Prodigal

by TA Moore

  “COFFEE?” DONNA stared at Morgan in surprise and then checked the cup of milky tea in her hands. Something bleak cracked through her careful “everything is all right now” facade for a moment before she calmly plastered back over it. “Sorry. I should have asked. Do you take creamer?”

  She whisked the tea away, back into the kitchen. Every now and again she tripped over something that threatened her conviction that she could “just tell” that Morgan was Sammy, that he drank coffee now or he didn’t remember some in-joke Donna had with her son. She’d managed to ignore them all so far.

  Morgan wiped pizza-greasy fingers on a napkin and glanced over the coffee table at Shay. “I’ll talk to Mac tomorrow, about Hill,” he said. “So I want the car ready to go.”

  “As soon as Mac has your statement, you can pick it up,” Shay said. “There’s a spare set of keys in the tire well, so you don’t have to say goodbye in person.”

  Dinner had been awkward. The tension between Shay and Donna was tight enough to strum, but nobody wanted to acknowledge it. Instead it was a bitter trade-off, where Donna only spoke to Morgan and Shay only spoke to her.

  “Yeah, that’s nice,” Morgan said. “I’m sure the cop who picks me up for hauling a stolen car over the border will appreciate your consideration. I want papers. It’s my car, free and clear.”

  Shay looked disgusted at the accusation, but he nodded.

  “Did you hear about what happened with Boyd?” Donna asked from the kitchen. “Ridiculous. It isn’t right.”

  “Not now, Mom,” Shay said. He stared at Morgan as he said it. “It’s not important.”

  Fuck him. “What do you mean?” Morgan said. “What happened to Boyd?”

  “Nothing,” Donna spat as she brought the coffee out of the kitchen. The venom in her voice made Morgan flinch with surprise. “Nothing ever happens to him, does it? He just sails through life and never has to pay the consequences.”

  Shay clenched his jaw. “Drop it.”

  “I will not,” Donna snapped. “You all lied to me, but he was the worst of it. I saw those pictures. He tried to take advantage of… Morgan, to use his money against him. And he lied to me, to all of us. Yet he gets to keep his job? It’s not right.”

  Shay rubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus, what did you have?”

  She handed Morgan his coffee, and he smelled her sour, sticky breath. He grimaced and leaned back from her.

  “Whiskey,” he said. That she drank wasn’t a surprise. She had the sallow, red-veined cheeks of someone who got too many calories from liquor, but he could have done with a different tipple. The smell of it soured the coffee when he sniffed it until he couldn’t tell if it was in his nose or the hot liquid.

  “Mom, you can’t do this,” Shay said. “It hasn’t even been a week.”

  She snorted at him. “Do what? Have an Irish coffee after dinner? Don’t act like I’m the addict in the family, Shay. I won’t let you bad-mouth me in front of… Morgan. I won’t have it. Or taking Boyd’s side.”

  Morgan’s temper flared with a hot scratch that slid up his spine and into his skull. He wasn’t sure whether it was the way Donna talked about Boyd or the way she talked to Shay that put him on edge. Both. He didn’t even like Shay, but the ready, weaponized anger Donna used like a whip was too familiar.

  “Why would he need to?” Morgan asked as Donna, still glaring at Shay, sat down opposite him. “Trust me. Boyd didn’t take advantage of me. I wanted to fuck him the minute I saw him.”

  Shay looked uncomfortable. Donna looked disgusted as she leaned back into her chair.

  “Shut up,” she snapped. Then she visibly caught herself, one hand to her lips. “I didn’t mean that. That wasn’t what I meant to say. It’s just you don’t talk like that. You’re not like that.”

  Morgan set the coffee on the table, on top of the greasy pizza box. It felt good being an asshole instead of playing the good kid come home.

  “What, gay or easy?” he asked.

  Donna shook her head and patted her cheeks with her fingers as though she needed to push her good-mom face back into place. “Just don’t talk like that,” she said. “You’re not old enough for that sort of thing. Did Boyd tell you to do it? He’s…. You don’t understand. Do you know what he did when you were gone? He went to school. He got a job. Nothing bad happened to him.”

  “Good,” Morgan said. He meant it too. Maybe Boyd had more chances to be a good person than Morgan had, but in the end, they’d made their own calls. And Morgan liked Boyd’s easy affection too much—the head on his shoulder, the softness in those pretty eyes when he looked at him—to wish anyone had scarred it over. “And you think he should lose his job because he bailed me out of jail? Nice.”

  Donna reached for her boozy coffee. “I would have paid it.”

  “With what?” Shay asked. “Money you borrowed from Boyd?”

  That made her flinch, and the coffee slopped over the edge of the cup. She yelped in surprise as the hot liquid hit her, and she jumped to her feet, her T-shirt plucked away from her body with one hand.

  “I have to… have to change,” she stammered. “Then we can forget this, forget Boyd, and have dessert. I got mint chocolate chip for you…. Morgan, it’s your favorite.”

  He gave her that. It wasn’t as though she could turn it into coffee. He waited until the sound of her feet reached the top of the stairs and then gave Shay a bleak look.

  “Your mom’s a—”

  “Troubled,” Shay interrupted. “She doesn’t mean it. It’s just that she’s got no one else to be angry at. Maybe you should go. This is…. She’s trying, but you’re not eight, and that’s not something she’s finding easy to accept. The drink makes it easier for her.”

  “Will you be okay?” Morgan asked as he got up.

  Shay gave him a quick smile. It was surprisingly sweet against that coolly handsome face. “I’m used to it. Come on. I’ll call you a cab.”

  They waited outside on the neat square of dead lawn next to the mailbox. Someone had carved Calloway down the post in stiff, pocket-knife lines. Morgan glanced uncomfortably at it and away.

  “Don’t go to Boyd’s,” Shay said suddenly. “Not because of Mom or because I’m jealous—”

  Morgan scowled. “Good, because you lost your chance,” he said. “He’s—”

  “Not like that,” Shay interrupted with an exasperated sigh. Morgan was relieved he didn’t have to find the words to finish that sentence, because none of them belonged to him. Mine. In love already. My boyfriend. Something picked at the back of his brain, a nail against a scab, but Shay interrupted him. “Boyd’s been my stand-in kid brother for longer than my real kid brother. I kind of got used to him being around, so even if you weren’t a con artist, my nose would have been put out of joint. He never picked anyone else over me before.”

  Morgan shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want to hurt him either,” he said, because why play stupid now. “If I wasn’t me, if I was Sammy, maybe I wouldn’t have to.”

  “I don’t know,” Shay said. He slapped his hand on Morgan’s shoulder with awkward, halfhearted affection. “I loved my brother, but he could be a little ass. He gave Boyd a black eye, you know, that last day. God knows why. Boyd never said. I don’t think he knew.”

  The itch in the back of Morgan’s brain jabbed him again and then slunk away before he could grab it. It would come to him eventually. The cab finally pulled up outside, and the driver looked out over the passenger seat at them. “Morgan?”

  “Let him go,” Shay said as he tightened his fingers on Morgan’s shoulder. “Let me tell him you were a con artist, that you just used him. Or stay and face the music.”

  “What if I don’t like either of those options?” Morgan asked.

  Shay just shrugged and went back inside. The door slammed behind him, and Morgan was left with a decision to make.

  “Hey?” the driver said irritably as he tapped the horn. “You want a ride or not?
”

  “Yeah,” Morgan said as he shook off the moment of doubt. “Get me the hell out of here.”

  THE TRUTH was that Morgan got in the car with the best of intentions. Or at least the best intentions he could muster when tomorrow he was going to try to pass himself off as a missing eight-year-old. The driver had the address of the B and B, and the only company Morgan planned to have was a beer to rinse away the smell of whiskey.

  That lasted until the black Toyota pulled up outside a bar and Morgan looked out the window and saw Boyd on the sidewalk. A stocky woman with curly shoulder-length hair pulled him along, both her hands wrapped around his wrist. Boyd laughed as an older man, hair shaved down to fuzz and beard clipped neat and square slung a wiry, companionable arm over his shoulder. Another man orbited them, all smiles and good humor. Friends on a night out, easy and casual as the bouncer waved them through the door.

  “Let me off here,” Morgan said. He pulled cash out of his pocket, the notes still beer-scented from the scuffle in the bar, and passed them forward. “Thanks.”

  The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his brown eyes tired and red-rimmed. “You sure?” He tapped the GPS screen with one blunt finger. “Still a long walk to your hotel.”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry about it,” Morgan said as he popped the seat belt loose and nudged the door open. “I got somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

  The driver chuckled, shook his head, and tucked the money into his jacket. “You gotta love a confident man,” he said. “But if it doesn’t work out? I’m working until two.”

  Morgan smirked. “I won’t.”

  He slid out of the car, slammed the door behind him, and loped across the road to the door of the club. The bouncer gave him a brief once-over, and his gaze lingered on the bruise on Morgan’s temple. Then he pointed his chin to the taxi that still idled at the lights.

  “If you just saw your ex go in,” he said, voice pitched to carry over the thump of music, “go home. She don’t want to see you, and I don’t want to have to haul your ass out.”

  Morgan tilted his head to the side and peered past the wide black-clad shoulder. He could see Boyd, one arm propped on the woman’s shoulder as they settled into a booth.

  “Far as I know, he hasn’t dumped me yet,” he said. “Cute guy, dark and pretty eyes. He’s a firefighter.”

  The bouncer rolled his eyes. “Great. So if I don’t let you in, I’m keeping a hero from getting laid? Fine. Go on in. But don’t make me regret it.”

  Morgan mock-crossed his heart, and the bouncer waved him through into the club. The lighting was low and the music was too, for now. The night was still young and chill. Only a few people had ventured onto the dance floor, laughing and engrossed with each other, while most of them were still at the bar or at tables. Two of Boyd’s group had already veered off, one after a blond in a miniskirt and the other to the restrooms.

  “C’mon,” one of Boyd’s remaining friends cajoled, his voice a bit too loud. “It’s a celebration, Maccabee. You need to cut loose. You need… tequila!”

  Boyd shook his head. “Beer,” he said. “I’m back on duty tomorrow, remember?”

  The other man pouted and braced his arm against the booth, the stain of inked arms visible through his shirt. “So that just means you have to stay sober. It doesn’t mean you have to be on your best behavior. Find the bad boy inside.”

  Yeah. Morgan narrowed his eyes. This guy was a bit too easy and comfortable with Boyd. Morgan didn’t love that. He wasn’t worried about it—Boyd didn’t look at Tatts the way he looked at Morgan, breathless and distracted—but that didn’t mean he was going to let it go either.

  “Yeah,” he drawled as he came up behind Tatts. “I’ve got that part handled.”

  Tatts turned and looked up at him. To his credit, he didn’t look intimidated by Morgan’s bulk, but Morgan could try harder.

  “And?” Tatt’s raised his eyebrows. “You are who exac—”

  The woman rolled her eyes, leaned over the table, and yanked on the back of Tatt’s shirt. “He’s the bad boy, Jessie. Get out of his way.”

  Tatts—Jessie—snorted but did as he was told. Once he moved, Morgan slid onto the bench next to Boyd.

  “Hey,” he said as he slung his arm along the back of the booth. Boyd gave him a dubious look, heavy brows drawn together warily. Morgan shrugged and brushed his fingers over the nape of Boyd’s neck. “So you’re a firefighter again, huh?”

  Boyd shivered at the contact, and then his mouth twitched into a smile. “Yeah. Turns out they can’t do without me. So it’s official again. Until next time. So the guys wanted to take me out to celebrate. Danni, Tom”—Boyd ticked off the rest of the group as he went around the table until he got back to—“Jessie. This is Morgan.”

  Jessie widened his eyes and pointed. “Oh, the dude everyone thinks is the missing kid? That must be weird as hell, huh?”

  “Subtle,” Danni said sarcastically. She poked him in the ribs. “Go get the drinks, cuz.”

  Jessie dramatically rolled his eyes but did as he was told. But once he was gone, the question still hung awkwardly in the air. “Weird as hell” was, Morgan supposed, one way to put it. But if he were willing to care about that, he’d have told the cab driver to keep going.

  “I thought he was a nerdy accountant first time I met him,” Morgan said. He tapped his finger against the arm of Boyd’s glasses. “I mean, look at him. He does not scream firefighter.”

  “Really?” Boyd said. He reached up and pulled Morgan’s hand away from his glasses. “An accountant?”

  “Or schoolteacher,” Morgan offered. He grinned as Boyd huffed at him. “I still thought you were cute.”

  Tom laughed. “This idiot?” he asked as he pointed a finger at Boyd. “In an office? He’s always first through the door.”

  “He is good with kids, though,” Danni pointed out as Jessie delivered a round of tequila shots and one beer. She grinned at him as she lifted the glass to her lips. “Just saying. Boyd’s never made a class cry, right?”

  They bickered and laughed, jibes traded affectionately as the glasses were emptied and refilled. Morgan let it wash over him with the occasional comment to show he’d paid attention while Boyd nursed his beer and kept his fingers tangled through Morgan’s.

  If someone didn’t know who they were, what this was, it might look like holding hands.

  Eventually Jessie excused himself to chat to an equally tattooed couple at the bar, Danni bounced up and hit the dance floor as “her song” came out, and Tom excused himself to take a call from his wife.

  Morgan stole Boyd’s beer, glass cold against his fingers, and took a drink.

  “I should have called,” he said. “Wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

  “Since when has that stopped you?” Boyd asked. When Morgan didn’t respond, he let go of Morgan’s hand and shifted around on the bench to look at him. “I thought maybe it would be better, with Donna, if I kept my distance.”

  Morgan remembered the venom in Donna’s voice as the drinks let her composure slip. “You could be right,” he admitted. “Shay thinks you’d be better off if I kept my distance, that I’ll hurt you in the long run. He might be right too.”

  “You’re still here.” Boyd pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Morgan said. He cupped Boyd’s jaw with one hand, stubble rough against his palm. “I guess I’m just an asshole.”

  “I noticed.” Morgan scowled at the dry retort, but Boyd laughed at him and then pulled him down for a kiss. He ran his hand along Morgan’s thigh and stroked over the tight lengths of muscle to his hip. Morgan grumbled at the detour, his cock already tender and thick under his jeans, and then again when Boyd pulled back from him. “I could hurt you too, you know. You want me to back off?”

  Morgan slid his hand around to the nape of Boyd’s neck and kissed him. It was hard and impatient, a rough scrape of lips and teeth that left them both flushed and breathless.

  “Okay,” Morgan sa
id as he lifted his head. He dragged his thumb along Boyd’s lower lip, the stern set of it kissed out of the way. “Take me home.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I HAVE to go, you know,” Morgan said.

  He sprawled across Boyd’s bed, all heavy muscle and long bones in the dawn light. Old scars freckled his body, most of them unremarkable. A skinned knee that had healed down to a shiny comma of white skin, a surgically straight crease just above his groin that was only visible because he was so ripped, and a pockmark on his upper arm that looked like chicken pox. His skin was damp with sweat and sticky with a glaze of half-dried come on his stomach and thighs.

  “You know where the bathroom is,” Boyd said as he dragged a T-shirt over his head and resisted the urge to crawl back into bed. He flashed a grin at Morgan as he grabbed a pair of clean jeans out of his wardrobe. “Feel free.”

  “Not what I meant,” Morgan said. He sat up, cock heavy and soft between his thighs, and watched Boyd get dressed. “I’m not your happily ever after. You’re—”

  “What? A one-night stand? A hookup?” Boyd asked. He hitched up his jeans over his thighs and buttoned them. “We definitely slept together this time, slept in, actually, so you can’t say we just fucked. Not enough to keep you in town is still on the table, though.”

  Morgan scowled. “If you’re pissed at me, why’d you fuck me?” he asked.

  “Because you’re hot,” Boyd said. He gave in and leaned over the bed, one arm braced against the mattress, to kiss Morgan’s sullen, sweat-salty mouth before he could pull away. “And I was halfway in love with you three days ago, asshole.”

  “You—” Morgan started to grumble and then choked on what he was about to say. He roughly shoved Boyd away and glared at him. “Fuck off. You are not.”

  Boyd ignored the denial. He was done with people telling him what he could feel, even Morgan. He flopped down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to grab his sneakers and drag them on over bare feet. It was easier than looking for socks, and he would change into his uniform at the station.