by Jodi Payne
The head rush was real. The ache in his chest so familiar. The pounding of his heart was a victory.
It was time to return the boy to him.
He spoke evenly and softly, just a couple of inches from Sam’s ear.
“When I say you’re safe, it’s a promise. When I tell you you’re not alone, you can count on that. I will never lie to you. I have no expectations other than you be as truthful as you know how to be. There is no wrong.”
Sam sucked in a deep breath. “I appreciate that. This ain’t easy.”
“No, it’s not.” He slid his hands together on Sam’s lower back and let them glide up and over Sam’s shoulders again. “Are you ready for me to remove this? Or do you need more time?”
“Let’s take it off. I got to move.”
“Of course. Keep your eyes closed; open them when they seem more used to the lighting.” He untied the blindfold and tossed it on the cabinet, not wanting to break physical contact until Sam was ready. “Move whenever you like.”
“You give damn good…hugs, I guess? But I’m hurting.” Sam grunted as he stepped away. He dropped down into a low squat, hands on the floor, curling his upper body over his thighs. Thomas could hear the creak, the snaps of Sam’s spine popping as he rocked on the toes of his boots.
He reached for their waters and handed one to Sam. He wasn’t sure how much of that stiffness was from standing still and how much was from the clearly visible tension Sam had been contending with, but he made a note for next time to work in a conversation about it.
“You did extremely well, b…Sam.”
“I never been praised for standing still, but thank you.” Sam laughed, but it didn’t sound raw, ugly. The chuckle was warm.
He let himself laugh along but rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You and I both know you were doing more than standing still. Thank you for your trust. Your homework is to think about what you experienced just now and how you feel now that we’re finished.” He grinned. “If there’s enough room for one more thing to think about.”
“You know me—there’s nothing going on up here.”
Right. Sam’s brain was in fifth gear, constantly.
“Perfect. Then your answers should be clear.” This was going to work; he was sure of it. Sam had responded on an instinctual level more than a conscious one, proving the boy was receptive. None of it would be easy, but the reward potential was high.
“How about a beer?”
“Sounds great.” Sam stood up, nodded to him. “I could use one.”
“Me too.” He pulled their hats off the wall and handed Sam’s over with a grin. “You’re exhausting.”
“I’m a cowboy. No one promised easy.” Sam popped his hat on, hiding his face. “Come on, it’s beer thirty.”
13
“Have you done anything? You haven’t sent home his things. You haven’t…”
Sam closed his eyes and forced himself not to sigh. “I am in the detectives’ pockets daily, Momma. I’m trying. Colletti’s going to shoot me in the face if I don’t stop calling.”
“Then come home. You’re not doing anything but spending money. We can use you here. Working.”
He shook his head. No. No, he didn’t want to.
God. Fuck. Did he just think that? Really?
“I’m going to cut you off, kiddo. I am not going to support you going to New York and just fucking off for months. I’m not Sally Fincher. I will not let you become some lazy shit that pretends to be depressed or some shit while—”
“Momma!” Jesus. “You sent me here!”
“And I’m calling you back. You have two weeks. Come home. Make yourself useful. I bet you can get a job teaching at the high school. Maybe the middle school.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Momma. I got another call. Love you. Bye.”
He hung up and panted, standing still for a long minute before sinking his fist into the wall, the pain shooting up his arm. “Goddammit!”
What was wrong with him?
What the fuck was wrong with him? He was a cowboy. He belonged in Texas. His family needed him.
But…he wasn’t ready to go.
What was he thinking?
Shit, he…he…
He tried to tug his hand out of the wall, and it was stuck tight. Fuck.
He assumed it was Momma calling back when his phone rang again and was about to toss the damn thing across the living room, when he got a quick look at the screen.
Not Momma. He didn’t want to ignore Thomas’s call, but what the hell was he going to say? Hey, man. Hand’s stuck in the wall. Any ideas?
Okay. Okay, cowboy up.
“Hey, man.” Jesus, he sounded like he was jacking off.
Who knew that stuck in a wall and pulling the pud had the same sound?
“Good morning. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Was that…did Thomas think he was…? Or was that just an overly polite hello? Who the hell could tell with this guy?
“No. Just dealing with…shit. How’s it going?” He tugged, hissing as something tore at his skin, the bones shifting dangerously.
Motherfucker! God hated him. Seriously. God and James up there with his Granny Ellen laughing their ass off on their fluffy clouds.
“Are you okay? Did you get in another fight last night?”
“No! And no.” He sighed, feeling like the worst kind of dipshit. “I’m—”in desperate need of a friend “—stuck in a wall. No worries.”
“I’m sorry, one more time? I think you broke up there for a second. It sounded like you said you were stuck in a wall.” Thomas laughed.
“Did it? Damn. What are you up to today?” He pushed in deeper, trying dislodge more of the crap encasing his fist. When he came back in another life, he was going to be a temperless orphan without the ability to feel pain.
“I was calling to see if you felt like brunch, and maybe a quick trip to the ER—what the fuck is going on over there?”
“Brunch sounds amazing. French toast?” Huh. Blood. Whoa. He hoped that didn’t draw bugs. Hell, he hoped it didn’t make the walls stink. Thank God the cops had already squirted that glow-in-the-dark blood stuff in here, because damn.
“I’m putting you on speaker and ordering an Uber. How bad was it? Did they break anything? They didn’t get your head, did they? Didn’t we talk about this?”
“Thomas, honey. One, we didn’t, no, and two, I didn’t get into a fight. I swear to God. Nobody hit me. My fucking hand is stuck in the wall.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Let me put the phone down a second, huh?”
He set the phone on the floor, put his free hand flat on the wall, and yanked, roaring as the world went sparkly and he hit his knees.
Dude. Okay. He was out.
Sam grabbed his phone, carefully not looking at his hand. “So, do I got time for a shower?”
“Call 9-1-1 first?”
“I got some peroxide in the bathroom, honey.” He sat there and breathed. “I’m glad to hear from you.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you. In about twenty minutes. Try some duct tape while you’re at it.”
Thomas hung up the phone.
“No, dork. It’s superglue. Duct tape just pulls the ripped skin off,” he told the empty line.
Lord, how did the man survive on his own?
He got himself showered and glued up, dancing around like a howler monkey at the sting. “Fuck! Fuck me, that burns!”
God, he hoped the glue dried before he wrapped up his hand, because…yeah. Fuck. Also, whoa. And ow.
Sausage fingers and sticky bandages did not good bedfellows make.
He must have been at it longer than he thought, because suddenly Thomas was texting him. I’m here. I remembered not to try the buzzer.
Yeah, that thing was on the fritz. Also known as the floor.
I’m naked. Gimme 5.
La la la. Jeans. T-shirt because no buttons, and…
“Ah fuck.”
Boot
s.
God hated him.
You do know it’s forty degrees out here, right?
“Fuck.” He hopped around, trying to get his boot on. He was going to freeze to death. He hadn’t brought a coat, and he sure as shit couldn’t buy one now. He dialed Thomas as he got boot two on. “Hey. It going to stress you out if I get one of James’s coats? Be real with me.”
He overbalanced and landed on the sofa. Oof.
“Oh.” There was a bit of a pause, and Thomas cleared his throat. “No, that’s fine.”
Ah. Okay. Fair enough. He probably wouldn’t be able to do it anyway. “On my way down.”
He wasn’t a delicate flower, after all. A little chilly wouldn’t hurt anyone. He looked down at his wrist with a sheepish grin and shook his head. Lord have mercy.
He greeted Thomas with a smile. “Hey. How’s your morning going?”
Thomas looked him over before answering, not saying anything about the coat, but pointing to his wrist. “Better than yours, it appears.”
“Yeah. Not my smartest move ever.” He rolled his eyes and sighed at himself. “Sometimes my temper is a thing.”
“Would you like to talk about whatever set you off?” Thomas shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to him. “I’ve got a sweater.”
His cheeks got fiery, but he accepted the jacket with a grateful nod. “Thanks, man. Seriously.”
This cold was already making shit throb.
Thomas helped him get it on with his shoulder and his wrist and they started walking.
“My momma’s…you know how it is. Your folks can make you so damn mad, but you can’t be ugly, and it’s like a pressure cooker in your head.”
“I do. My mother asks me questions she doesn’t want to know the answers to and gets upset when I answer them. Parents can be difficult. Do we need to pick up something to patch the drywall after brunch, or were you thinking about installing a laundry chute?”
Sam cracked up, just tickled shitless. “I’m opening up a vortex into the fuck-you’re-an-idiot dimension.”
“Oh, I’ve been there. The nachos are out of this world.” Oh, Sam was proud of Thomas’s straight face.
“Mmm…nachos…” He shook his head at Thomas and let himself laugh, let the bullshit dissipate, the sudden lack of tension making him a little dizzy.
“We’re getting quick with this walk.” Thomas held the door to the café open for him. “Oh, yes. Coffee.”
“Thank you, sir.” He inhaled, filling his lungs with all the good smells. “Oh, hell yeah.”
This time the hostess gave him a hug too when she seated them.
“Either you’ve been coming here without me, or it’s that damn hat.”
“Honey, I can work the hat.” He dipped his head, tilted his chin, and winked.
“You like that hat. You use it well.” Thomas looked at him…no, Thomas was watching him. Thomas didn’t just look, not at anybody. The man went for details.
He shrugged but nodded. Everybody needed their armor. Even Thomas. “I can’t remember not having a hat or a cap or something. It’s part of me.”
“It hides your eyes nicely, makes it hard to read your expression. What are you having? My treat.”
“Really?”
Thomas didn’t look stressed, just dipped his chin, and Sam took the kindness.
“I’ll get the next one, then. I’m craving french toast. I keep saying I’ll try something else, and I keep wanting what I want.”
Thomas looked up from his menu, closing it. “I know exactly how you feel.”
He nodded, leaning back into the booth, watching Thomas. It was the strangest thing—the Different Faces of Thomas. There was the laughing goofy man and the almost grumpy man of many words. There was the kind man who didn’t make him ashamed of—what he needed—stuff.
Every so often he had to wonder if he was boring as hell. He didn’t have faces. He had one face. Hidden-under-the-hat face.
Thomas ordered for them both, again, and they got their coffee. “So, did Colletti call you this morning?”
“Threatened to shoot me in the face if I didn’t back off. Charming little guy. Seriously. I adore him.”
“Mm. Yes, you’ve struck a nerve with his team for sure.” Thomas took a sip of his coffee and set it down on the table, staring into it and tapping one finger on the rim. “They’re moving into a…a new phase of the investigation.”
A new phase. The part where they say the asshole couldn’t be caught and they had other cases and other places to spend their energy. The part where James becomes a bunch of pictures and a bloody T-shirt in a box.
They must have called Momma. Shit. Momma and Thomas. Then he tells Momma he wants to stay and asks Thomas if it would bother him if he wore James’s coat. Rock on.
He was batting a thousand and it wasn’t noon yet.
God, he didn’t know what to do, how to make anything better. Not true, because he could go home and help with Daddy and all. He didn’t want to, though. Christ.
Sam closed his hand, letting the agony wash him clean for a single, raw second. Answer Thomas, man. Engage.
“Are they?”
“He said the department…he assured me that it was still active, but since there really hasn’t been any movement in all this time, they have to devote fewer resources to James’s case. They don’t have anything solid to investigate. He also apologized that they’ve been unable to clear me completely because I don’t have an alibi. That’s amusing. I’m an active person of interest in a murder investigation. Never thought I’d say that.”
“I’m way more likely to commit a murder than you are.” Of course he’d never really considered that Thomas was James’s killer. Was that stupid of him? Probably. But there hadn’t been a whole lot he’d done that wasn’t stupid, so he’d just stick with it. Thomas missed James like a lost tooth. He could see it. If he could give James back somehow, he’d do it, in a heartbeat, but…if frogs had wings, they wouldn’t bust their slimy butts. “I’m sorry, man.”
He was too. He didn’t know how to find a killer. He didn’t know how to make someone pay for this mess.
Thomas reached across the table and touched his arm. “I’m feeling all kinds of things right now. I can’t say for sure that murderous isn’t one of them.” Thomas tried to smile for him. “Ravenous is definitely high on the list, though.”
“Well, that part can get fixed up, easy as pie.”
He tamped all the bubbles of acid down and promised himself that tonight he could go back to Mike’s Tavern and vent his spleen on someone’s face. Right now he was going to be here for James’s lover, and if the thought James’s lover stung like a bitch, well, that was idiot tax.
“Easy as french toast.” That grin seemed a lot more like the man he knew. “If you don’t have plans today, I’d love to take up your time.”
How could he say no? Especially when he didn’t want to. “I got nothing on my schedule that I know of.”
Thomas exhaled like the man had been holding his breath all morning, shoulders relaxing a little. “Great. Thank you.” Thomas nodded and picked up his coffee again. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” Lord love a duck, let this have been the hard part of the day. Let it get easier from here.
“Can we talk a little about your…well, about your body for a minute?” Thomas looked a little more serious than the question seemed to warrant.
“Um…okay?” That was a new one. “I mean, sure, I guess. What exactly do you want to know?”
“Well, I understand what’s going on with your shoulder, and I know now that I shouldn’t ask you to stand on your feet for very long without moving around. I’m curious about your other physical limitations.”
“You mean my leg, huh?” He chuckled. “Lord, that was a stone-cold bitch. I wanted to die for a second when that mare landed on me. I’ve had a lot of injuries, but that one was the big wreck.”
“The big wreck? Tell me what happened.” Thomas was watching him
again.
“Lord have mercy. I was riding J87, and I’d done my eight. Hank Waters was riding safety, and he reached for me, and the horses hit wrong. I went down, and she caught me—once in the back and on my left thigh. I went rolling and tangled under Hank’s gelding, or so the story goes. I sure was scattered by then. They say I stood up to run and the whole thigh collapsed. I got a steel bar now and a hoof print above my kidney.”
Thomas nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “Okay.”
“You can’t tell through my jeans or nothing, and I covered all the scars with ink.” He didn’t think it was ugly. Hell, he was sorta proud of his scars. He’d earned every one, from his roper scar under his bottom lip to the burn mark above his nipple where him and James had been lighting cotton balls on fire with rubbing alcohol and throwing them at each other and he’d had one that decided to stick.
“Oh, scars don’t bother me, even nasty ones. That won’t be a pro—” Thomas blinked at him, eyes suddenly focusing. “Sorry. I was working something out and…let me back up.”
Thomas shifted in his chair. “That is an insane story. You’re lucky to be alive. Can I take you to the club later so you can show me your ink?”
“Sure. It’s fine work. Took days.” Undertaker had been a fascinating dude too. Listened to Patsy Cline and Rob Zombie in equal amounts.
“I look forward to seeing it. I should have asked before I asked you to stand still for so long that first time. I apologize. I’ll be more conscientious in the future. What else should I know? Balance issues? Chronic pain? Further injuries?”
“Balance I got, in spades. No stress, man. It ain’t no thing.” He grinned and shrugged. “Hurting’s a part of rodeoing. I’ve broke so many bones, I can’t tell you.”
Thomas chuckled. “I’m no stranger to broken bones myself, and I have a few memorable scars, but I am quite sure that your scars and your stories are bigger and better than mine.”
Their giant plates of french toast arrived along with a beautiful plate of bacon.
“Oh, this will improve my state of mind.”
“Looks good, hmm?” He pondered whether his smart hand would hold a fork. He sorta doubted it. Really, he needed to learn to punch with his right hand.
