by Liv Rancourt
His laughter trailed behind the swing in his step.
“I’m fine.” Russell’s words had more of a slur than before.
“You’re drunk.” Skip picked up his horn. “Come on. We’ll grab a bite at the Dog House and get some sleep. I think I have a plan for this weekend.”
Russell raised a finger as if he were posing an argument in a court of law, but Skip brushed past him before he could get any words out.
He stopped about three tables away. “Come on, hero.”
Skip left without checking to see whether Russell followed him.
They met at the elevator.
Riding down eleven floors, just the two of them in a cramped space, spawned so much tension, the car could have bounced when it hit the lobby. Skip led the way to the Buick, unlocking Russell’s door before stowing his horn in the trunk.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t come home with you tonight,” Russell said again as soon as Skip climbed into the driver’s seat.
Skip slammed his door but otherwise didn’t comment. Right then he was too angry to save Russell from himself. A smart guy would drop this punk at the closest hotel and lay a patch on the street out front.
Maybe Skip was a fool, but he wanted to believe that with a little time, Russell would get over Susie and return his feelings. Skip wouldn’t allow himself to be treated badly forever, but... “I must be a glutton for punishment, because we’re taking a road trip.”
The change in subject jerked Russell’s chain. He sat with his arms across his chest, jaw tight, knuckles blanching.
“What?”
“Marquise just said they’re out in Long Beach.” Skip couldn’t keep the bite out of his voice.
Russell grabbed the dash hard enough to leave scuff marks with his fingernails. “California?”
“There’s a Long Beach, Washington too, and I’m offering to drive you out there this weekend.” He paused long enough to roll down the window. “But not if you’re going to be a jerk.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry.” Russell flopped back against the seat and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m being an idiot. Sure, we can go. Phyllis’s parents are here, so I won’t need to hang around the hospital anymore.”
Skip put his blinker on again. The Dog House was only a few blocks from the Camlin, which was good because the short distance made it less likely he’d toss Russell out on the street.
He parked the car, reaching over to take one of Russell’s hands in his. “We’re going to eat, and then we’re going to go home and go to sleep, you drunken idiot.”
Russell rubbed his mouth with his free hand, his normal self-assurance faded to nothing. This soft side of Russell sucked Skip in even harder.
“If I don’t get food and some coffee into you, you’re going to be sick in the morning.”
Russell’s smile was weak, dragging Skip in a little further.
“I’ve got a stake in this too.” Skip twisted his fingers through Russell’s, keeping their hands low, chagrined at how good the contact felt. “We’ve got a gig Monday night. If Ryker’s really out in Long Beach, I’m going to haul his butt back home.”
“I sure appreciate what you’re doing.” Russell spoke to the floor, his voice gruff.
His grip was so warm and tight, Skip could barely breathe. “Good.”
Chapter 14
Russell woke up, alone in the bed except for his headache. Between the throbbing vise behind his eyes and the wicked grip of nausea, it was just as well he didn’t have company. While he debated when and how far to move, the bracing scent of coffee gave him the energy to pry an eyelid open. The glare from the windows slammed it shut.
“Coffee?” Skip’s voice came from the other side of the room.
With a groan, Russell rolled onto his back, forearm covering his eyes. He didn’t know what to say. With consciousness came patchy memories, filtered through a layer of embarrassment. Who knew what he’d really done the night before, besides act like a jackass.
“I owe you...” He tried to apologize but his throat was scratchy and the words clumped together. He’d pay for his whiskey dinner, but letting Skip down made it worse.
“Didn’t quite catch that.”
Something in Skip’s voice made him brave the morning sun. Annoyance, verging on anger. Russell gritted his teeth and propped himself on his elbows. “I’m sorry about last night.” The room swayed in time with the throbbing in his head.
Skip sat at the tiny dining table, painfully framed by a window’s glare. “You ought to be.”
Russell gave up and flopped onto the mattress. “Thank you for taking care of me.” And for the place to stay, and for giving him something to think about besides his girlfriend.
Ex-girlfriend.
The hell with it. Thinking took too much trouble, and feeling made everything worse. Russell swung his legs over the edge of the bed and managed to sit without upchucking. Didn’t care if keeping his back to his host was rude. “I’ll get out of your hair.” Self-pity was so manly. “I’m sure you have plans for today.”
Skip’s snort was underlined by the scrape of his chair on the wood floor. “Yep. I’m driving out to the coast because Keezy says Ryker’s gone on the lam and I worked too hard lining up Monday’s gig to call in a sub now.” His heavy footsteps crossed the floor. “If you want to tag along, you’d be welcome.”
“Not sure there’s much point.” Russell dropped his head in his hands, resisting the urge to reach out for Skip. “I don’t really imagine Susie’ll want to talk to me anyway.”
“I wondered about that.”
“I have to do something, though.” Don’t be a whiner, Haunreiter. “I doubt she’ll listen to logic, so I’d thought to appeal to her sense of responsibility, tell her she’s letting down her family and leaving her friends on the team in the lurch.” He absolutely wouldn’t mention anything to do with their relationship.
The silence grew long enough, Russell dared a glance around. Skip stood close, a puzzled smile on his face. Maybe he wasn’t too mad. Relief danced through the fog in Russell’s mind. “Do you always take in strays like this?” he muttered, finding another reason to be embarrassed.
Skip perched next to him on the bed. “They say it’s because I’m in touch with my womanly side.”
The tilt of Skip’s head combined with an exaggerated lisp had Russell fighting a smile. “You mean like...” He rubbed his eyes, trying to get the words right. Ever since meeting Lulu, he’d wondered. “Your friend there, the, uh, woman who gave me your phone number.”
“Nah, not like Lulu.” Humor slid through the sound of Skip’s voice, and for the first time all morning, Russell took a deep breath.
“Go take a shower.” Skip gave his thigh a comforting pat. “A cup of coffee and you’ll be right as rain.”
Russell nodded, planted his hands on his knees, and forced himself to stand. At least now he only had a headache and queasy stomach to worry about.
***
“Are you ready, Freddy?” Skip grinned, a little tentative since he wasn’t sure which Russell Haunreiter would answer, the prissy Midwesterner or the one who could make the three queens blush. Skip chalked up Russell’s moodiness to the drink. He didn’t want to think too much about the reasons for his own moodiness. They had a couple of hours on the road, and Skip hoped he’d find some reason to finally convince himself Russell wasn’t worth all the trouble.
“Let’s go.” Russell shifted in his seat, stretched his legs out as far as they would go. Plenty far.
Skip pinched the tip of his tongue between his teeth, a shot of pain to keep him from thinking about where he wanted those legs and the body that came with them.
Down in the Square, the bright noon sunshine pushed the thermometer past eighty and showed off every dirty corner. A drunk curled in a doorway, either asleep or passed out, the glass windows on either side of him boarded over and the door itself nailed shut with two-by-fours. Most of the bars and restaurants were closed, but a groc
ery store was open, and a few stragglers navigated the broken sidewalks, either leftovers from last night or getting an early start.
When they drove past the tavern, Russell straightened. “This place is rougher than I thought.”
“But it’s home.”
The big guy’s deep chuckle went straight to Skip’s groin. Russell shifted in the seat to lean against the door, his smile a halfway dare. “So how long will it take to get to Long Beach?”
Skip ran his gaze over Russell’s body. “About two hours, maybe three. We’ll have to turn it around quick, because I do want to get back in time to visit with Mom tomorrow.”
“And you know where this cabin is?”
“I’ve been there before.” Skip patted his shirt pocket.
Out on the highway, Russell’s gaze prickled Skip’s right side the way the hot sun beat on his left. Highway 99 ran along the waterfront, a blur of train cars and shipping containers. Farther south, it passed through neighborhoods with small shops and motor hotels, their neon signs glowing dully in the glaring sun.
After about an hour, they stopped at a market for a Coke. The small space was crowded with shelves holding products Skip had heard about on the radio, the kind where laughing announcers promised miracles for free.
In real life, they all had a price tag.
Russell stood by a rack holding small packages of chips. From behind him, Skip rested a hand on his shoulder.
Russell stiffened, turned his head, shot a glance at Skip’s hand. Stepped away. Eyes flashed in the direction of the cash register.
Skip crossed his arms and covered his smile with one hand. “You wanted a Coke too, right?”
“What?” Russell snapped as if Skip had asked him to strip in the middle of the shop.
“A Coke?” Skip backed up a step, then two, lips still twitching with the urge to laugh. “I’ll see you at the cash register.” He grabbed a couple of bottles of soda and waited for the antique behind the counter to ring him up. He gave her a quarter, and she gave him back a dime and a nickel. Russell stood behind him, a solid mass of unhappiness. Skip let him stew.
Serves him right.
There. He had a reason. Russell was too uptight. They’d never last. He headed for the car with Russell still standing by the Ivory Snow. Pulling the car into the gas station next door, Skip still couldn’t figure out whether he should laugh or get mad. By the time Russell joined him, Russell’s head was hanging, and he didn’t make eye contact.
That decided things. Skip had always been a sucker for a lost puppy.
The silence between them had lost its easy feeling, replaced with something else. Skip did his best to stifle his impatience, but it rattled his innards, ready to spill out of his mouth at the slightest prompting. He pulled onto Highway 99, and when they reached a red light, he passed Russell a Coke.
“So...” Didn’t take much for Skip to run out of things to say.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re doing it again.” He spat the words, then blew out a heavy breath. He never snapped. Russell was driving him crazy.
“Doing what?”
Skip fingered a precise B-flat scale along the steering wheel. “Apologizing.”
“I’m...shit.” Russell pressed an open palm to his forehead. For a big, strong man, he could be an awful baby sometimes.
Looking for his bottle opener, Skip reached across Russell’s lap and popped open the glove compartment. “Listen,” he said, pinning the soda between his knees. “I didn’t mean to bug you.” He flipped off the metal bottle top, eyes on the road, every other sense locked on Russell. “Men touch each other, you know?”
“Yeah.” Russell held out his hand for the bottle opener. “But what if the shopkeeper had guessed?”
Now Skip couldn’t help but laugh. “Guessed what? That old fossil couldn’t remember her own name, let alone worry about us.”
Russell opened his soda, not smiling but no longer looking so constipated.
“We’ll make a deal.” Skip choked back a laugh. “I won’t touch you in public and—”
“I’ll try not to act like an idiot.” Russell raised his Coke in toast.
Skip clicked his bottle against Russell’s.
“I do worry, though.” Russell paused to take a sip of his soda, his gaze far away. “There was a fellow from school, not a friend, you know, but someone I knew, and he was discovered in, well, an indiscreet situation.” He took another swallow, his voice ever more remote. “He’s at the funny farm now, getting shock treatments.”
Skip dragged the hair out of his face. “Cool it, pops. You’re bringing me down.”
“It’s true. You greasers laugh at the rules, but that cop down at the warehouse sure knew your name well enough.”
The urge to guffaw fought with sincere anger. “First of all, Daddy-O, I am not a greaser. The hardest drug I take is vodka, and I shower at least once a week. Secondly, Murphy’s worked down in the Square since I was in high school. If he was going to arrest me, he’d a done it by now. And third...” He didn’t finish the thought. He’d never met a man who tore him up this bad.
They drove past a Texaco, a burger joint, and the Larchmont Motel. Chuck Berry came on the radio, and Skip turned the music up. Fight him or fuck him, it was all the same right now.
***
They hit Long Beach at about ten miles per hour, following a long line of cars up Pacific Avenue. The slow pace gave Russell plenty of time to worry about what would happen when they found Susie.
With one hand loose on the steering wheel, Skip took a swallow of his fourth Coke since they’d hit the road. “Looks like we’re stuck in Antsville.”
“Busier than I thought it’d be.” Russell rode with his elbow propped on the open car window, taking in the sights. Between the sun-burnished copper lights in Skip’s hair and the easy charm in his smile, Russell figured it was safer to keep his eyes on the road.
Skip’s gift for pouring soul into his music was matched by his free and easy laugh. By his generosity. His warmth. Impressions more than full ideas flashed through Russell’s mind, leaving him with the bone-deep certainty that he wouldn’t go home unchanged.
“Lots of people on summer vacation.”
Russell dared a glance in his direction. “Thought you said you’d been here before.”
“Yeah, but it’s been a couple years.”
His smile. Cocky, but sweet enough to take the sting away. So easy to return, with interest. Flustered, Russell pointed out his window. “Do you see the big frying pan? Must be fifteen feet tall.”
Skip snickered. “I’m busy watching out for Jake the Alligator Man over here.”
Russell whipped around and caught the word “museum” on the side of a building. This town had all sorts of tourist attractions.
Their gazes met. Russell ducked, turned, his jaw tight and his cheeks hot. They rolled past low houses on small lots with trim yards and piles of geraniums. After the dustup coming out of Olympia, they’d settled into an easy rapport, some talk, some quiet, and an unspoken need confining itself to quick glances and slow smiles. Russell took in a slow, deep breath. He should be worried about Susie, not Skip.
Now don’t louse things up.
He wasn’t at all sure which one he feared lousing things up with.
Cars were parked solid along both sides of the street, electrical wires tangled above them, and the smell of saltwater dominated everything. Overhead, the clarion-blue sky was enormous, and Russell tried not to gawk.
On the other side of town, traffic died away. The road wound up into the hills, giving them snapshots of the ocean through stands of evergreen trees. After another mile or so, they took a right off the highway. Ryker’s place was one of six identical white cottages lining a circular drive. The cottages faced a deep green lawn, and more evergreens crowded around their shoulders. They had tiny porches and blue front doors, and their eaves were trimmed with white-painted curlicues.
“All they need is a pack of
dwarves,” Skip muttered.
Russell snorted.
Several cars were parked on the gravel strip between driveway and lawn, roughly matched with individual cabins. Skip pulled the old Buick behind a Cadillac and took the slip of paper with the address from his pocket. “Says it’s number four.”
Russell opened his door, nerves twisted tight, the band of muscle across his shoulders even tighter. He’d had hours to come up with the clincher, the one thing that would bring Susie home, and instead he’d spent the time mooning over Skip.
Aunt Maude was going to have a cow.
“That’s his car,” Skip said.
The grim set to Skip’s jaw surprised Russell, because he’d half thought the musician’s line about dragging his drummer home was just that, a line. An excuse for a road trip. He looked pretty darned serious now, though. Russell straightened slowly, marshalling his arguments.
Skip got out of the Buick, and together they climbed onto the porch. The late-afternoon light slanted across the clearing, the air so still, he could hear the trees growing.
Russell knocked.
A brief scramble of footsteps and whispers were cut off with a stifled shriek. Then nothing. Skip stood beside him, muttering about lame drummers, breathing loud.
Russell knocked a second time, hard enough to rattle the door on its hinges. “We know you’re in there. It’s Russell and Skip. Open the damned door.”
More whispers, and the door cracked open. A disembodied voice called out, “What do you want?”
“What do we want?” Shoving past him, Skip hit the door hard and forced it open. “I don’t know apples from oranges, but I think the big guy here wants to settle a grudge.” He kept going till he was nose to nose with Ryker. “I did tell him not to break your hands so you can play the drums on Monday.”
“Aw, shut up,” Ryker said. He was shirtless, his dungarees worn and patched on one knee. Susie stood behind him with a death grip on his elbow. Her fingernails were painted bright red, and the neckline of her light cotton shift showed more skin that Russell had ever seen.
