into a chair on the other side of Daniel. “You all packed up?” she asked around a mouthful of burger.
“Almost,” Bel said. “Just a couple of things to sort out still. Uncle Joe says I can borrow his trailer to shift stuff, so that’s good.”
“Where is he anyway?”
“Someone’s gotta look after this town now I’m going,” Bel told her with a straight face.
She laughed and reached over Daniel to punch him in the shoulder. Jim looked over toward them from the barbecue, almost smiled, then turned away again.
The family would come around. He didn’t know what his mama struggled with most: that he was gay, that he was with Daniel Whitlock, or that he was moving away from Logan. His dad hadn’t said much about anything at all. And Bel figured that sooner or later Jim would fall in behind Billy and accept it. Dav would have his balls if he didn’t.
Bel grinned at the thought of that, and leaned forward to scratch Stump between the ears.
This awkwardness wouldn’t last. The days and months would chip away at it, and in time, they’d see past what Daniel had done, and see instead what he meant to Bel. Maybe they’d even see what sort of man he really was.
“Okay,” Dav said. “I’m going back for more. Help me up.” She braced her hands on the sagging arms of the foldout chair. “Seriously, I feel like a beach ball trying to escape a sock here. Help me up.”
Daniel passed his plate to Bel and stood. He held Dav’s hands and pulled her out of the chair.
“At least one of you is a gentleman,” Dav said, and headed back toward the food. Stump looked after her, then back to Daniel’s plate, calculated his chances and stayed where he was. Daniel sat down again, and Bel handed him his plate back.
“Had a crazy dream last night,” Bel said in a low voice, watching Jim embrace Dav over by the barbecue.
“All dreams are crazy,” Daniel murmured, balancing his plate on his knees.
“Yeah, I reckon they are. Make sense when you’re in ’em though.”
“Yeah.”
Bel reached out and caught his hand, twining their fingers together. “Anyhow, this crazy dream. Jus’ you and me in it, with nobody else around.”
Daniel turned his face toward Bel’s, smiling slightly. “What’s so crazy about that?”
“Well, jus’ you and me, all alone, and we weren’t fucking.”
Daniel snorted, and Stump jumped in alarm.
“We was just sitting there, watching the sun go down,” Bel said, “and falling asleep together.”
“You dreamed about falling asleep?” Daniel asked him.
“Falling asleep together.” Bel smiled. “And it was weird. You know what I said to you?”
“What’d you say?”
“I said, ‘Don’t go too far without me.’”
Daniel squeezed his hand. “And did I?”
Bel shrugged. “Don’t know. I woke up.”
“Well,” Daniel said quietly, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll try not to, just so you know.”
“Reckon I’d follow you about anywhere.”
“Don’t know why.”
“Yeah you do.”
“’Cause I need looking after?”
“’Cause you used to come into Harnee’s, and I knew you were somethin’ different.”
“I was asleep.”
Bel nodded. Looked at him. Hoped he could say what he needed to say without sounding too foolish. “Still you, though.”
Pain flashed in Daniel’s eyes. “Still me when I burned Kenny Cooper, then.”
Fuck. Bel had meant to give Daniel a compliment. “Maybe so. But there’s beautiful things about you, awake or asleep. You’re the bravest guy I ever met.” Bel looked down. “Sorry. I was tryin’ to be romantic, and I got you feeling shitty instead.”
“I don’t feel shitty.” Daniel offered him a smile. “I feel happy. And I can worry about whether or not I deserve it later.”
“You deserve it,” Bel said. “Trust me.” He wasn’t sure what else to say and was relieved to hear Uncle Joe’s voice in the front yard. “Uncle Joe’s here. I’m gonna go say hi. You can stay here if you want.”
“Are you kidding? I can follow you as well as you follow me, Harnee’s kid.”
Bel laughed and offered Daniel a hand up. Pulled him close, pressed his lip to Daniel’s cheekbone, and then nipped the edge of his ear. “Prove it,” he whispered.
He set off, Daniel right beside him, both of them smiling.
Both of them together, just like they were supposed to be.
Afterword
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Excerpt from The Good Boy
(The Boy #1)
Acton met Lane at the door.
“Landon, come in, come in.” A shining smile, gleaming cufflinks, and a cloud of aftershave. Acton was immaculate. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
The things Lane wanted to say—Please don’t call me that. Can we talk out here instead? God, I’m so glad to see you. Will you help me, Acton, please?—didn’t make it into words.
Lane forced a smile instead. “I didn’t, um, I didn’t know you were having a party.”
Acton slung an arm around his shoulders and gestured. Brandy sloshed in his glass, threatening Lane’s shirt. “Just a few friends. A fundraiser. Not that anyone’s got much to give these days, hmmm?”
Lane flinched inwardly at the joke.
Acton laughed.
A waiter moved past them, his tray of canapés held high. Lane lifted his face to catch the smell. His stomach growled, and he hoped Acton hadn’t heard it. The waiter’s hips swayed as he walked. He was as elegant as a dancer.
They paused at the threshold of the expansive living room, Acton’s arm tightening around Lane’s shoulders. Lane looked inside. Oh God. This was a nightmare. An actual, proper nightmare. Any second now and they’d all turn around and stare at him, and Lane would stammer out the sorts of apologies that just screamed guilt, and then suddenly it would be the first day of school, and he’d look down and realize he wasn’t wearing any clothes.
Or something.
The perverse part of his brain wondered idly what he’d throw up, since he hadn’t eaten anything but a sandwich since lunch. There had to come a point where vomiting was just a waste of valuable energy.
Acton’s laugh was low, his breath warm against Lane’s cheek. “Maybe not, hmmm? Shall we talk upstairs in my study?”
Relief flooded through Lane. He nodded gratefully. “That would be good.”
Lane knew the way. He’d first come here when he was ten, and he’d been given the grand tour. Acton had pointed out all the features and amenities. He’d measured the house in square footage, which from anyone else might have been pretentious but with Acton was a hazard of his work.
Acton was “Belleview’s Premier Realtor,” according to his advertisements. He had his face plastered across more buses and benches than his competition, and his was a real estate agent’s face: handsome in a shiny capped-teeth nice-haircut sort of way. His lopsided smile was just the right degree of rakish and charming. He was a big man but not fat. He looked good for his age. In a few years when the gray hairs outnumbered the dark, he’d look distinguished.
The sounds of the party faded into bac
kground noise as Lane followed Acton up the stairs. The lights were dimmed upstairs, and Lane relaxed. He rolled his shoulders, releasing tension.
Acton’s study smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. A floor-to-ceiling shelf of leather-bound books in dark shades of brown and green and red took up an entire wall. A leather wingback chair sat behind the large mahogany desk. The desk was empty except for a brass banker’s lamp and a closed laptop.
Acton crossed to the sideboard. “Drink?”
Lane shoved his hands into his pockets. It probably wasn’t a good idea on an empty stomach, but it would be rude to refuse, and one wouldn’t hurt. “Thanks.”
It might make talking easier. Talking was always hard for Lane, even if it was just him and Acton.
“Take a seat.” Acton rattled around at the sideboard.
The thin soles of Lane’s cheap shoes scuffed against the Turkish carpet. He sat down across the desk from the big empty leather chair. It was similar to the one his mother had in her office in New York. An open, modern office in a glass-and-steel skyscraper, but somehow that old-fashioned chair hadn’t looked out of place.
Lane wondered what had happened to the chair, to the office, and to the brisk, efficient staff who had buzzed around the place. He wondered if his mother gave it any thought. Or his father.
“It’s been tough, hasn’t it?” Acton’s voice pulled him out of what was becoming an all-too-familiar bleak reverie.
“Um, yeah.” Lane managed a smile as Acton leaned on the desk and passed him his drink. “I don’t want to take you away from your guests.”
“You’re my guest too. My special guest.”
Lane wasn’t sure how to take that, until Acton laughed. Then he smiled and relaxed. Acton was practically family. That was all he meant.
“If you hadn’t called, I would have contacted you,” Acton continued. “I’ve thought a lot about you these last couple of weeks. Thought about what I might do to help you.”
Lane could have collapsed with relief. Somebody gave a shit. Somebody believed him. All that time Lane had spent worrying that he shouldn’t call Acton, that Acton would hate him like everyone else did, and Acton had wanted to hear from him. “My phone got shut off. Look at this.” He pulled out his cheap prepaid phone and set it on the desk. “I had to get one of these.”
Acton sipped his brandy. “Have you heard from Stephen?”
Lane shifted his glass from his left hand to his right, his chest tightening. “He’s still in Spain, I think. He was there on business when—when it all happened. He sent an e-mail last week.”
A lousy fucking e-mail: Hang in there, kiddo. The lawyers are sorting it out. Lane wanted to believe it. Wanted so badly to believe he’d wake up and it would all be sorted out. But it was becoming increasingly apparent to Lane that his father had no idea what the hell was going on, with the lawyers, or with Lane, or with anything.
Lane was trying to hang in there. He was trying to tough it out. Except it was hard, not knowing how long it would be until he got his life back. If his father would just tell him that, just give him some idea, then it would be okay. He got shouted at on the street. He hadn’t told his father—didn’t want to bother him—but he was scared. Why hadn’t it all gone away yet?
Acton regarded him silently.
“I think, um, I think he’s not coming back in case they try to arrest him too.” Part of Lane wanted to sound more knowledgeable than he was, to paper over the cracks that were the distance between him and his father and pretend they were closer than they were. He didn’t want to show his vulnerability. Not to anyone. Not even to Acton. Not all of it.
Lane wasn’t in free fall. No way, not at all. He was hanging in there while the lawyers sorted it out. Kiddo.
Acton’s smile was a little too knowing.
Lane pulled his gaze away and sipped at his drink. Scotch. It burned as it went down. “I mean, obviously the SEC thinks he has the money.”
“Hmmm.” Acton shifted, placing his brandy on the desk and folding his arms over his chest. “And does he?”
Lane’s face burned. “No!”
He didn’t know if it was a lie or not. He didn’t know why he was defending his father.
“Landon.” Acton reached out and put a large hand on Lane’s shoulder. “You’d tell me if you knew, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Lane said. He should have been offended by the implied accusation, but he was too tired for that. He’d drained his reserves of outraged innocence with the SEC investigators, probably. He was just tired now—tired, and somehow gratified to see the smile spreading across Acton’s face.
“And you’d tell me if you had the money, wouldn’t you?”
Lane couldn’t tell if it was a tease or not. Acton was smiling, but there was something serious in his tone. “I don’t,” Lane said, wishing the words had come out louder, stronger.
“Relax. It’s just rumors, then. The accounts?”
“What accounts?” Lane demanded.
Acton shrugged. “I saw something in the paper the other day—some bullshit about offshore accounts in your name.”
Only Acton’s assertion that it was bullshit kept Lane from panicking. He hadn’t picked up a paper in days—couldn’t afford one. And hadn’t been on a computer. Offshore accounts—he didn’t want to ask Acton what that meant, exactly. Didn’t want Acton to know how clueless he was. Criminals always had offshore accounts in movies, right? Though the movies never showed how the criminals got the accounts, or what they did with them. Lane knew it was bad, and that was enough.
Except that the accounts didn’t exist. Lane didn’t understand how he could be blamed for something he had nothing to do with.
“Why would they say that?” Lane asked.
Acton took a long sip of scotch. “Trying to infuse the story with a bit of new drama, I suppose. It’s just the way things go. If you’re privileged, if you look good but behave—even just a little bit—badly, the media will make mincemeat of you.”
A thrill went through Lane at those words. If you look good but behave badly… His cock stirred. He was embarrassed to be thinking about sex at a time like this. Having Acton near always did something to him. And with the stress of the scandal, his mind wasn’t working right. That was all.
Acton was smiling again. “You’re a good kid,” he said.
Lane mirrored the smile, genuinely hopeful for the first time in weeks. He raised the glass to his lips and swallowed. The scotch went down easier this time. It spread through him, warm, and made his skin tingle. It loosened his tongue as well.
“What happened to your painting?” Lane asked.
Acton had always had a Stuart Davis hanging in his study—a modernist piece in shades of blue and steel. A cityscape.
“I got rid of it,” Acton said. He stared at the spot on the wall where the painting had hung. He waved his hand dismissively. “To alleviate a temporary cash-flow problem.”
Guilt pooled in Lane’s stomach. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the reason.
“I can’t pay my tuition for next semester,” Lane said suddenly, wondering if it would help Acton to know he was hurting too. “Or my motel bill for now. Or anything. Shit, look at my shoes!”
Lane wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been expecting to his litany of misery, but it wasn’t laughter. He gave himself a moment to see if he felt outraged. No. And it was kind of funny, sitting here in Acton’s office in his rumpled clothes and the shoes he got from the thrift store. Lane would bet everything he had—which was what, six dollars and seventy-five cents?—that the last guy who sat with Acton in his study drinking scotch wouldn’t be able to find a thrift store with a map.
His lips twitched. It was funny. The rumors about the offshore accounts. The media making this shit up when Lane wasn’t even sure what an offshore account was.
“Another drink?”
Lane looked at his glass. He hadn’t even realized he’d finished. He nodded and held the glass out.
&
nbsp; “Sorry, if, um—if you’re—if it’s because of my parents. The painting.” He took the glass Acton handed him and knocked back a huge swallow. It sounded strange to apologize for something he couldn’t help, but Lane often felt the need to apologize for anything that went wrong, whether he’d caused it or not. And he wanted Acton to know he was sorry.
Acton chuckled. “Take it easy.” He nodded at Lane’s suddenly empty glass. “I forget you’re not even old enough to drink.”
Lane echoed Acton’s laugh and handed the glass back to Acton. “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind.” He was surprised by how clearly the words came out. He sounded, not like his usual mumbling self, but like someone who knew what he was entitled to. He sounded like his father.
“Do you drink at school?”
The way Acton asked the question sent a shiver through Lane. Like Acton knew everything he got up to in Boston. Like Lane was in trouble.
He didn’t want to tell Acton how often he’d had fantasies like that as a teenager. Fantasies where he stood in front of Acton while Acton lectured him. Where Acton told him he’d broken the rules and would have to be—
Lane stopped himself. Something was seriously wrong with him. He’d known it for years. It was just that his parents had never seemed to care one way or the other what Lane did. But Acton noticed. And the idea of having someone notice every move he made, someone who would call him out if he did something wrong, was incredibly…hot? Definitely something the matter with him.
Lane shook his head. “No, sir.” It was the truth. He didn’t drink at school. Well, he had a beer once in a while, to steady his nerves at a party. But he’d never been drunk. One beer once in a while wasn’t “drinking”—right? Was he lying to Acton, and would Acton know?
Lane allowed himself to get swept up in the fantasy as Acton bent over the tray. The warmth in his body made it okay to think about these things. Acton did know, and in another second he’d turn around and make Lane come clean. Tell him he’d be punished for lying.
