Promise Rock 03 - Living Promises (MM) (16 page)

“Martin's his family, too,” Crick said quietly. “If….” His eyes closed really tightly, and he seemed to change the track of what he was saying in midair. For someone who had known him when he was young, this seemed almost as impossible for him to do as Collin's mother had said that stealth was for Collin.
Crick cleared his throat and started again. “If I had died when that missile hit,” he said, like this was a more comfortable thought than he'd had in mind, “if I had died, Deacon would have taken care of Benny and Parry Angel. I have no doubt in my mind. They may have been the only things keeping him on the face of the planet, but he would have stood for them. This is no different. Martin needs someone—maybe even specifically Jeff, who is the last part of his brother that Martin has left. I don't think it has anything to do with you, you know?”
Collin swiped a slice of red pepper and munched on it. “Except,” he mumbled, still trying to get a lid on the hurt, “he is the perfect excuse for not getting close.”
“That too,” Crick agreed, and he stretched his hand again and started chopping vegetables in moody silence.
“I'm sorry,” Collin said after a minute. “You said you had something for me to do?”
Crick nodded. His straight black hair was falling in his eyes, and his narrow, pretty face was taut with shit he wasn't saying. He threw his head back to shake the hair out of the way and gave Collin another one of those weary grins.
“Look, all I need is this. When we start dessert, could you, I don't know, take the girls and maybe Martin, too, if he'll go, into the other room? Jeff will tell you what it's all about, and I have no problem with that—either that, or you'll hear people anyway. But it's going to be chaos, and people are going to be mad and hurt and… and just really fucking worried, okay? Anyway, if you could just, I don't know, manage the chaos? Pick Jeff up off the floor when it's over? Man, that would help so much.”
The knife started to mince a tomato savagely as he spoke, and Crick kept after it for a few moments until it was well-diced pulp, the movements so heated and angry that Collin was afraid to say anything in case he broke Crick's concentration. The knife-work stopped, and the remains of the tomato leaked sadly on the cutting board. Crick looked up from them with another one of those cardboard smiles.
“You poor baby—I imagine you're thinking this is way over your pay grade, aren't you?”
“Well,” Collin said brightly, “maybe I should ask for a raise!”
Crick's smile fixed itself for a minute, and Collin could suddenly see what Deacon Winters had seen in Crick for their whole lives. “Maybe you should get one from him without asking!” he said with a waggle to his eyebrows, and Collin laughed until they both watched Jeff's Mini Cooper pull up the driveway.
Collin watched as Jeff got out of it, with Martin mirroring his motions on the other side, and suddenly his heart gave a vicious squeeze in his chest.
Maybe he didn't have a choice in the matter. Maybe he needed to just fucking earn his keep.

Jeff: Communication Breakdown

W
HEN
Jeff left Collin after that disastrous visit to Coloma, he was pretty sure he was cooked and done. But that didn't stop him from jumping with both feet into another big cauldron of bubbling emotional goo.

Shane's baby, Promise House, his home for runaway teens, was on a stretch of property right next to Deacon's. Apparently, clearing out the unused acreage of star thistles and grasses also cleared it out of rattlesnakes, to Deacon's immense relief, and what was left was about six acres of horse property with a house that Shane had recently had completely rebuilt on the original foundation.

Although the house looked like a large, two-story family home— the kind that also got turned into hotels and B&Bs—Shane had also gone for practicality: the east wing was for girls, and the west wing was for boys, with a big dining room and common room in the middle, as well as a large kitchen with cabinets that locked for knives and medication. There were two smaller rooms by the common rooms for counseling and private conversations. The whole thing was decorated eclectically. The common room was bright and cheerful, the counseling rooms were pastel and soothing, and the bedrooms had white walls with a
lot
of posters.

Jeff assumed the kids were allowed to decorate their own rooms, and he was greatly cheered. His own room growing up as a kid had been covered with pictures of Matt Biondi and the entire 1992 Olympic swim team. His parents had assumed that was because he was good at the sport, and he'd assumed they'd get the idea when he put the poster for
The Phantom of the Opera
up next to the poster of the half-naked swim team. So much for assumptions. Still, those posters, and the ones of
A Chorus Line
, and Abercrombie and Fitch, and the poster for
Reality Bites
to feed his Ethan Hawke obsession—they all let him be who he wanted, even in the confines of his father, and the church, and his very, very justified fears that who he wanted to be was not what the world wanted from him at all.

Kimmy looked up from where she sat, playing a hand of cards with two girls in jeans and hooded sweatshirts. The girls looked up at him, the expression on their faces carefully neutral, and he smiled and gave a flirty little wave to prove he was absolutely not a threat even at all. Then he answered Kim's questioning look.

“Can I see Martin?” His own voice startled him, because it didn't sound like a question at all. It sounded like a politely phrased command, but even though Kimmy raised her eyebrows, she didn't seem to hold it against him.

“He's in the kitchen with Lucas,” Kim said. “They're on dish detail.”
Jeff let his eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up and was rewarded by Kim's blush and the girls' titters.
“He got a job at a linen service,” Kim muttered. “Apparently we're his last delivery.”

“That's convenient,” Jeff said blandly, and Kim's blush intensified.

“Shut up, Jeff, and go get Martin. Grab whatever conference room you want to destroy—do you want me there?”
Jeff shook his head. “When this fails spectacularly, I'd rather not have witnesses, thank you,” and he took a step toward the kitchen when Kimmy stood up and put her hand on his arm.
“You look like shit, Jeffy,” she said for his ears only. “If this goes south, I'm taking you into the conference room myself to see what's going on in your poor tormented little self, okay? You're not getting out of here without someone, right?”

Jeff swallowed and blinked rapidly. Jesus, you walked a girl through one of the worst moments of her life, and she thought you owed her. “Appreciated, Kimmy. I'm just being… a stubborn bastard, I guess, right?”

Kimmy kissed his cheek. “God, Jeffy—it's a good thing you're a flaming 'mo, or a girl could think you were just being macho to impress her.”

Jeff rolled his eyes and made his way to the kitchen, feeling grateful.
Martin and another boy his age were wandering around the kitchen, hunting and pecking like they didn't know where to put things but were making a good faith effort to do it anyway. Lucas and an older man Jeff didn't recognize were washing and drying, and Jeff remembered that Shane and Kimmy had hired an employee—probably a couple, if he thought about it. Kimmy and Mikhail were still dancing on the weekends, and Shane was going to school for a counseling degree. They all needed to sleep, and most nights, somewhere besides the house.

But the heart of the place was Shane and Kimmy—of that, Jeff could have no doubt.
“So, you're saying just because I'm black, I play basketball!” Martin was scoffing as Jeff stood at the doorway and listened.
“Naw, man—I'm saying that just because you're black, you get
women
!” the other boy said, grinning and throwing a dishrag at Martin's head.
Martin fielded the dishtowel and twisted it tight and began to stalk his intended victim. “Are you saying a gentleman kisses and tells?” he teased back. The towel shot out with a wicked snap, and the other kid, a white boy who was too thin and had nicotine stains on his fingers and teeth, howled good-naturedly.
“Mr. Allston!

The older man rolled his eyes in Lucas's direction and cleared his throat. He must have been an ex-cop or an old shop teacher or something equally intimidating, because that one little sound made Jeff's shoulders straighten and his eyes grow wide. Martin stood the same way, dropping the towel to his side and apologizing promptly.

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Forgeddaboudit,” Mr. Allston muttered amicably, and Martin scowled at the other kid before going back to putting away dishes.
God, he was a good boy. Just like Kevin, he had that sense of honor and that integrity and willingness to do right. Jeff owed him. It wasn't rational, or even sane, but it was the truth. Jeff could lie to himself and lie to the other people in his life, even Crick, even, God forbid, Collin.
“Martin,” he said hesitantly into the warm, bantering clatter. “Uhm, Martin?”
The boy looked up, his relaxed, open expression hardening, becoming self-protective, even as he saw Jeff's eyes. Lucas and Mr. Allston, and the kid who'd been giving him shit, all looked up with interest and caution, and Jeff wanted to crawl under the linoleum. God, all this effort to bare his soul, and there wasn't even a hot guy or a foot rub at the end of it. He hoped Kevin was laughing his ass off up in Valhalla, because someone ought to be.
“Yeah?”
“Can we, uhm, talk for a minute? Please?” He was never going to get used to this feeling, like his chest was cracked open by rib-spreaders and he was pinned to a gurney like a grisly butterfly in God's most sadistic collection.
Martin looked him up and down for a minute, and Jeff sighed.
“Look, kid. You asked me a question this morning. I gave you a bullshit answer. Do you want a real answer, or were you just asking it to make me squirm?”
The silence in the kitchen was now electric, and Martin looked reluctantly at his new friends. “Conference room,” he muttered, and Jeff let him lead the way.
When they got there, Jeff closed the door behind him and looked at Martin on the other end of the room. Neither of them made any move to sit down, and Martin's expression was as hostile as a rabid crocodile.
Crap.
“I didn't want to be mad at him,” Jeff said into the silence, and Martin reacted in confusion.

“What? Who?”

“Your brother.” Jeff crossed his arms in front of him. It was childish and immature, but he didn't want to feel like a dissected frog, so he didn't give a shit. “It's the reason I told him we didn't need condoms anymore, after the first one broke. See….”

He started pacing—he always did his best thinking when he was moving. It's why he'd loved dancing and swimming so much. He'd felt liberated and empowered.

“I was virus-free, Martin—I mean, religiously paranoid about the whole thing. I was a med student, right? We got the whole grisly breakdown of what HIV can do to you. I never left home without a rubber, and, honestly, my last relationship before your brother was about six months before we met. I mean… I'd had my club days, right? But med school wasn't a joke, and I was….” God, he'd been so dedicated. He'd wanted to be a doctor, and… shit. He probably could be now, couldn't he? But five, nearly six years ago, things hadn't seemed so certain, and he'd needed the health insurance a lot more than he'd needed the ambition. “I was really sure I was going to be the next… I don't know. McSteamy, or McDreamy, or McGay-me or what the hell ever. So I got tested every three months, and I had the white cell count of a virgin on an all anti-oxidant diet who ate vitamin C for dessert, you know?”

Martin was just… just looking at him. He didn't answer, but he did blink very slowly and nod a little, and Jeff swallowed and looked away from him. Who wanted to hear your brother was a man-whore? But Kevin had been honest—completely and totally honest. Gloryholes, rentboys, he'd done his share, and he hadn't always been careful. But he had been with Jeff.

“So when the condom broke, I… I knew if I got infected, even from that one thing, it would be Kevin. And I didn't want to be mad at him for it, so I talked him into that crappy decision just so it could be me and not him. I mean….”

Jeff hadn't thought he could cry anymore. Maybe it was that stupid thing your body did, where once you had a good cry, you just couldn't stop. He hated that thing. Nothing made him feel weaker, and for a moment he stood, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“Gaaawww!” It was the only word he had. Lame and useless, but there you go. He pulled his hands away and said, “Kid, you would not believe the day I had. It was probably the worst fucking judgment on my part to come here and spill my guts on you, but… well, let's just say I was in a „the truth shall set you free' sort of mood and leave it at that.”

“Are you?” Martin said into that total non sequitur.
“Am I what?” But Jeff knew.
“Are you mad at my brother?”
Heartbeat. Well, shit. He'd said the truth would set him free, right? “I'm furious. But not for that.” His shoulders slumped. Did he

really have work tomorrow? His eyes wandered to the clock hanging over the door. It was hard to tell how late it was in November—it just got dark so early. Well shit—it was hardly seven o'clock.