Thyme (Naughty or Nice) (2 page)

It took him roughly six minutes to stuff his old school backpack with jeans, shirts, boxers, and socks. He’d grabbed his hairbrush and toothbrush from the bathroom, but that was it. He wasn’t going to chance taking anything that would possibly attract security’s attention. After 9/11 the airport security was exceedingly tight, and with damn good reason. Not even his hatred of stubble mattered in the face of Verne’s almost-death.

Shoving his passport into the bag, he threw a quick look around, but nothing else caught his attention. He stumbled toward the front door, fumbling his keys out of his pocket as he went. Driving in this state of mind was a bad idea—utterly foolish—but he didn’t have time to wait for a cab. Momma’s lessons on patience failed in the face of injuries that led to almost-death.

He needed to be at the hospital three fucking
days
ago. He needed to be back at the Christmas Eve party six fucking
years
ago. And neither was going to happen.

“You better be alive when I get there, bastard,” he hissed. Anything else would be beyond unacceptable.

B
LINKING
, Julien glanced up at the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. He didn’t remember leaving his house or taking the forty-minute drive through holiday traffic that was closer to two hours. That should have terrified him, but all he felt was relief. Did he lock the door behind himself? He grimaced, not caring. Let burglars make off with his plasma TV.

His vision had tunneled, only light wasn’t at the end of it, Verne’s dying body was. “Focus, damn it. She said he
was
dying, not he
is
dying. That means he’s alive.”

Inhaling deeply, Julien shook his head and slapped his cheeks. He stared at himself in the rearview mirror, barely recognizing himself. His lips were bitten almost raw, and shadows had appeared beneath his eyes, as if by magic. His dark brown eyes were almost black with shock.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he shoved it aside and then pushed open the door, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat and barely remembering to lock it before slamming it shut. At least he thought he did; his hearing still wasn’t one hundred percent. At least he’d put it in the right place according to the “long-term parking” sign he passed.

This time, Julien acknowledged that he was the one shaking and trembling. There was no earthquake, no shifting of tectonic plates. Not as far as the outside world was concerned anyway. Any scientist measuring his heartbeat would rate it an 8.0 or above on the Richter scale.

Julien hefted the bag higher on his shoulder and walked through the automatic doors; they parted before he reached them, which was good, because in his state of mind—almost catatonic—he would have walked right into them.

About twenty feet into the airport, he found an electronic ticket machine. Name, age, etc., were easy to fill in. He didn’t realize he might have a problem until it asked for his destination. He typed in “Germany” and hoped the machine was actually helpful. Amazingly enough, it was. A list of airports popped onto the screen.
Landstuhl
…
Landstuhl
… nothing? How could there be nothing?

His hands clenched around the console, and he briefly wished he were strong enough to snap the damn thing in half. How could—wait a minute—hadn’t Momma Verne said something about flying into Frankfurt?

Fingers skimmed along the screen, retyping the new destination and scrolling through the information. Flight 702, departing Dallas/Fort Worth for Frankfurt, Germany at 4:35 p.m. local time and arriving in Frankfurt at 9:45 a.m. It was a nonstop flight with American Airlines. Julien didn’t even glance at the price as he claimed a first class seat on the plane. Whatever it cost, he could definitely afford it. Hell, he would have been happy with a squished seat back in coach.

Swiping his credit card through the machine only took a moment. Once the receipt spat into his hand, he shoved it and the credit card back into his wallet and returned it to his jean pocket. The next thing to spill from the console was a boarding pass, which he snatched with greedy fingers. All right, his flight was due to leave in—

“Now boarding flight 702 to Frankfurt, Germany, from gate B17,” a mechanical voice droned over the intercom.

Horrified eyes swept to his watch, and he saw that it was already 3:50 p.m. If running through the airport wouldn’t have been suspicious, he would have done so. Instead, he settled for walking as quickly as possible toward the security checkpoint. The regular line seemed interminably long, so he moved to the frequent flier line.

He might not fly frequently, but he was singularly motivated to follow all procedures faster than an alligator could strike. Shoes, watch, wallet, belt, backpack, and his keys were all shoved summarily into a little gray bin on a conveyor belt.

The flight was scheduled to take off in half an hour. He didn’t have time for a delay, no matter how short it would be. And even this express lane moved slower than a glacier.

Holding his breath, Julien stepped through the metal detector.
Please, God, don’t let the pins in my elbow set the damn thing off.
Silence. He blinked, realized he was on the other side, and grabbed the container with his belongings.

Julien yanked on his shoes, slid on his watch—ignoring the metal as it pulled hair from his skin—and looped his belt (which held his cell phone) through his jeans. His wallet sunk back into his pocket, and the backpack was firmly nestled on his shoulders. That left his keys. He lifted them out, pausing only to run his thumb over the alligator toe keychain Nana gave him when he was thirteen; for a moment, his head cleared. He sighed. The memories attached to it were too similar to the current situation for his comfort.

He pushed them into his pocket, all too aware that the keychain had only made it through the checkpoint because of Nana’s “voodoo.” After all, what harm could a rabbit’s foot possibly cause?

“Final call for boarding, flight 702 to Frankfurt, Germany, from gate B17. Please make your way to the gate at this time,” the robotic, feminine voice said.

Hurrying down the corridor, he turned a corner, eyes locked on the massive signs hanging from the ceiling. B13, B15—ha!—B17. He resisted the urge to leap over the luggage blocking his path and impatiently skirted it. He handed the freckled brunette behind the counter his boarding pass; she scanned it and returned it to him.

Her smile reminded him of cheap plastic, like the kids’ toys at McDonald’s. “Have a nice flight, Mr. Lafayette.” He barely withheld a wince when his name came out as “laugh-a-yeti”.

“Thank you,” he replied. His momma had taught him manners, after all. Even if he rarely chose to employ them in high-stress situations. Besides, “nice” wasn’t a word that could ever describe Verne’s almost-death.

Julien passed through the door and hurried down the tunnel to the plane.

“May I see your ticket please?” The short blonde, who was much too thin to be healthy, extended a fine-boned hand.

It was only then that he realized the plastic woman at the desk had shoved a piece of paper into his hand. He dutifully extended it. She gave it a cursory glance before pasting a smile on her face; it was so wide that it had to hurt, and showcased her blinding white teeth. Maybe he should have grabbed his sunglasses….

“Your seat is right here, Mr. Lafayette.” She pointed with one red-lacquered nail to a wide, gray seat only a foot or so away. It was an aisle seat, much to his disgust.

She didn’t butcher his name, so he nodded politely before shoving his backpack in the small compartment that was mostly taken up by a gaudy floral suitcase. He dropped into the seat and glanced to his left. The window seat held a middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair. Her face bore few wrinkles and her smile was genuine, as so few things were these days.

Julien inclined his head and then unclipped his cell phone from his belt. He knew someone would make him put it away soon, but they hadn’t left the gate yet. He flipped it open and typed a quick e-mail to Momma Verne, informing her of his arrival details so that she could purchase that train ticket she’d mentioned on the phone.

As soon as he pressed send, the captain came on the intercom and ordered everyone to turn off all electronic devices. He attached his seatbelt and then fiddled with the band of his watch, stretching it out and then retracting it.

He was vaguely aware of a demonstration. Something about safety and flotation devices in the event of a crash. He wished that the smiling flight attendants would shut up; the last thing he needed was for someone to jinx the flight. And anyone who didn’t believe in jinxes had clearly never met his nana.

By the time the plane took off, everyone in first class probably thought he was terrified of flying. His breath came in huge gasps, and the flight attendant, the chubby one—whatever her name was—brought him a bag as soon as they reached cruising altitude.

Julien did feel like hurling, but it had nothing to do with a plane, and everything to do with the reality of the fucked up situation slamming into him all at once. Verne had almost
died
. He’d never thought anything could surpass the horror of Christmas Eve six years ago, but this easily topped that.

The niggling of his conscience wouldn’t cease. If he’d had the damn balls to confess, to let Verne know his feelings weren’t one-sided, unrequited, Verne never would have been in Afghanistan. Hell, he never would have joined the Marines. They would definitely be living together, likely in his charming bungalow—or even a post-Katrina New Orleans—making an obscene amount of money between them.

Following 9/11, the average American joined various military services for patriotic reasons every day. Julien hadn’t even realized it was a passing thought in Verne’s head until he’d already joined up, signed his life and future dreams away to fight for kin and country.

Admiration was all Julien felt for the men and women who fought for America’s freedom. But he was a selfish bastard, and he hadn’t wanted to part with Verne. He’d grown a pair all right, just too damn late to do anything about it.

“Are you all right, sir?”

He shook his head, thoughts swirling like a class five tornado. The damage would certainly be comparable. It kept kicking up words like “landmine” and “dying.” For the first time ever, Julien cursed his vivid imagination.

The reality was horrifying enough; he didn’t need to amplify it.

But still, in all the thoughts that haunted him, clambering for attention, the knowledge that he’d never told Verne of his love was loudest. What if he’d died? What if Verne had died in this damned war and he only heard about it when Verne came home in a flag-draped coffin?

“Sir?”

As if a piece of cloth could make death more palatable. Fools!

“Sir?”

“What?” The sound that emerged from his throat was dry and strangled, bearing almost no resemblance to a human voice.

Her voice wavered as she asked, “Can I get you anything? A pillow and a blanket, perhaps?”

Grit stabbed his eyes, reminiscent of when he and Verne had been eleven and decided to see if an electric sander could make calluses vanish. Seeking the oblivion of sleep sounded wonderful; he could only hope Morpheus would welcome his presence. “Yes, please.”

The chubby redhead flight attendant—the blonde’s assistant, right?—patted his hand and then rose from her crouch in the aisle. He focused on her feet, pleased with her sensible shoes for reasons he barely understood. Maybe it was because all sense seemed to have vanished from his world in the last few hours?

Cheap laundry detergent wafted toward his nose as a smallish, rough blanket landed in his lap. The pillow was equally minuscule, barely twice the size of his hand. And his hands were nowhere near as large as…. He thanked her, reclined his seat, and then shoved the pillow behind his head, closing his eyes determinedly.

For just a few hours of this non-stop, much too long flight let him be at peace. He grew a briar patch in his mind, surrounding himself with it for protection. Then, in order to drown out the vicious thoughts assaulting him from all sides, he began humming that barely remembered tune about parsley, sage, and rosemary.

But before he could capture the final elusive herb, Morpheus captured him.

T
HE
sun was obscenely bright as he stared down at the closed casket. His momma refused to let him see his father one last time, and he didn’t understand why. So what if his skin was gray and all of his hair was gone? This was Julien’s last chance to see him before the people with the shovels…. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, determined to not think about it.

When he got old, was his body going to attack itself, too?

He shuddered violently, and Nana’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Her white hair fell to her shoulders, but did nothing to hide the pain in her brown eyes or the bruises beneath them. Apparently, voodoo couldn’t cure cancer.

Momma hadn’t taken that well at all. But, honestly, he thought it hurt Nana more. She was their goddess, and she’d failed.

As if she could read his thoughts, which maybe she could, he wasn’t entirely sure—only the Lafayette women received the full family secrets—Nana patted him on the head, ruffling his messy black hair. “I’ll be here when you need me, boy. I won’t fail you.”

Papa always said Nana’s voice sounded just like whiskey tasted. So, naturally, he and Verne had to try it. They snuck a taste of his papa’s whiskey when he and momma were at the store. Both he and Verne vehemently disagreed with Papa. The whiskey was nasty and made them throw up. Nana was sweet.

A shadow fell over him, blocking out the sunlight. A glance up revealed blond hair and lips that were, for once, not smiling. He didn’t like that. “Verne.”

“Hey, Jules.” His best friend pulled him forward into a rough hug. “Sucks about your papa.”