LATE on the following Saturday morning, Carter dragged a box out of the back of his old Audi, staggering slightly under the weight of it. This one was substantially heavier than the previous five that he’d already transferred into the office. He’d been using the boot of his car for temporary storage of various equipment from the youth center for a couple of weeks now.
“Let me help,” Pam called. She jogged out of the front door of the Greenlake Youth Center and across the visitors’ parking area. She met Carter just as he was trying to balance the box against his stomach with his elbows, and failing miserably. Pam caught the edge of it and took half the weight with ease.
Pam Hawthorne was in her late thirties, a few years older than Carter, and she was the senior youth worker in charge of the center. Dressed today in old jeans and a sweatshirt, she was also a powerhouse of energy. Carter had already thanked God for that today, several times. “Where’s this for, Carter?”
“The kitchen. It’s got most of the pans and equipment in it. They should have finished the building work on the plumbing and the toilets by Monday, and we can start getting that area straight again.”
“I’ve got the cleaning gear stored in the office,” Pam said. “And your new delivery of paint arrived yesterday.” She looked at Carter. “Hell of an exciting way to spend the weekend, isn’t it?”
Carter laughed along with her. “Seriously, if you need to get back home—”
“Good God, Carter, you’ve been working full-out on this for a fortnight, you’re the one who needs a decent weekend break.”
“I’m fine,” he said. Of course he was. He’d planned for this, to spend all his available time at the center and help in any way he could to make the improvement project a success. It was proving to be harder work than he’d expected, but to be honest, that was because he was too damned impatient to wait for help to trickle through. The main contractors had been authorized by the council and their work scheduled, but there was a hell of a lot that still needed doing. Carter was the one who could be there during the day, who knew what was expected of construction work, who had the gravitas to talk to builders and suppliers. And that was what he’d been doing full-time, for long, tiring days. It’d be worth it, he knew that. He and Pam really didn’t want the center closed for any longer than necessary. There wasn’t a lot of other entertainment for the young people, especially now the summer holidays had started. So if he had to join in with the building work, or help shift panels and breeze blocks, or take a drive to fetch emergency hardware supplies—well, that was what was needed, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do. He could give the project his whole attention.
“Carter?” Pam was looking at him, an odd expression on her face. “Come on, let’s make this the last one before we stop for coffee. My Harry’s taken the kids swimming, and over to his mum’s this afternoon, so I’ve got all day free. I made us some sandwiches and got a new pack of biscuits. You can have the chocolate ones. I know the dear little vultures we call young people usually get hold of them before you get a look-in.” She tugged at the box, pulling Carter back toward the center and effectively cutting off any protest. They huffed their way up the small flight of shallow steps to the front door, Carter wedged the door open with his hip, and they carried the box indoors to the office they were using for storing furniture during the decorating.
Carter was grateful for the break—at least, his muscles were. He and Pam settled on a couple of folding chairs in the main hall, then Pam opened a huge flask and poured out two mugs of coffee. Carter nursed his drink, welcoming the feel of proper china between his palms, enjoying the comfort rather than needing the warmth. Pam chuckled when he reached for a couple of the chocolate biscuits.
“You’re working too hard,” she said, with no preamble. “You’re getting migraines again, aren’t you?”
“I was only off one day last week.” Damn, he sounded far too defensive.
Pam shook her head. “Carter, I’d never hold you to account, you know that. We can only pay you a pittance, so whatever else you do here is voluntary. And much appreciated. But please don’t feel you owe me or the center at the expense of your health.”
“I know. I’m sorry I snapped. But I’m fine.” He couldn’t really deny he was working too hard. Pam wasn’t a woman you spun a tale to. “We’ve got other help coming this weekend, anyway. Ben and Amy are going to build the bookcases, and I know someone who’ll help me with the kitchen counter. And Zeke’s arriving later this afternoon to give me a hand with making the café signs.”
Pam’s stare didn’t waver. “There’s enough in the budget to pay for decorating contractors too, Carter. You don’t have to do it all yourself. And before you give me that I’m fine, of course I’m not doing it all myself crap, just think about what I’m saying.”
“Are you saying I look tired?” He tried to make it a joke.
“Knackered,” Pam said bluntly. “Just take it more slowly, okay?”
“I want to get the center open again as soon as possible.”
“But not if it makes you sick. What are you trying to prove?”
Carter was startled by the question. He put the mug back down on the table. “Nothing. I just want things to be right.”
Pam leaned back in her chair. “I don’t mean to get at you, Carter. But don’t try too hard, you know? The kids won’t notice it all, you know.”
“But they will some of it.”
Pam nodded slowly. She obviously thought she was on too personal ground, because she changed the subject. “I like it being done out like an American diner. That was a great idea of yours.”
“The youth committee suggested it,” Carter said. “That poll we did, remember?”
“Yes, it’s the one project they keep reminding us about. Of course, I’m not surprised.”
Carter smiled. “You mean they only come along for the food and drink?”
Pam grinned back at him. “When have you known any teenagers that wouldn’t put that top of the list of priorities?”
Carter drained his coffee and started to get up from the chair.
“Stay right there,” Pam snapped. “We’ll take a decent break, okay? And before you sit back, pass me one of those vanilla creams.”
AT 3:00 p.m. that afternoon, Red lifted a hand to knock a second time on the door of the Greenlake Youth Center. Then he paused. Maybe he should have come in the morning, rather than dithering about it all until after lunchtime. His new PA—Don? Dan?—had stood around most of the morning, waiting to drive Red to the center, then Red had decided to drive himself. He’d given PA-Don—Dan?—the rest of the day off, feeling guilty. Red was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion that the majority of the problem with his PAs was him, not them. No one had seen fit to disabuse him of that notion yet.
Now he was worried that Carter might already have left. Maybe he wasn’t here at all today, and Red should have called him first to check. After all, that was what friends did all the time, wasn’t it? He’d never hesitated to call Carter before now, arranging to meet, asking an opinion on a movie or show, or just to hear the man’s low, calm voice. But this felt different, somehow. How bloody ridiculous was that? He stood there for a frozen moment, examining the unfamiliar churning in his gut.
He was nervous, that’s what it was. Red couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous about meeting a man. And this was Carter, his friend! He knew him well enough. But not as well as I’d like. And wasn’t that the problem?
Red had rarely had a man refuse him. He’d rarely had to fight or struggle for a man he liked and wanted. And his companions always knew the score when they hooked up with him. They were just as eager for the casual sexual fun and brief exposure to the Red De Vere circus as he was at dispensing it. But then he’d become embroiled in his friend Miles’s fascination for a young, talented but troubled artist called Zeke—and Red had first met Carter Davison. The man had intrigued him, partly because he seemed to be immune to the cricket bat effect that Miles had subsequently—and totally mischievously—pointed out to Red. But also because Carter was so obviously much more complex than his calm, controlled persona suggested.
How had Red known that? He couldn’t even remember what had intrigued him, or made him examine further. But he’d watched Carter whenever he could and seen that there were depths to this man far beyond his initial friendship with Zeke. He was intelligent, sharp, well-read. Serious, but he had a good sense of humor, even if it manifested itself as sardonic asides, rather than Zeke’s more outrageous jokes. He cared for his friends; he knew what was right, and what was just. He wasn’t vibrant like Zeke, or sophisticated like Miles. He wasn’t a tough bear or a pretty twink like some of Red’s exes. He was just… Carter. And even if it caused Red confusion and disorientation, that was all there was to explain the fierce and strong attraction that Red found toward him.
Red knew the depths in Carter were depths of pain and hardship. Red had been appalled at the way Carter had been treated by Jacky Roswell, appalled at the grief Carter had suffered when Jacky was killed. But Red was sure that an intensity like that could bring Carter pleasure as well, if he would just allow himself to feel again.
Red had known he wanted Carter from almost the minute he met him. Not just as a conquest—he could have as many of those as he liked. This had been a different kind of battle. Red wanted him as a companion: in his life, far beyond the occasional social drink and meal. He craved Carter’s company; he loved the way Carter challenged him and even sometimes scorned his ideas. Carter wouldn’t let him get away with anything, and that was the point.
Just how long had he been pursuing Carter Davison? Red regularly questioned himself without ever receiving a satisfactory answer. His mother had been right: there was a man in his life. Or, rather, in his thoughts and schemes, but not yet in his real life. And to be honest, he didn’t know what campaign he should use for this particular battle—only that defeat couldn’t be an option.
Recently, when Carter had talked about the center, there’d been a gleam of excitement in his eyes and a bubbling of passion inside him that Red wished was directed toward him. But if that wasn’t on the table, the second best thing was to share it with Carter—to help him as a friend. And so… here Red was, knocking on a door to a place he had no experience of, and no relevant knowledge to offer, nor—possibly—any use. For a sharp, painful moment, he considered turning around and leaving right away.
Suddenly, the door sprang open inwards and Red dropped his hand, startled.
Carter stood there—tall, dark eyed, scowling—framed by a faint cloud of dust wafting from his thick hair, and accompanied by a burst of loud rock music from inside the building. In the background was the whining buzz of what sounded like an electric saw. His eyes widened at the sight of Red.
“I came—” Red began.
“What are you—?” Carter said at the same time. They both stood stock-still for a few more frozen moments.
“What the fuck?” came a yell from somewhere farther indoors. Red instantly recognized the voice. “Carter, who is it? Don’t leave me in charge of this bloody jigsaw too long, I’ll either cut a slice off the counter or crimp my ankle!”
Red raised an eyebrow and called back, “Charmin’ to see you too, Zeke.” He was gratified to see the corner of Carter’s mouth twitch upward.
The noise of the saw was abruptly cut off, and a head poked around one of the doors off the hallway. The curly auburn hair was even dustier than Carter’s, and the grin was much wider. “Red! Shit, you couldn’t have come at a better time. I definitely need distraction. I didn’t realize this place was on your way to the conference. You’re expected to meet Miles there, right? He told me it doesn’t finish until late this evening, more’s the pity.” Zeke stepped out into the hallway, brushing off his hands. Sawdust clung to his jeans, and there were paint splashes on his skimpy T-shirt. When he raised a hand in greeting to Red, the T-shirt tugged up, exposing the taut skin at his waistline, and Red saw a jagged rip under the left sleeve. He wasn’t sure whether it was genuine damage to the clothing, or part of Zeke’s bohemian fashion sense.
“I’m about ready to give up for the day,” Zeke said. “I’m no carpenter, I told Carter from the start. And this fucking glitter paint’s got a mind of its own.”
“So speaks Zeke Roswell, internationally famous artist,” Carter said, rather sharply.
Zeke stuck his tongue out at his friend. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned today, it’s that my field isn’t interior decoration. That’s your department, man.”
“I’m an engineer, for God’s sake. I design buildings, not cafés.”
Red could feel the tension between the two men, underlying the banter, and suspected it had been a long morning for them both. “Sounds more like my kind of thing,” he said.
Zeke snorted at him, and Carter turned to stare again. Red felt at a distinct disadvantage. He didn’t relish the feeling.
“Seriously,” he said. He couldn’t believe it for a second—he actually sounded defensive. “I’ve been around marketin’ for years. I’ve picked up plenty of design ideas along the way.”
Zeke came closer, rubbing off the last vestiges of dust on the front of his jeans. “Thanks, but this isn’t a passing-by kind of query, Red. Carter can call in one of his colleagues for ideas after the weekend. We shouldn’t keep you from your next call.”
Red caught Carter’s eye. “Um… this is my next call.”
“Huh?” Zeke snapped a look at Carter, then back to Red. “What’s going on? Aren’t you on your way to that conference thing with Miles?”
Red took a deep breath. It seemed that Miles hadn’t yet shared this tidbit of gossip with his lover. “I’m not working with Miles at the moment, Zeke. In fact, I’m on a sabbatical—at least, that’s Father’s polite description of the fact he’s hangin’ me out to dry.”
Carter raised his eyebrows, but he looked sympathetic. Well, that was what Red hoped.
Zeke was still bemused. “Is this because you got caught starkers in the hotel?”
Red winced. “Partly. Father wants me to… um… experience a different kind of service to the community, I think. Somethin’ a little less—”
“Naked?”
“Selfish,” Red said firmly. “I’m to find a different and worthy project to occupy my—”
Zeke opened his mouth again, but Carter slapped a hand over it, glaring at him.
“Time,” Red finished. He felt unpleasantly warm, though, as far as he knew, the center’s heating wasn’t on.
“I’m still not getting it.” Zeke shook his head. “What are you doing here, then?”
“I… Carter said….”
“Shit,” Zeke said, almost thoughtfully. “Never thought I’d see Red De Vere stuck for words.”
“I didn’t mean for you to visit right now,” Carter said to Red. He lowered his voice, but Red knew Zeke would catch every word. “I mean, we’re right in the middle of something. I thought you could just come and visit one evening, I could give you the tour—”
“And then hurry me out the door?” Red kept his voice low as well, though he was startled to hear how harsh it sounded. “I want to help, I said so. My help’s as good as any. Today, it looks like it’ll be better.”
Zeke raised his eyebrows and stepped back a few paces. It was enough space that Red and Carter could glare directly at each other, but blatantly not far enough that he’d miss any of the entertainment.
“It’s not convenient.” Carter looked annoyed with Red and confused. Had he doubted Red would take him up on the invitation?
“It’s happenin’,” Red said shortly. They glared at each other.
“For God’s sake.” Zeke stepped forward between them and grabbed Red’s arm. “Come and see what we’re doing and give us the benefit of all that commercial knowledge. What do I know? I’m only a flaky artist, or so Miles says in his less civil moments.”
Carter gave a short bark of a laugh, but never got a chance to say more. Zeke tugged Red along the corridor and into one of the small rooms. It had been used as an office—there were rectangular patches of less faded paint on the walls where notices had probably been displayed—but it was currently stripped of fittings, and Zeke was apparently using it as a studio. Large planks of wood had been laid out on a table, and paint tins stacked against the wall. The floor had been covered with dust sheets. The jigsaw rested on a large panel where Zeke had been trying to cut out a figure. Red tried, but found it impossible to make any identification of whether it was man, woman, or garden implement.
“The masterpiece so far,” Zeke announced drily.
Red winced. “What’s the brief?”
Just then, footsteps in the corridor announced someone else coming. They all paused and turned to face the open door. A woman in trainers, jeans, and an oversize shirt with paint stains on it came bustling past but stopped abruptly as she saw them. Her gaze flickered to Red. “Well, hello. Who are you?”
Red moved swiftly to take her hand, even though she hadn’t offered it to him yet. “I’m Red De Vere, ma’am, a friend of Carter and Zeke. Offerin’ my help in the project.”
“He has marketing skills, Pam.” Zeke peered around Red’s shoulder, all wide-eyed and presumed innocence. “Knows all about business and making money.”
To Red’s private irritation, the woman seemed slightly stunned. That bloody cricket-bat effect. But his full name didn’t seem to spark any other adverse recognition. With any luck she never read the gossip mags.
“Mr. De Vere, hello. I’m Pam Hawthorne. I’m the senior youth worker here. But we’re not here as a business opportunity, you know. This center is council run and non-profit making.”
“But you can always use another pair of hands, right?” Red gestured at the construction materials around him. “That’s all I’m here for. I’m not actually… um… at work at the moment, so I have time on my hands, and good friends I’d like to help. This is such a great facility. The community needs it.”
Pam blinked. Her expression implied she didn’t know whether to trust Red’s charm or not.
“I think the community needs him too,” Zeke murmured, vaguely in Pam’s direction. “Guy like him, with all his… connections.” He deliberately didn’t meet Carter’s eye, and he was definitely smirking.
“Thank you, Zeke. We’ll make the decision about that.” The stern look that Pam turned on Zeke brought the smirk out in Red too. Obviously she’d already met Zeke through Carter. The popular artist had more than a few charming moves of his own, but it looked as though she’d experienced his mischief plenty of times as well. Miles had explained drily to Red that—in defense against Red’s effect—immunity could be built against such charisma. It looked as though that worked for Zeke’s effect too.
“I’m not askin’ for anything special, Ms. Hawthorne,” Red said. “Just droppin’ in sometimes when the center’s closed to the ki—young people. Just an extra resource for the team. All free, no strings.”
“He’s going to help get the sign up for the café, Pam. I’ll vouch for him.” Carter spoke, quietly but firmly.
Red couldn’t deny the frisson of pleasure he felt at those words. Pity Carter never felt comfortable enough to say anything encouraging like that to his face.
“That’s fine.” Pam darted a glance between Carter and Red, and her eyes narrowed.
“You sure?” Carter asked. Pam nodded, but slowly, as if she were distracted by another idea. Red thought he heard Zeke give a snort, but it may have just been a sneeze from the dust.
“My turn to go out for refreshment,” Zeke said, breaking the mood. “Coffee and cake, everyone?”
BY THE late afternoon, Red had drawn and cut out the panels to create the sign. He made it from three layers, creating the background of checkered tiling, then adding the café text and the final model of a waitress in apron and cap to stand in welcome on the top. Zeke had followed him around, painting as directed, and promising—after various and dire threats—not to interfere by offering his own design ideas. Zeke was a fine painter, but his style was too aggressive. Red didn’t want the checkers to be anything but a recognizable black and white, or his waitress to have abstract blue stripes across her chest. He’d already dissuaded Zeke from trying to find some kind of scratch-n-sniff application they could build into her apron.
Red paced slowly around the remaining materials. He’d rolled up his sleeves, and he could see stripes of red paint on his tanned forearms, like theatrical blood. There was a spattering of glitter stuck to the top of both shoes. He knew he’d surprised both Zeke and Carter, not just with his design for the sign, but with the fact he made the damned thing himself. Did they think he’d had servants to make things for him all his life? Well, maybe they did. It wasn’t as if his family hadn’t always had money. But his mother Ellen had encouraged him in design and art from when he was a small boy, and she’d made him see all his projects through. He knew how to knit and mend; he’d made a working radio; he could take a bike to pieces and rebuild it after maintenance. His father had joined in, as soon as Red moved on from scissors and glue to power tools, if only to prevent one of them from slicing off their hands. Those were the fond memories Red had of joint family events. They hadn’t done much together since his teenage years. Nowadays, his father was busy in the city, and his mother travelled the world as a modeling agent. And Red? Well, apparently he was an extravagant, all-singin’, all-dancin’ media whore who provided endless raw material for the glossy magazines.
Looked as though Father had a valid point about Red’s life to date.
He sighed, though not from self-pity. In fact, he felt pretty satisfied with his afternoon’s work. He hadn’t stopped to worry about publicity or embarrassment or unemployment at all. Something tickled his scalp, and when he absentmindedly scratched it, a flurry of sawdust floated out. “A design on the front of the counter would be even more striking,” he said aloud. “There’s enough wood left to make something. Maybe the front grille of a Cadillac? Something evocative like that.” No one answered him so he twisted around to look for his friends. No one else was in the room, but he could hear voices in the corridor, and so he stuck his head through the open doorway. He could see Carter at the entrance to the center, chatting to a group of half a dozen or so young people. They were all dressed in the usual jeans and jersey tops, but were a mix of ethnicities and ages. Zeke was standing with Pam, halfway between the door and the room where Red was. Two of the youngsters stood in front of the group, as if they were the spokespeople. Curious, Red wiped more sawdust off his hands and stepped out into the corridor.
“We was just passin’.” The young man at the front of the group was dark-skinned, from Asian Indian heritage, with short dark-brown hair and large eyes. He wore narrow-leg jeans, low on his hips, boots with a slight heel, and several layers of T-shirts. He was thin, and the clothes had a chain-store look, but he wore them with an innate style that impressed Red. He’ll be handsome when he grows into his body—and loses that constant scowl on his face.
“Workin’ at the weekend, Carter?” one of the other lads asked, a tall, rangy young man with shaggy chestnut hair and a very freckled face.
“So what’s going on?” one of the girls said, peering over the freckled lad’s shoulder.
“You were all just passing?” Carter asked with a wry smile. There was a babble of laughter and protests. It seemed that the young people were itching with curiosity to see what was happening to their youth center.
The dark-skinned boy looked over Carter’s shoulder and caught sight of Red. “There’s another guy here. Which one’s y’ boyfriend, Carter?”
Red didn’t like the kid’s tone. Pam broke off what she’d been saying to Zeke, and Zeke’s shoulders tightened.
But Carter’s voice was as steady as before. “No need for showing off, Jag. These are friends, helping me out. We’re decorating the café, it should be open by next weekend.”
“Cool!” The girl at Jag’s side sounded genuinely pleased. She looked similar enough to him to be his sister, maybe even his twin. The hair on his head matched the curls at her temples and the long sweep of hair that had been caught back in a braid. She was probably no more than fifteen, with a bright-colored top, well-fitted jeans, and enormous gilt hoops in her ears. Her eyes were a smoky brown and discreetly but strikingly made-up. Red knew she’d be a real stunner when she was older. Handsome family, it seemed.
Jag snorted. “Like we have nothin’ better to do, Ruchi. Hangin’ out in a fuckin’ stupid kids’ café.” His voice was arrogant, with the swagger that Red had heard many times on music videos and in clubs.
“Watch your language, Jag.” Pam raised her voice slightly to be heard over the noise of the group. “The center’s not open again officially, as you know. But come in and look around as our guest, if you like.”
“Yeah? Thanks!” Ruchi didn’t even seem to have noticed Jag’s aggression. She walked straight in the door and over to Carter. A couple of the other girls shuffled along in her wake. “It’s really goin’ to be, like, an American diner? Like the movies?”
Carter smiled. “That was your choice, remember? We were having some problems with the sign, but Red’s been working on it.”
“Red?” Red heard the young men around Jag snicker. Their gazes flickered to Red then away. Seemed it was okay to have a nickname if you were in your teens, but not on the far side of twenty-five. That was fine. He’d been mocked for worse things in his life.
“When d’you think it’ll be open again?” Ruchi asked. She looked wistful. “There’s nothin’ else doin’ around here.”
“The jewelry makin’ was fine,” one of the other girls drawled. “And the dance classes.”
“Karate was better,” muttered the freckled lad. His accent was soft Southern Irish.
“Bike maintenance’s more fuckin’ useful for you, Owen,” another young man said. “How many times you fallen off this week?” The group laughed, all except for Jag.
“Fuck you, Joe,” Owen muttered, blushing furiously. It sounded like a familiar argument between them all.
Carter shrugged, still smiling. “Let us know what you want to do and we’ll do our best. But we’ll need your help. What else do you think we need?”
“Table tennis bats,” Owen said. “The old ones ’r crap.” He looked like the oldest of the group, but definitely not the leader. “The pool table cushions ’r knackered.”
“And half the balls is missin’,” Ruchi added. Her friends giggled and nodded vigorously, like a Greek chorus following her pronouncements.
“I’m working on sponsorship for some new sports equipment,” Pam said. “It’s taken most of the budget to get the toilets and kitchen fixed, but the games room will eventually get a makeover as well.”
“Cool.” There were murmurs of genuine interest.
“We’ll come ’n’ help,” Ruchi said. She looked back at the group, seeking agreement. “Right?”
The others nodded, though a couple darted sideways glances at Jag as if asking for permission. Jag didn’t nod or agree, he just grimaced and gripped Ruchi’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said sharply. She shook him off but she turned to leave, the others following.
“See you soon,” Carter said.
Jag glanced back, but he actually caught Red’s eye. Red made a deliberate effort to keep his gaze steady, his expression neutral. Jag scowled at him; Red looked back. There was no evidence that either Jag recognized him, or that Jag would suffer the dreaded effect, but there was still a moment of confrontation between them. Red knew he recognized it for what it was. Then Jag turned and shepherded Ruchi out of the center. The young people sauntered across the drive, muttering and laughing, until they were out of sight.
“There you are, Red,” Pam said. “That’s our target crowd.”
He looked at her sharply, but she was smiling. “They’re not all as cooperative as Ruchi—”
“Or as challenging as her brother,” Carter muttered. When he looked at Red, Red nodded sympathetically back at him.
“While you’re all standing around, gettin’ down with the kids,” Zeke announced, “I have to get back to town. Red, if you’re not taking me to meet Miles at the conference, I’ll drive myself back to the flat. I’ll need a long, hot shower to get over this afternoon’s hard labor, let alone be ready for sexy Mr. Corporate.”
“TMI,” Carter growled, though Red just laughed. Pam shook her head, smiling, and went back into the kitchen again.
Zeke’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Carter. “Get some rest, bro. You look a weird kind of white.”
“For God’s sake,” Carter snapped. “Is this a conspiracy?”
Zeke raised his eyebrows. “Just saying. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Carter sighed. “Thanks for your help. Honestly, I appreciate it.”
Zeke nodded and breezed off to the room they’d been working in, presumably to collect his jacket, or maybe to try to get the smudges of glitter off his forehead. Red was pretty sure that wasn’t part of Zeke’s bohemian dress sense. He stayed in the hallway with Carter.
“Are you all right to drive back? Or can I give you a lift?”
“I’m fine. I’m not going back yet,” Carter said, rather brusquely.
Red felt as if he’d been scolded, and he tamped down the instinctive spike of irritation. “Sorry. I assumed we were all packin’ up for the day.”
Pam appeared back in the corridor with her coat on and her car keys jingling in her hand. “Well, I am, guys. Harry’s had enough of his parents and the kids—or maybe the two together. He needs rescuing.” She put a hand on Carter’s arm. “You get off home too.”
“I will, soon—”
“You will, now,” she said.
Carter flushed. “Pam, will you back off? I’m not one of the young people.”
Pam didn’t back off. Red had to wonder if she ever did, if she thought she was entitled to speak her mind, and how he’d feel about it if he were on the receiving end.
“And I’m not treating you like one, Carter. I’m talking as a concerned friend, who can see you’ve had enough for the day and need to rest. For God’s sake, let someone care for you, will you?” She glanced between Carter and Red, a glint in her eyes. “Plenty of time tomorrow to get more done.”
Carter frowned with reluctant surrender and ran a hand through his hair. Red felt his fingertips tingle, as if they ached to follow the path across Carter’s head. Pam had obviously meant herself when she said Carter needed caring for. Didn’t she? But the need and desire to do that job himself struck him almost breathless.
They all left the center together, and Pam locked up for the day. Red watched the procedure she went through, setting the alarm and then double locking the door. He gallantly followed her to her Fiat and opened the door so that she could bundle several carrier bags of decorating equipment into the back.
“Thanks,” she said. She glanced over at Carter and Zeke, talking together by Zeke’s car, and then back to Red. “It’s a very different environment, being with the young people.”
Red tilted his head, a little puzzled. “Of course. Carter enjoys it. I imagine he’s good at it.”
Pam nodded. “Very good. He has credibility with them, without even trying. They see in him the strengths he probably doesn’t see himself.”
It was an odd, very personal thing to say, but Red decided to take it at face value. “It’s been good to meet you, Pam,” he said. “And what you say about Carter? I know you’re right.”
“Yes, I think you do,” she replied, giving him that unerring stare. Then she grinned, hopped into her car and pulled the door shut on him. With a brief wave, she pulled out of the car park, followed shortly by Zeke’s secondhand Mercedes. Red lifted a hand to them both and watched them go. He turned to walk back to where Carter stood, but Carter had already climbed into his car. The door was shut, the engine idling. His face was grim, his gaze was fixed on Red. Red wondered for how long he’d been like that, and exactly why. Then Carter seemed to shake himself, gave a small smile, and lifted a hand as if in a wave. Red stepped forward, expecting Carter to wind down his window and say, not necessarily thanks for the help, but goodbye of sorts.
Carter didn’t. He drove quickly past and left Red alone in the car park. Red stood there for a while longer, thinking about Carter and wondering just how much more of his life he was going to spend on just that.