River Home

by Elle Keaton

  Nate didn’t remember his mother that well. Mostly his memories of her involved smells. Freshly baked bread, clean laundry, dish bubbles and singing together. He must have spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her. She had been killed in a car accident when he was only three. From that time Mel had raised him. His paternal grandmother had come to live with them, but Mel had been the one who nurtured him. Which, Nate supposed, was why it was so hard to cut all the ties. He kept hoping that something between the two of them would snap back, and they could return to the easy relationship they’d once had.

  Something had happened when Nate was in high school. He hadn’t suspected anything at the time, because… oblivious teenager. It wasn’t until later that he realized their relationship had changed. Mel had stopped being there for him. Stopped stepping in when their father became unreasonable. Stopped calling to check on him.

  Left on his own, Nate did the best he could to avoid his father and get on with getting out of the family home. His other sisters had never had any interest in him whatsoever unless it was to tease or torment him. Usually they acted as if he hadn’t even been born—except to send him embarrassing gifts on his birthday. Which was fine. If it meant that the terrible two ignored him, Nate was fine with that.

  “What’s up?”

  “Calling to wish you a happy birthday.”

  “My birthday was last week. I think the window for belated, especially when it’s your own brother, has passed.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “So why did you really call?” Nate needed to erase any semblance of fifteen-year-old normalcy from this phone call. “Did Dad tell you to call?”

  Mel was silent for a beat, a beat too long, and she knew it. “He did.”

  It hurt that Mel wouldn’t call him on her own. That it took Clint Richardson asking her before she would pick up a phone. And since when had she started doing their father’s bidding? From the beginning of high school, Mel had actively avoided Nate, focusing instead on her career.

  “What happened to you?” The words were out before he thought or could stop them. They’d been on the tip of his tongue for so long, Nate was actually surprised he hadn’t uttered them sooner. “What happened? When I was in high school. One day we were little bro and big sis, just like it had always been. And then everything changed.”

  This question had been burning in his gut for years. Maybe it was because he was sitting in the safety of his car, a kind of bubble. Maybe it was the raw emotion he was feeling being sidelined from the case, his worry over Gomez. All the brotherly feelings that had been floating around in his head for a decade or so had attached themselves to her. And now he was being asked to step back while she went to slay the dragon.

  Or maybe Nate was just tired of being lied to, or, more accurately, treated like an afterthought.

  The line was silent, but Mel hadn’t hung up. She was still there with him. “This isn’t a good time to talk about the past.”

  “In our family is there ever a good time to talk about the past?” He paused. “Mel.” He recalled his memories of her before the change—when she would sing with him, walk him to school if she could; she even made him lunch until sometime in middle school. Those memories were his happiest. “Please. Please don’t keep telling me nothing happened.”

  “I won’t. I can’t tell you that.” Mel’s voice sounded tired, and Nate realized it was getting late on the east coast, nearly ten. Mel was always up by four or five a.m., heading into the city. She’d avoided the family firm by becoming a financial advisor and eventually a trader on Wall Street. “She makes good money, for a woman,” their father said on those rare occasions he mentioned Mel, as if the fact that a woman made money offended him. “But I can’t talk about it on the phone either. I don’t want any drama with you right now, okay? I called because Dad was drinking and called me. I got worried. I’m sorry for missing your birthday. Did you have fun?”

  Damn. Whatever Mel had been close to confessing, the opportunity had disappeared when she changed the subject.

  “I ended up having fun. I met someone.” Nate wasn’t sure how to describe Miguel. He wasn’t a friend, but maybe on the way to being one? “We ended up going shopping.”

  “Oh!” He heard the smile in Mel’s voice. “What’s her name?”

  And there it was. That unnerving feeling in his stomach. Did men not shop together? Was it wrong of Nate to have enjoyed himself so much doing a mundane thing like shopping? “His name is Miguel Ramirez. I met him at a wedding, but he was moving, and I saw him when I was going for a run, so I ended up helping him out.” Please let the verbal diarrhea stop. “That’s how we ended up going shopping. And I did have a good time.”

  “Shopping,” she said.

  “Yeah, he needed stuff for his kitchen.”

  “Are you seeing anyone? Dating? Are the girls pretty in Skagit?”

  Nate rolled his eyes at the inevitable question. “No, Mel. You know I work a ton of hours and my schedule is too variable for dating.”

  “You should come home,” Mel breathed, almost too quietly.

  Nate laughed. “I can’t get away like that. You know how it is, married to the job.” New Jersey wasn’t home anymore.

  “You’re still so young, Nate; don’t let it go too long before you find someone. You don’t want to end up a spinster like me—or whatever the male version is called.”

  “Why haven’t you ever married, Mel? And how come I’m the one who gets shit for it?” The question popped out; he’d never asked Mel before why she was still single at nearly forty. Not that he had any working knowledge of her life.

  “I gotta go. Happy birthday, little brother.”

  “Bye, Mel.”

  Nate was glad he’d taken the phone call in his car. When he unlocked the front door and went inside the coffee shop, he was able to leave it behind him with only a lingering niggle.

  The Booking Room was busy. There were two employees behind the counter, one in the kitchen, and a fourth bussing tables and emptying trash. Nate was slightly miffed. He stood for a few minutes with his coffee and sandwich before a group of three left, leaving their table a mess but free to sit at. While he was putting his food down, the busboy came over and wiped the table off.

  “Thanks.”

  The young man’s reply, if there was one, was so quiet Nate didn’t hear it over the ambient noise around them. He settled in at the table, pulling his laptop out of his bag. Who knew how many emails he had waiting, and Klay would want a written report. And, crud, he could see which online course he needed to finish first.

  “Excuse me.”

  Nate looked up to see a man a little older than him standing by his table. Internally Nate smirked; it was one of those guys who obviously went to the gym—a lot—and made sure everyone knew it by wearing tight short-sleeved polo shirts that displayed his enormous biceps and ripped abs. Not the kind of person Nate was drawn to.

  “Do you mind if I grab a seat? This place is full.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Nate motioned for the guy to sit down. The stranger did, pulling out his own laptop and placing it on the table. Nate tried to ignore him as he clicked through his personal email. Emails from old friends wishing him a happy birthday; a reminder he had a dentist appointment next week. Oh—he waggled his eyebrows—a special letter from the British government about money being held in his name; he only needed to reply with all of his personal information. Nate huffed a laugh.

  “Funny email?” His table partner’s voice interrupted Nate’s private mirth.

  “Uh, yeah.” Random people didn’t normally try to talk to him. “One of those ‘Send me your info and you’ll get all the money’ scams.”

  “Those are funny. My name’s Scott.” Leaning across the table, he extended a large hand.

  “Nate.” Nate shook Scott’s hand automatically. Good lord, did he intend on chatting?

  “Are you from the area?” Scott had an intense sort of gaze and complex hazel eyes.
His nose had been broken, maybe more than once.

  Seriously? Did Scott not know his laptop meant work? Nate hadn’t come here to chat. He’d come to avoid being alone at home. Nate shoved down his irritation. He hadn’t slept the night before; it wouldn’t kill him to chat.

  “Nope. I’m from the East Coast.”

  “Seems like no one’s from around here.”

  “There’s a few.” If Nate kept his answers short, maybe the conversation would be too.

  Scott leaned back in his chair—Nate could swear he heard it creak under his bulk—and crossed his big arms across his beefy chest. Nate caught himself, not exactly ogling, because for one thing Scott had an air about him that Nate couldn’t put a finger on, but it sure felt as if Scott was looking back at Nate in a way that felt more… appraising, and possibly sexual?

  It was kind of flattering. He’d never been the one people gravitated to. In high school and college he had always ended up being the voice of reason, and when that didn’t work he rushed in, saving people from themselves.

  Nate flashed back to his impromptu day with Miguel, how silly and carefree it had been. The time had flown by; if work hadn’t called him away, who knew what might have happened. Nate was aware enough to know he was very open to something happening. He just wasn’t sure how to get from point A to point B. You weren’t supposed to approach a relationship as if it was some kind of science experiment.

  “And what would your hypothesis be, Nate?” I hypothesize that sex with Miguel Ramirez would be amazing. It’s possible the experience would be life changing. “How do you plan on proving your hypothesis?” The first step would be, obviously, sex. He chuckled shaking his head at his overactive imagination. He had no delusions about how attractive he was. Miguel might stoop to a quickie with Nate, but a man like him? Miguel had so many others to choose from. Starting with the guy he’d obviously had sex with at that wedding. Surely Miguel would be going back for more.

  It was unnerving how much Miguel had been on Nate’s mind since the night he’d driven him home. Nate kept finding his thoughts drifting from the investigation to the goofy antics at the kitchen store or the disappointment Nate had seen flash across Miguel’s face when Nate said he couldn’t take him up on his offer of dinner.

  “What do you do around here for fun?” Scott interrupted his musing.

  Nate supposed he shouldn’t say, “Hang out at the kitchen store with a handsome nut who effortlessly makes the world a brighter place.” He cleared his throat. “There’s a lot of hiking and, of course, mountain biking. Fishing, both river and open water, if you like that kind of stuff.”

  “I meant, like,” Scott leaned closer across the table, “a place where a new guy in town could meet people.”

  Oh. “Uh,” Nate wracked his brain. He didn’t go out. How would he know where to go? Except he had met Klay at a bar once. “There’s a place called the Loft… but,” he quickly clarified, “I think it’s a gay bar. Mostly. I mean, you don’t have to be gay to go there. But a lot of gay guys do.”

  Scott laughed. “Good to know.”

  Lack of sleep was catching up with Nate. Coffee wasn’t doing enough to keep the foot out of his mouth. It was time for him to pack up and head home. He’d start on the online tutorials tomorrow. The rest of today he would spend doing something mindless like mowing the lawn and then rewarding himself with several episodes of one of the new Marvel shows. There really was nothing like a sexy superhero.

  Chapter Seven: Miguel

  Dom and Kevin were whispering in the office; their lowered voices carried out into the work area, but Miguel couldn’t quite make out the words. He had his back to them, working on a faulty fuel injector that was pissing him off. The brothers were arguing. Pretty par for the course; they spent about half their time arguing and half their time defending each other. Although why they were doing it now, when they had work to do, Miguel couldn’t fathom.

  The wrench he was using to remove the fuel rail from the intake manifold slipped, scraping painfully against his knuckles.

  “Fuck.” Miguel dropped the wrench to shake his hand out, the clatter muffled by the oldies radio station Buck liked blaring another Led Zeppelin song. Miguel hadn’t changed the station; he’d gotten used to listening to it. “Fucking. Fuck.” By the time Buck got back, Miguel’s knuckles were going to be one big black-and-blue mass. He’d used most of the Band-Aids in the shop first-aid kit.

  Sleep deprivation was not good. Miguel was still having a difficult time getting used to the noises of his new apartment. And getting used having space to himself. If he was honest, he was having a hard time being alone. He’d been spoiled after a year and a half of living at Buck’s and having people around all the time.

  The lack of sleep was making him see things that just weren’t there. That morning, as he’d stumbled out the front door of his building, he thought he saw Justin drive by in a late-model Honda sedan. Gray. The color of almost every late-model Honda ever produced. His adrenaline had spiked, hard. Jumping into Sheila, he had tried to catch up with the vehicle, but it had turned, sedately—not as if it was being chased—onto Main Street and disappeared amongst the morning commuters before he could see who was driving.

  Miguel had had to pull to the curb to get his breathing under control. Then it had seemed like a great idea to get a calming cup of coffee, since he was only a few blocks from the Booking Room. Angel was behind the counter taking orders. Miguel’d grabbed his coffee to go when a burly guy wearing real lumberjack clothing—not the hipster knock-offs—came barreling in the front door.

  Angel looked cute today, for lack of a better description. He’d lined his eyes with a dark eyeliner, making them pop dramatically on his small face, and his dark lashes accentuated the effect. Miguel stopped in his tracks. There was something off about the customer, and no one was behind the counter with Angel. Miguel fiddled at the to-go counter with cream and sugar while he waited to see what was happening. Hopefully, as with the noises and possible sighting of Justin, he was just hyperaware.

  Nope.

  “Hey, little girl, can a man get a cup of coffee around here?” Every assumption Miguel ever had about small-town hicks was reaffirmed.

  Angel froze.

  “Come on, I don’t got all day.” The man’s voice boomed across the café.

  Angel noticeably tried to make himself smaller. Miguel thought that if he had the power of invisibility, he would have used it.

  Plaid-man must have felt Miguel’s eyes on him. Turning toward him, plaid asked, “Whaddya lookin’ at?” Murky, piggy green eyes stared into Miguel’s own, and he felt himself break out in a cold sweat.

  The entire place went dead silent. If it hadn’t been for the ambient sound of humans breathing air in and out, he could’ve heard a pin drop. How was it that three words could have that much effect on a roomful of people?

  One of Skagit’s finest chose that moment to come seeking caffeine. Directly across from headquarters, the Booking Room was often full of cops. Today there must have been an all-hands meeting, though, because the only cop on the premises was the one who’d just arrived.

  She stopped in the doorway aware and assessing, in that way of experienced cops, her hands a little separate from her body in case she needed to reach her sidearm or grab somebody. Her badge identified her as I. Rouzanov. Miguel hoped Rouzanov could stop whatever was happening before it unraveled any further.

  “Something I can help with, folks?” she asked the room. Rouzanov had a pleasant, lilting voice offset by her determined stance. The front door opened again and another cop came in. Miguel had never been so happy to see cops in his life.

  Plaid man deflated somewhat in the face of two police officers. Angel was visibly shaking. The incident had taken maybe thirty seconds.

  “No ma’am, just getting myself a cuppa joe for the road.” He turned his attention back to Angel. “Anytime now.” He mouthed something Miguel couldn’t hear, but Angel blanched.

  Angel
tried to be quick, but he was too anxious. Grabbing a sixteen-ounce to-go cup, he turned to the drip coffee station. In his haste, the empty cup flew out of his hand. The man sniggered. Angel grabbed another cup. Miguel could see his hands shaking.

  Enough. Where were the other employees? He went behind the counter and gently took the cup from Angel’s hand.

  “You’ll be okay,” he said softly. Miguel filled the cup with coffee, jammed a lid on top, and put it on the counter. “Here. Goodbye.”

  Plaid took the coffee and threw a couple of dollars on the counter, didn’t bother saying “Thank you,” and left. The door swooshed shut behind him, and everyone left inside released the breath they’d been holding.

  Miguel pulled Angel, who was shaking and beyond pale, into his arms, holding him tightly and patting his back. “It’ll be okay,” he said over and over again, as the kid broke down in tears, his face pressed against Miguel’s coveralls. Gently, he tugged Angel into the kitchen area—where there was no one to act as backup—so he could have some privacy while he pulled himself together.

  A door at the back of the kitchen opened, and an employee Miguel had never seen before sauntered in, tying an apron around his waist. He brought with him the intense odor of a freshly smoked cigarette. Lovely.

  “Get out there and pull your weight. Customers are waiting.” Maybe Miguel was learning a little managing the shop.

  Slacker opened his mouth to protest, or something, and Miguel put out a hand palm forward. “Don’t start with me. I’d pray you don’t lose your job.”

  He shook his hand again to try to get rid of both the sting and the memory from the morning, and glared at the manifold. Between lack of sleep and helping Angel regain his composure, Miguel was done with patience for the day. If Dom and Kevin didn’t get their asses out here and get back to work, he was going to rip them a new one.