by G. B. Gordon
Margaret insisted on taking a shower before going to bed, but Jack couldn’t be bothered. He could barely keep his eyes open until she was safely tucked in.
On his way back downstairs, he grabbed a blanket and told Mark, “You can have my bed. I’ll take the couch. And please don’t argue with me. I can’t. I’d fall asleep standing up against a wall.”
He woke to the sound of the doorbell, groggy and out of it. It took him precious minutes to unravel where he was, that it was Sunday, and that the bell, which was now ringing again, was probably a customer picking up their order. He dragged himself off the couch and opened the door to a park ranger uniform. Xavier. “Mornin’”
The handsome asshole quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on Jack’s bleary eyes and slept-in clothes. Always so polite. He tipped his hat, and said, “Jack.”
“Minute,” Jack mumbled and grabbed Xavier’s bags to take them out to the car.
But Xavier took them from him with an amused nod at Jack’s feet. “Shoes,” he said, then turned with a “Thanks.” And left.
Jack stared at his socked feet and tried to get his brain in gear. TV. News. Deaver.
He trudged back inside, but was led astray by the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. Mark was in there hunting through cupboards and drawers.
Him being there, making himself at home in Jack’s kitchen, loosened something up that had been tight in Jack’s chest, and sent tendrils of warmth through his body. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Mark turned and gave him the once-over. His hair was wet, but he hadn’t shaved yet. “I thought you might need a coffee.”
“Do I ever. What time is it?”
“Eight thirty. Didn’t want to wake you, but forgot about your preorder thing.”
“’S’okay.” He yawned. “Where’s Margaret?” She didn’t sleep past six. Ever.
“She watched you sleep for about half an hour this morning and then went up to the attic with her tablet and headphones.”
“She watched me sleep?”
“Yup.”
“I’ll be damned.” Bemused, he got a couple of mugs out before Mark turned his kitchen completely upside down, then poured himself some milk and coffee, and let Mark mix his own concoction, observing, because he should know this, how Mark took his coffee. One-third milk, two-thirds coffee. Noted.
He took a sip and felt the coffee slap every one of his taste buds at the same time. “Whoa. Awake now.”
“Too strong?”
“Naw, just what I needed.” That explained the one-third milk. Stomach saver. “I should go shower. Do you want a razor?”
“Actually, I’d like to go home and change. But I can come back with breakfast.”
“Deal.” He watched Mark through the steam of his coffee, the way he leaned against the counter in yesterday’s jeans and tee, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Damn, he looked good.
When he’d gone, Jack put the kettle on, took a quick shower, then made Margaret’s cocoa and took it up to the attic.
She was sitting in her alcove bed, curtains open, surrounded by pillows and blankets, earbuds in.
Jack set the mug down on her stool and was about to retreat, when she pulled the earbuds out.
“Morning, love.”
She didn’t correct him, and his tiredness lifted a touch.
“Mark’s gone for some fresh clothes and breakfast. Should be back within the hour. Do you want to come downstairs?”
“No.”
He tried to gauge whether that was simply a no to his question, a more general no to breakfast, or a complete no to business as usual because she was too upset.
“Want me to bring you something up?”
“Yes.”
Which meant she felt okay enough to eat. That was something.
“I’ll do that, then.”
“Okay.”
The earbuds went back in, so Jack returned to his coffee and installed himself on the couch with the remote, flipping through all available channels for news. Now that he was hunting for it, there was of course nothing about Georgia’s juicy scandal.
The coffee was slowly clearing his brain, though, allowing him to think again. He set up the laptop and started searching for mentions of Deaver. The guy wasn’t a big enough fish to give out a lot of hits. A stub of a Wikipedia article that mentioned a birth, but no death date. Not that that necessarily meant anything, except that no one had been interested enough to complete it.
But then the hits got a lot more interesting. A website had been set up for the Georgia election, that listed him as running for State Representative, and when Jack switched to searching news articles, he struck a very current bonanza. He skimmed through a good dozen, then went back to read some of them thoroughly, hating every part of the picture that was forming for him. The good news was: Deaver was alive. The bad news: Deaver was indeed alive.
He shut the laptop and got himself another coffee. Apparently the latest scandal had kicked loose a journalistic feeding frenzy that had, in turn, uncovered some recent as well as older shenanigans concerning a number of other reps. Deaver was only one of six so far. He wasn’t the one under investigation now, but someone had dug up an old charge against him of an assault on a sixteen-year-old girl. While the charge had later been withdrawn, rumors of similar offenses surfaced here and there. Nothing had stuck, but it was enough to have gotten his ugly mug on the news when the scandal broke. The fucker had method. There seemed to have been ample precedents as well as follow-ups to what he had tried with Margaret.
He hadn’t died in that pool. Charles had lied to Jack’s face.
Jack had been driven out of his home, had dragged his sister with him, because of a callous lie. He wasn’t kidding himself that they wouldn’t ultimately have left anyway, but he might have had time to plan a proper move. Or at least plan it in more detail than grabbing the one day you might need this envelope that Mawmaw had given him. They had needed it, and he’d been glad for it. But it had been a very uprooted hand-to-mouth three years. It had worn him thin, and he didn’t even want to think about what it had done to Margaret.
Just watching how she’d thrived since they had settled down for good here told him how much life on the road had cost her. How much had been taken from her. Not just on the road, but all her life really. With Charles making every legal decision over and for her, she’d never gotten any proper help for dealing with the hellhole of a world she’d been born into.
The doorbell pulled him out of his black thoughts. Mark with breakfast. Freshly shaved and dressed and looking scrumptious enough to eat. Jack smiled at him. “Can I have you instead of that?” He nodded at the box Mark was carrying, and got a raised eyebrow in return.
“That coffee did you good.”
“Magic juice. I’ll get plates. Margaret is having breakfast upstairs. She seems reasonably okay. I think she just needs some downtime.”
After Jack had run a plate with French toast drowning in syrup up to her, the two of them settled at the dining table, sharing eggs, sausages, and toast.
“She was right,” Jack said. “Deaver is still alive.” He watched Mark for any reaction, but Mark’s gaze stayed fixed on the table, his face a study of restraint.
I can tell him now. More weight lifted off his shoulders. With Deaver alive, there was no criminal case. Jack had found no evidence that the police had been involved in the incident in the first place. If Deaver had ever mentioned it to anyone, especially the police, the reporters would probably have had a field day with it. There was, of course, still a chance that Charles would try to find them and lock Margaret up, but Jack thought that unlikely. Charles wouldn’t want anything to torpedo his political career; he’d be happy enough to be rid of them as long as they stayed off the radar.
He took a deep breath. “My family, and the way Margaret and I grew up, is weird and, for the most part, unlovely. I’ll probably tell you the details at some point if you want them. For now, the short version. My fath
er and grandfather tried to have Margaret locked up all her life. My grandmother and I tried to keep that from happening.” When he paused, Mark briefly looked up at him, then resumed his study of the table.
“One of my father’s political cronies assaulted Margaret. She pushed him away, and he fell into the pool, hitting his head on the edge. Apparently he survived the thing none the worse for wear, but at the time my father led me to believe he had died, and that now Margaret really would be locked up. So I took her away from him.”
He could see the implications hitting Mark one by one. “So until yesterday you believed Margaret had killed this guy?”
Jack shook his head. “No. He fell. It was an accident. She wanted to get away from him, not do him harm. But I did think she might be accused of killing him.”
“So you changed your name.”
Jack nodded. “I’ve always liked Daley better, anyway. It’s my grandmother’s maiden name. The Lovell men are all assholes. Have been through history.”
“This Deaver guy was never charged, then?”
“Not for what he did to Margaret, but from what I found out today, she wasn’t the only one. Who knows, with the shit currently hitting the fan, he might get his just deserts yet. There was mention of an indictment. My fingers are crossed.”
Mark did that knuckle-across-Jack’s-cheek thing that always brought a lump to Jack’s throat, because it was the tenderest damn thing anyone had ever done to him.
“You’ve given up your whole life to keep her safe,” Mark said.
Any more of this and he’d start bawling. “Shut up.”
Mark leaned back. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Nothing.” Jack shrugged. “Keep living our lives. Our papers are relatively legal as long as no one pokes around too much. Mawmaw got us both birth certificates under the Daley name when we were born. Long story,” he said on seeing Mark’s raised eyebrow. “Told you Lovell assholery goes way back. Point is, if there’s no criminal investigation, there’s no reason, really, for anyone to poke. I might actually dare to apply for health insurance, get Margaret a proper assessment, see if that can get her some of the stuff she needs or would enjoy. Considering what she’s been getting up to online, messaging people left and right,” he said with theatrical exaggeration, and Mark actually blushed, “I’m sure there’s plenty of untapped potential.”
“I’m sure there is.”
“I’ll have to figure out what the options are and talk it over with her.”
“I know a little of some of those options. I might be able to help.”
Jack laid his hand on the table next to Mark’s. It would have to do. But Mark didn’t leave it at that. He covered Jack’s hand with his own and ran his thumb across Jack’s. “Talking of talking.”
Jack’s heart stumbled hard against his ribs, but he managed a smile. “You and me?”
“Yeah.”
He swallowed the Move in with me at the last second. Before he could even begin to think about asking Mark, he’d have to find out what Margaret’s feelings were on that. She liked Mark, but changes, especially big ones like that, were always a challenge. Baby steps. “Wanna come over this weekend and help me clean out the guest room?”
“No.”
Jack’s smile faltered. No, because Mark wanted to try the “cot in Jack’s bedroom” suggestion, or no, because that had sounded too much like moving in? Too much, too soon? “Okay.”
“What would you say to a weekend road trip? You, me, Margaret?”
Jack could almost hear his brain screech around the corner at the sudden change in direction. “A road trip? Where?”
“Boise, Idaho.”
Whoa! He swallowed hard. “Mark . . .”
“You’ll always wonder if it’s still there.”
“Maybe.”
“And every day we wait the chances grow smaller.”
“We?”
“Yeah. We. I want to hear you play that fabled thing.”
“I might not have the money. In fact, I probably won’t.”
“Possibly. Point is, you won’t know until you ask.”
Jack tapped the tabletop with one finger. It was so, so tempting to start hoping. And terrifying. He wanted this so badly, and his chances were so small.
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Mark said.
Jack laughed. It took an effort. “What? You’re going to kidnap me?”
“If need be. Margaret will be my accomplice. She wants you to go too.”
Now that the future seemed so much less dark, it was comforting to see that the two of them were close enough for Mark to know that. “You guys are way too cozy,” he growled in mock disapproval.
“I’m serious, Jack. Maybe not about the kidnapping, but I’m not letting this go. I’m going to keep nagging until you cave.”
That he was so determined to reunite Jack with his sax made Jack feel more cherished than any touch or hug could have accomplished, not that he’d ever not want this man to touch him. In fact, he had a sudden urge to bend over the breakfast table and have Mark fuck him clear across the room, table and all. Damn, he’d made himself hard just thinking about it.
“Jack?”
Jack laughed. “Okay, okay. Road trip.”
Margaret’s as good in a car on long trips as she is on short ones, keeping her headphones on, listening to an audiobook or music, occasionally sounding off, as if a note of whatever she listens to escapes through her lips.
Me, I’m lousy at long car rides. Too nervous for headphones. I’m glad I’m not driving, but not much less stressed than if I were. There’s a truckload of merging going on, off and onto different roads and highways. To say nothing of tollbooths. Yeah, I’m glad I’m not driving.
Jack warned all his regulars that the store would be closed today, so we could leave at dawn. Margaret was fidgety at first, whether from excitement or the break in routine, I have no idea, but she settled right down as soon as we were in the car, like a regular trooper.
Now, crossing Oregon, the drive’s quieter. We stop at a picnic area for lunch. Jack has packed a cooler, and it feels good to be out of the car and stretching our legs. Almost like being on a holiday.
Jack’s in a skittish mood, laughing and joking, but with a tension running under the surface that doesn’t seem to know which way it wants to break.
After lunch, Margaret climbs back into the car unbidden, and as Jack lifts the cooler into the rear and slams the hatch, I hold him by the shoulders for a minute, hold him still. “Breathe.”
He laughs, but it’s shaky. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“Mm-hmm.” I get sidetracked by the need to bury my nose in his curls. It tickles.
He stays tense, though. “Why should they have held on to it? It’ll be gone.”
“Then at least you’ll know and can stop asking yourself that question. You might even try to find a replacement then.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“But this one’s special?”
“Yeah.”
I kiss his neck, and he shivers in a way that makes me want to do more. “Let’s get a move on.”
I don’t want to get back into the car, but at least I get to stare at Jack’s neck. At the riot of dark curls touching his trapezoids.
Once in Idaho it gets stressful again. Turn left, turn right, merge in and out. I can tell Jack is getting tired, and I’m not surprised. Except for our short lunch, we’ve barely stopped for bathroom and coffee breaks, and it’s dinnertime now.
Then Jack switches lanes, turns into a motel parking lot, and kills the engine. He sits with both hands on the wheel as the cooling engine ticks in the silence.
Margaret takes her earbuds out.
“Remember this place?” Jack says.
“Tickle tiles.”
He laughs. “Yes. I wonder if they’re still there, and if we can get the same room. Do you remember the number?”
“Eight.”
Ja
ck turns around. “I’ll get us rooms, and then we’ll walk over to the pawnshop? It should be around the next corner. Easier to leave the car here than find parking there.”
“Fine by me.”
“Don’t move. I’ll be back directly.”
I take it as a figure of speech and get out of the car to stretch my legs. The sky is a fantastic palette of pinks and purples. The traffic noise level is deafening compared to Bluewater Bay. I stretch my arms and shoulders in an effort to disperse the cloud of pain forming at the base of my head.
Jack returns with keys and hands me the number ten one.
“I’ll walk over.”
He grins. “Carsick?”
“Sick of the car anyway.”
“You okay, though?”
It feels good that he asks. “Nothing an aspirin won’t take care of.”
He moves the car over to number eight, which is next to ten. The odds are on the other side.
We carry our bags to our respective rooms to have them out of the car, and because Margaret wants to see if the “tickle tiles” are still there. I have no clue what she’s talking about, but apparently they are, because she comes back laughing and making plane sounds, or lawn mower sounds, or something like that.
The three of us set off down the street and around the corner. It’s a busy area, with lots of small stores and fast-food joints.
Jack has gone silent and walks with his hands in his pockets, arms pressed to his sides, as if he needs to hold himself together. It pushes his shoulders up and makes my neck ache just watching him.
Across the street and around another corner his steps get shorter and slower. Margaret pulls ahead, then stops in front of a shop window and puts her hands against it to peer inside.
Jack stalls for a second, then huffs a laugh and walks on. “You guys are killing me,” he says.
The sign above the window says Quick Pawn. They’re still open—until seven according to the sticker on the door. Which leaves us half an hour.
Jack and I both scan the store immediately on walking in, but the only musical instruments I see are two electrical guitars. There are a lot of electronics and small appliances, as well as jewelry under glass counters, and guns in cabinets behind the register.
