Chapter Eighteen

Jack untangled his line for the fourth time as he swore.

Fishing is overrated. “Peace and quiet, my ass,” he grumbled.

The line came free and he reeled it in. The hook, bait missing once more, swung around as he jerked the pole in anger and caught himself on the thigh.

“Son of a bitch!” The barbed end dug into his flesh and he froze, knowing any more movement would embed it deeper.

It was karma. Cosmic justice. And only a small fraction of the shit he deserved for hurting Edward.

Carefully, he put down the pole, sat on the ground and, gritting his teeth, worked the hook free of his skin. Blood welled. He grabbed the bottle of water leaning next to his tackle box and poured it over the small wound to rinse it clean.

Staring at the hook in his hand, he couldn’t tell if it was bloody or rusty. To be on the safe side, he probably needed to get a tetanus shot. Actually, he should have had one when Winston bit him, but Jack hadn’t wanted anyone to know about that. Now he had a valid excuse, one he didn’t mind being known.

His luck was going downhill fast. He’d better leave before he fell into the damned creek. The fish had eluded him ever since he’d arrived, only to swim up to the bank to make their presence and his ineptitude known.

After he gathered up his fishing equipment, broke down his pole and tossed his empty beer bottles and trash in a plastic bag, he headed back to his truck.

Not a single fish. So much for catching dinner.

Oh well, there was a frozen pizza at home calling his name.

Pizza, a cold beer and pay-per-view.

What a life.

 

* * * *

 

Wednesday morning, Jack woke on the couch in his living room. He sat up, groaned, back muscles aching, and ran his hands through his hair as he got his bearings. The TV was still on, the sound turned down low. On the coffee table was a plate with the half-eaten sandwich he’d made last night. Next to it stood a warm bottle of beer he’d only had a sip of.

He wore jeans and nothing else.

In his bedroom at the back of his house, his alarm clock was ringing. It must have been what had awakened him. He thought he’d fallen asleep around three a.m., same as the night before. He pushed to his feet and shuffled down the hall.

He slapped at the alarm, knocking the clock off the side table. It fell between the bed and the wall, still ringing.

“Fuck,” he mumbled as he got on his hands and knees to retrieve it. He reached for it, snagged it by the cord and reeled it in. After shutting off the alarm, he placed it back on the table. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the ringing or the silence.

He stood, slowly, carefully, then went to the bathroom. He needed to piss.

Standing at the toilet, he emptied his too-full bladder, flushed and turned on the shower. He slipped out of his jeans and tossed them, not caring if they landed in the proper hamper or not. His shirt from last night lay on the floor next to it.

Avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, because reality would come only too soon, he tested the temperature of the water then stepped in. A warm stream fell over his shoulders and down his back as he picked up a washcloth and soaped it up.

Like a robot, he bathed. Rinsed. Toweled off. Got out of the shower.

Showtime.

Jack stared at the mirror.

Oh yeah. He was looking rough. Shit. Were the bags under his eyes from only two nights of bad sleep or had they been there before? And he could have sworn the hair at his temples hadn’t been that gray last week. The light in this room sucked. Maybe he should switch to those new compact fluorescent lightbulbs.

He ran water into the sink, splashed it on his face, then shaved. No matter how slow he went or how careful he tried to be, he cut himself. Three times.

Glanced at his reflection. It should have been better. It wasn’t.

He searched for a steptic pencil, but no luck. He did the next best thing, knowing he appeared ridiculous with three small pieces of toilet tissue stuck to the cuts, dots of blood holding them in place on his chin, jaw and throat.

Running his hand over his stomach, Jack straightened and sucked in his gut. Turned to the side and exhaled. Still tight, thank God for that. There wasn’t a six-pack, but there weren’t any love handles either.

He leaned closer to his reflection as he evaluated his body.

“No no no.” A gray hair nestled, like a traitor, among the light covering of dark hairs on his chest. With a frown, he plucked it out and held it up. Squinted.

It was gray, all right. He didn’t need new lights to see the difference between dark brown and gray.

It was the beginning of the end. The slow slide into middle age. Forty-five loomed closer, mocking him.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Jack jerked away from the mirror, dropped the lone hair into the wastebasket and brushed his teeth without further scrutiny of his forty-three-year-old body.

He had thirty minutes to get dressed, have breakfast and get to work. He’d skip breakfast—he wasn’t very hungry. Hadn’t been since last weekend when Winston and Edward had flitted in and out of his life.

This was all Edward’s fault.

 

* * * *

 

“Morning, Chief,” Kristen said, then sipped her coffee.

“Morning.” Jack flashed Kristen a quick smile and ducked into his office, clutching the coffee he’d picked up at the drive-through so he didn’t have to stand in the kitchen and make small talk with her or anyone else.

He tossed his hat onto his desk, put his coffee down, sat and stared at the door. The last time he’d seen Edward had been when he’d stormed out of Jack’s office, furious and hurt. Jack replayed the scene in his head, right up to the moment he’d kissed Edward.

It had been the best kiss of Jack’s life. Not that he’d had that many, but still.

Edward had literally melted into him. Jack had felt his body give way, the tug of Edward’s hands on his shirt, the complete surrender as Edward opened his mouth and let Jack inside to taste him.

Jack groaned.

He had to stop thinking about it, but all Jack wanted was to feel Edward beneath him, feel Edward melt against his just as it had before. Jack wanted to taste Edward again—Edward’s mouth, his skin, his cock. Every inch of him.

That would be insanity.

Fuck. What Jack was going through right now was insanity. Not sleeping. Not eating. And this funk, this depression was sheer weakness. And he’d never given in to his weaknesses.

At this point in his life, it wasn’t the time to start. He was right where he’d planned on being. Settled in a nice town, living in a nice house, with a nice job.

Everything nice. Simple. Easy.

No complications.

Edward was the mother of all complications.

 

* * * *

 

Between taking Olivia all over town and even to San Antonio on Tuesday, Edward had hardly thought about Jack at all. He’d just been too distracted while running around with his grandmother and having lunch at her favorite Mexican restaurant on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. They’d each had two frozen margaritas, and both of them had flirted shamelessly with their young waiter. Edward hadn’t talked and laughed so much in months.

Then they’d spent the rest of the afternoon strolling along the river, peeking into all sorts of shops. Edward even bought Winston a new leather collar that had silver Lone Star studs all the way around it.

Olivia slept on the drive home. She’d been tired but didn’t seem exhausted. He couldn’t wait to see Winston and try on the new collar. He’d dropped Olivia off, settled her in the house then went back to the hotel. After showing Winston the new collar, Edward had fallen into bed. He hadn’t even remembered falling asleep.

Now it was Wednesday morning and he had the barbecue at Brian and Rush’s ranch in the evening. Dressed only in a pair of black briefs, he stood staring at the small closet where he’d hung most of his clothes.

“What do you think, Winston? Blue jeans or black?”

Winston lay on the bed watching the home decorating channel.

“No opinion?” Edward held each pair up against his body. “It’s sort of a casual affair. The blue ones. They’re sort of scruffed up.” He put the black jeans back in the closet and draped the blue ones over a chair. “Now the shirt.”

That would be easy. Definitely not the one with the fringe.

After pulling out shirt after shirt, he settled on a plain white button-down, always a classic with jeans, and his brown belt and brown boots, then put them to the side to change into later that afternoon.

That settled, he slipped into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and took Winston for a walk, putting off the call he needed to make to his mother to let her know his progress. More than anything, he didn’t want to talk to her. She’d just go on about his inability to do even this one little thing for her.

Back in his room, he sat on the bed and made the dreaded call.

His mother answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

“It’s Edward.” He braced himself.

“Edward, dear. How is it going? Mission accomplished?” she cooed at him. That would change soon enough.

“No, Mother.”

“Why not?” And here it was, the voice he knew so well. Hard. Cold. Demanding.

“Well, we’ve been getting to know each other. I didn’t want to rush into it.”

“Look, I know you’re enjoying yourself, but it’s time to stop thinking about you and think about doing what I asked you to do.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Just do whatever it is you do and make her better.” He could just see her flipping her hand and rolling her eyes.

“Gee, Mother, I had no idea you cared so much for Meemaw.”

“Don’t be snide, Edward. She’s my mother. Of course I care.”

“Then why haven’t you come to see her?”

“Did she ask you to ask me that?”

“No. I’m asking you that. Why?” he pressed.

There was a moment of silence. “It’s between her and me. She knows why.”

“But I don’t know.”

“It’s none of your business, Edward.” Her tone said he shouldn’t ask more, but he ignored it.

“You kept me from seeing her when I was younger and when Father died you never did anything to encourage me to see her then. I think it’s my business. She’s my grandmother.” His voice had spiraled higher and, taking a deep breath, he brought it under control. It would only be more ammunition for her to hurl back at him.

“She’s my mother.” That tone said end of discussion. “Now, don’t dilly-dally there—get it done.”

Edward gritted his teeth to keep from saying his automatic ingrained response of “yes, ma’am.” Instead, he hung up.

He sighed.

Woof.

“You said it.” He rolled his eyes then dressed to visit with Olivia.

As he drove to her house, he thought about his power. He’d never done much with it, never tried to control it or test it. What if he could slowly bleed the sickness out of her, a little at a time? Make it safe for him and for her.

If he could just take a little of whatever it was or take some of the pain away, that might help. Might even extend the time she had to live. He’d have more time with her.

Which was so odd, because before he’d come here, he’d never really thought about her much at all. He’d lived almost half his life without her in it, so why did that prospect scare him shitless now?

Because if she died he’d be alone and no one would love him just for him.

If he thought about it, he’d been alone most of his life. His mother was right, in a way, it was selfish. But was it any more selfish than his mother’s motives in sending him? They both wanted Olivia alive.

What does Meemaw want?