Motel. Pool. (17 page)

Buddy made the entire stairway shake when he climbed it. He unlocked his door and ushered Jack in with a small gesture. The interior wasn’t what Jack had expected. Someone had knocked down some walls, so instead of a few cramped motel rooms, Buddy had a reasonably spacious apartment with a separate bedroom and a small but functional kitchen. The apartment was stuffed with paperback books and pieces of machinery—motorcycle parts, Jack thought—but it was comfortable and clean. Framed photos of big naked men hung on the walls.

“Sit,” Buddy ordered, pointing at an armchair. He walked to the fridge. Jack wondered what the downstairs tenants made of the noisy footsteps overhead.

“I got Heineken or Corona. You want Dutch or Mexican?” Bottles clinked as Buddy moved things around inside the refrigerator.

“Nothing. Thanks.”

Buddy twisted around to give him a look. “You in AA or something’?”

“I’m just not thirsty.”

Harrumphing, Buddy found a Heineken for himself. He popped the cap before collapsing onto a leather couch.

“Where’s your husband?” Jack asked.

“Working. He’s a bouncer at a strip club. The girls love him ’cause he doesn’t try to paw ’em and he scares the shit out of rowdy customers.” He drank almost half the bottle at once, belched, and grinned. “Whatta you do when you ain’t thinkin’ in Vegas?”

“I’m an actor.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Um… movies.”

Buddy put the beer down and stroked his beard. “You been in any?”

“Just as an extra.”

“I got a pal in California who runs one of them online porn sites. If you want a job, I bet I could hook you up. Pay’s not bad, ’specially considerin’ you’re getting paid for fucking. I do it for free.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Uh, thanks, but….”

“But you want something respectable. Sure. Can’t help you with that. Hey, you want some badass chili? I made a batch yesterday and there’s still some in the fridge. This shit’ll burn off your tongue and have you beggin’ for more.”

Jack smiled. “No, thanks. I’m really not hungry.”

“But you don’t mind if I have some?”

“Of course not.”

Jack watched as Buddy removed a container from the fridge and stuck it in a small box on the counter. He pushed some buttons on the box, which made a slight whirring sound. After a couple of minutes, it beeped. Buddy removed the container and dumped some of the contents into a bowl. The chili was steaming hot. Jack made a mental note to ask Tag about the little box.

“Could get you somethin’ else if you don’t like chili.” Buddy sat back down on the couch, bowl in hand.

“I’m fine. Have you lived here long?”

“Six years almost. Me an’ Rick used to move around a lot. We lived all over the damn place. Hawaii, Alaska, Texas…. We’d get tired of a place and just hop on our bikes and go, man. But we ain’t gettin’ any younger, as Rick likes to remind me. So we settled down for a while. We make decent money and the rent’s free. ’Nother year or two we’ll have enough saved to move up to Oregon and open us a little custom leather shop.”

It sounded to Jack like a nice dream. “Leather?”

“Riding leathers. Jackets.” Buddy grinned wolfishly. “Harnesses and collars and floggers.”

“Oh!”

Buddy laughed. “You look like an old lady with the vapors. What’s your story, kid? Lapsed Mormon?”

Jack found himself liking this man and didn’t want to lie. But he couldn’t very well tell the truth, could he? “I just don’t get out much.”

“Huh.” There was that piercing stare again. Jack shifted uncomfortably.

But then Buddy smoothly shifted gears and began a long story about a time he and Rick had groped each other in front of a group of scandalized preachers in Tennessee. That led to another tale, this one about seducing a cop in Virginia, and then a story about getting really drunk in Idaho and finding himself in a stranger’s bathtub, wearing an oversized evening gown.

Jack didn’t know if any of the stories were true, but they were funny and Buddy was good at telling them. Along the way, Buddy asked a few questions of Jack, which Jack tried to answer honestly yet evasively. Jack had this strange feeling that Buddy saw right through him.

Sometime in the wee hours, Jack glanced outside and saw Tag trudging home. He looked exhausted or defeated—maybe both. Jack quickly stood. “I have to go.”

Buddy looked out the door and nodded. “Thanks for shootin’ the shit with me.”

“Thanks for having me over.”

When Buddy held out his huge paw of a hand, Jack shook it. “We’ll have to do this again, next time our significant others leave us high an’ dry. Have a good night, man.”

“You too.”

Jack hurried down the stairs and across the courtyard, arriving just as Tag was about to close the door. “Oh!” said Tag. “You went out.”

“Just over there.” Jack pointed at Buddy’s place. “Buddy invited me over.”

Tag narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? What for?”

“Talking. I can’t tell if he’s lonely or nosy.”

Without answering, Tag walked across the room. His steps were just a little unsteady. If Jack could smell, he suspected he’d smell booze. He lit a cigarette and watched as Tag emptied his pockets, but Jack nearly dropped the smoke when he saw the wads of bills Tag produced.

“Holy cow! How much money is that?”

“Dunno. About sixty grand, I think.” Tag sounded less than pleased over it. “I doubled down on sixteen. Bet everything. I got a five and the dealer busted.”

Jack wasn’t an expert on card games, but he was fairly certain Tag’s betting habits were unorthodox at best. It was almost as if Tag was trying to lose. “You had some good luck.”

“Good luck!” Tag snarled the words so viciously that Jack took a step backward. With movements made clumsy by fury and alcohol, Tag shoved the cash to the bottom of his underwear drawer and slammed the drawer mostly shut. Then he simply stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on an empty spot on the wall.

“Do you want to watch TV?” Jack asked.

“I’m tired.”

Jack had the impression Tag intended to be matter-of-fact when he said those words, maybe slightly assertive. But that’s not what came out. Tag’s face might still have been angry, but he sounded exhausted and desperate, a lost soul who’d given up hope of finding his way.

After willing the cigarette to vanish, Jack moved closer to Tag. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t molest you.” He smiled slightly as he remembered Buddy saying the same thing. Jack reached over and started unbuttoning Tag’s green shirt.

Tag didn’t stop him. He remained motionless as Jack tugged the shirt from his shoulders. Jack positioned Tag’s arms upward and pulled his T-shirt up and off, making a mess of Tag’s curls. “Come on.” Jack gently steered Tag to the unmade bed. He pushed on his shoulders until Tag sat; then Jack knelt to remove his shoes and socks. He was sorely tempted to nuzzle at the denim crotch so close to his face—he’d always been good with his mouth—but he knew that would lead to disaster. Instead, he pressed Tag flat, unbuttoned the jeans, and drew them off.

“Do you want a drink of water before you go to sleep?”

Tag blinked blearily at him. “Should brush my teeth.”

“Brush them twice in the morning.” With a little cooperation from Tag, Jack repositioned him so that he lay on his back with his head on the pillow. Jack pulled the blankets up too. He clicked off the light.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry. About… before. It was a nice kiss.”

“I thought so too.”

Within moments, Tag was snoring.

T
AG
SLEPT
through the entire morning and well into the afternoon. It was a restless sleep, though, with lots of tossing and mumbling. When he finally woke up, he didn’t look well rested. “Shit. It’s late,” he said, glancing at the bedside clock.

Jack sat at the table, playing on the computer. “Do you have to be somewhere?”

“No. But I’m carrying the Pacific Ocean in my bladder.” He struggled out of the blankets and made a quick but unsteady beeline for the bathroom. Jack pretended not to notice his impressive morning wood.

Half an hour later, Tag emerged from the bathroom. He was freshly showered and looked slightly perkier but wore only a pair of gray briefs. God, Jack wished he could bury his face in Tag’s wet hair and smell his shampoo. But he had to be content to watch as Tag padded to the fridge for a glass of orange juice.

“You had quite a night last night,” Jack ventured.

Tag glanced over his shoulder at him. “And you had a pajama party with Buddy.”

“He’s interesting.”

“I bet he is.” Tag grabbed an apple before sitting down across from Jack. “He thinks you’re hot.”

“I know. He told me. And he thinks you have a nice ass.”

Interestingly, Tag flushed. “I think Buddy’s husband better keep a closer eye on him.”

“He didn’t try to fuck me, Tag. He just told me a bunch of stories about his life.”

The apple crunched loudly when Tag bit into it. Jack had a sudden sense memory of teeth breaching taut skin and plunging into sweet-tart depths. Once when he was seven or eight and visiting the family in Grand Island, he’d gotten into the winter store of apples down in the cellar and gobbled so many he was sick for two days. Nobody felt sorry for him except Betty. While he lay groaning in bed, she sat on the rag rug nearby, telling endless incoherent tales about her doll.

Tag ate the entire apple, core and all.

“You’ll grow a tree in your stomach,” Jack warned with a grin.

“It’ll be a nice addition to the dirt farm my mom used to say I had behind my ears.”

“Mine said the same thing!”

Their mingled laughter was soft, pleasing to Jack’s ears.

“Hey, Jack? Did you want to do some research on your family? I could help you look them up if you like.”

“My parents must be dead by now. Dad would be almost a hundred and ten, and Mom not much younger.”

“Wow. I hadn’t… that hadn’t computed with me. I’m sorry.”

“I hope they were happy. Not bitter. I know I was a huge disappointment to them, but Betty was a good girl.” He had no more lingering resentment toward his family than he did toward Sam Richards. His parents were uneducated people ruled by old religious and small-town values. They’d loved him as best as they knew how. He hoped they didn’t spend the rest of their lives wondering what happened to their son.

“Your sister might still be around,” Tag pointed out quietly.

“I know. I tried to look for her already.” He’d searched both her maiden name and Betty Ellebruck. “Couldn’t find anything. It’s probably best to leave it alone. My gran used to have a saying: no use digging up old graves. She was right.”

They were both silent for a while after that. Jack didn’t know what was going through Tag’s head, but Jack was thinking about how he didn’t even have a grave. Not that he wanted one, exactly, but he was a little sad to have made so little imprint on the world. If he hadn’t become a ghost and been found by Tag, he’d have remained forgotten forever, as if he’d never even been born.

The chair creaked when Tag pushed it back and stood. He stretched, forcing Jack to turn his gaze away from the tufts of dark hair under his arms. “Do you want to go somewhere?” Tag asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. A drive, I guess. God, you’d think I had enough driving lately! But I think I want to get away from the Strip for a little while.”

“Sure.”

Of course, Jack was ready to go right away, but Tag took fifteen minutes or so to get dressed and out the door. The sunlight was blinding as it reflected off the courtyard’s white concrete. All the colors looked slightly washed out, like overexposed film, and the shadows seemed unnaturally sharp and deep. The interior of Tag’s car was blazingly hot.

“Sorry. I’ll crank the AC,” Tag said.

“I don’t mind.” Death was cold most of the time—except when Tag was near.

Tag didn’t seem to have a destination in mind. He took them down the Strip and onto a freeway that led them out of the city surprisingly fast. There was nothing much but desert for a while. The hills were more rounded than the ones near Jasper, and the greenery was sparser.

“What is
that
?” Jack exclaimed after they’d driven for some time. He pointed at rows and rows of something shiny, with a tall beacon of light in the middle.

“Solar farm.”

“Um… what?”

“It’s for electricity. The mirrors direct the sunlight onto water, I think, and the steam runs turbines.”

“But why?”

Tag grinned crookedly. “Where did the electricity come from in your day, Jack?”

Jack had never really thought about it before. “Coal, I guess. I used to see the coal trains coming in from the west. Oil?”

“Fossil fuels. Nonrenewable and bad for the environment. Climate change, right? Solar’s better.”

Mystified by this discussion, Jack simply nodded. He might have learned to use a computer and a remote control, but there was clearly much about the modern world he didn’t understand. Would he have kept up with it all if he hadn’t died? He imagined himself eighty years old, sitting in a rocking chair, complaining about young whippersnappers today. When he was a boy, one of his elderly relatives refused to ride in a car. “People weren’t made to go any faster than on horseback!” she used to insist. She flat-out denied the existence of airplanes.