“I’m not sure my family gets it, sometimes. Dad told me, a few months ago, that there was no shame in giving up, if there wasn’t a way forward. So I asked him if that’s what the Marines would do – give up.” Matt laughs at the memory. “He said, ‘Fuck no! What do you take us for? The Army?’”
“You’ve had death threats,” Luke says, quietly, because now he gets it. It isn’t just about a threat – it’s about people’s true intentions to kill this man.
“This job, it’s important,” Matt says. “A lot of days I feel like I’m charging up that hill all by my lonesome. But I’m not going to give up. If we can’t affect change in our government, if we have to just sit back and accept that the system is corrupt, and that only those in the inner circle have any say-so…well, then, that’s not America anymore. That’s a Third World dictatorship. This is the good fight, it’s my fight. I can’t go away just because someone wants me dead.”
Luke lets it sink in, all of it. “So you keep fighting, and Maxwell’s off the hook?”
“He did his homework. Found someone with jihadist ties so it looks like another lone wolf bombing. Paid the guy in cash, which I’m guessing there are no prints on. Somehow, extraction went wrong. Davis got spirited away without the money. But in any event, there’s nothing that points back to Maxwell. So.” Matt makes a face like what can I do?
“What if,” Luke says, leaning forward and wincing at the way the movement pulls at his ribs. “What if someone stepped forward as a witness, and said Maxwell was low-key threatening you?”
“Luke.” Matt’s expression softens, paternal and sad. “I would never ask you to do that.”
“But would it help?”
“It might. But it might damage your career. It might put a target on your back. I can’t let you take that kind of risk for me.” His eyes flick to the window again – to Hal’s menacing profile stamped against the morning light, coat swirling around his calves.
“You’re worried about what Hal would think?” Luke grumbles. “I make my own decisions, you know.”
“I know.” Matt’s eyes come back, full of a smile. “But what I’ve learned about partnerships is that when it comes to life-altering decisions, you have to talk it out first, no matter what you end up deciding.”
Luke sighs and slumps back against the settee. Shit, he’s tired.
“Also…” Tiny cracks splinter Matt’s voice. “I think you’ve gotten hurt enough on my behalf.”
“Huh.” Luke snorts. “Maybe I’ve developed a hero complex all of a sudden.”
~*~
The packed gravel of the driveway crunches under his shoes, a sound to punctuate the slowness of his stride. It’s cold out, the wind tugging at him, and now he’s glad Sandy caught him heading out the front door and insisted he put on a cedar-smelling coat and hat from the front closet. He shivers and snuggles deeper into the collar. The thermos in his hand feels heavier than it should, and he thinks maybe this was a fool’s errand. He hates illness and injury; ordinary, everyday tasks turn into Olympic events.
Hal hears his approach and turns, surprise, gladness, and dismay all warring for supremacy on his wind-nipped face. He walks forward to meet Luke, arms outstretched. “Baby, what are you doing out here? It’s cold.”
“I’m a little banged up, I’m not dying,” Luke complains, but is grateful for the strong arm that goes around him. “Shit, I hate this.”
“I know you do.”
“God, you sound like someone’s mother.”
Hal laughs, breath pluming white in the cold air. “That’s what a guy wants to hear. But seriously, what are you doing out here? Bored already?”
Luke makes a face. Ugh, this cheerful fool, trying to downplay how fucking dangerous this situation is. “Only you would be this happy in the cold,” he says, and offers the thermos. “Here, I brought you a refill.”
“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.” Hal looks genuinely thankful, and delighted. About something as simple as coffee. He takes the thermos and leans in for a kiss.
Luke almost wishes he wouldn’t, since he’s all bruised and gross. Almost.
“All’s quiet on the western front?” he asks, trying not to shiver.
Hal scans the yard, the tree line, nodding. “So far.”
“They found the payoff at the bomber’s apartment. Without cash in-hand, I doubt he’ll finish the job.”
“If that was the whole payoff. Coulda been just part they found.”
“Oh.” Luke does shiver this time. “Shit.”
Hal’s arm tightens around him, careful of his ribs. “You ought to go back inside. You okay to get there on your own?”
Luke rolls his eyes, but the warmth in Hal’s voice, in his eyes, in every fiber of his earnest being, gives him the strength to actually walk away. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Call me when you get in, okay?”
“God, you’re terrible.”
~*~
“Lemme ask you something.”
They’re on the bed, heads propped up with fluffy pillows, legs warm beneath the covers, watching How I Met Your Mother. Hal’s heart beats a steady tattoo against the darkness that crowds the window. Luke leans into the rhythm of it and lets himself relax, his bruised sinews unwinding one slow turn at a time.
“If it’s about this mattress,” Hal says, content and lazy, “then the answer is yes, I want to get one.”
The innocent statement hits Luke right in the solar plexus. An emotional sucker punch that sends him spinning off into Questionland. Hal wants to buy a mattress. For himself? For the two of them to share? They haven’t talked about cohabitation yet, nor about the future in any sense. What are they now? Boyfriends? Life partners? Does Hal want a wedding and a nice townhouse in DC? Or is he going to come work security in New York? Does Hal want forever? Or does “try” really mean try, and there’s a large chance they won’t work as a couple?
He realizes too late that his breathing’s picked up, when Hal puts a gentle hand to his ribs and says, “Hey.”
Panting hurts his lungs, the air scrapes at his raw throat, and so he tries to settle, sink back into the safe cradle of Hal’s arm and chest.
“What’s wrong?”
Luke flails for his original question, which seems so much more loaded now than it did a moment before. An unintentional tiger trap. But he says it anyway, trying to put some lightness in his voice. “Are you this touchy-feely with your girlfriends? You know.” He makes a pitiful attempt at a laugh. “Forehead kisses and your arm around me all the time. Is that just a thing you do?”
He hates himself for voicing this. Because if Hal says yes, that he’s grabby and sweet and supportive with all his lovers – something they aren’t yet – then it makes this, snuggling and leaning on each other, less special. He thinks. Maybe. God, why did he ask that?
“Luke.”
He closes his eyes.
“Luke,” Hal repeats, and hooks a knuckle under his chin, lifts his head up so their eyes can meet. Hal’s expression is so sad, and Luke hates himself a little more. “I’ve never felt this way about anybody. Not ever. I guess I just…I feel like I need to make up for lost time. I like…I like being touchy-feely. With you. But I’ll back off if…”
Luke tightens his arm around Hal’s waist and buries his face in his strong chest. “No. Don’t back off.” Words muffled in his t-shirt.
Hal’s fingers sift through Luke’s hair, gentle scratches against his scalp.
“What are we gonna do?” Luke asks, because he’s an idiot. But he’s an idiot who’s waited a long time for this, and he wants to know where Hal’s head is. “After this.” After the bomber’s caught, and the threat lessens. “After I’m done with the interview.”
“Well.” Hal takes a deep breath. “I’ve talked to Matt about this. Breckinridge has a branch in Manhattan, and Matt would write me a letter of recommendation. I could get a transfer. I don’t know when your lease is up, but I’ve been scoping out apartments on Zillow. I figu
re with both our incomes, we should be able to afford something decent. There’s a studio I called about, but I’m not crazy about studios – call me traditional, I guess, I like a real bedroom and walls around the bathroom.”
Luke is stunned. Just…utterly floored. “You’ve…been looking at apartments?” he asks, weakly.
Hal shifts a little, like he’s nervous. “Well yeah. I mean, if you love your place, that’s fine, we can–”
“My place is a shithole.”
“I’m sure it’s not, but we can–”
Luke sits up. It takes an effort, but he gets upright, and gives Hal his fiercest look, which is probably ruined by the mottling of bruises all down the side of his face. “You’re saying you’d move to New York and guard freaking reality starlets and mob wives?”
Hal doesn’t even take a beat. “Yes.”
“And you’d live in a cramped apartment, and give up this awesome job with this family.”
“Yes.”
“Fucking why?”
“Because I’m not going to be apart from you anymore. There’s nothing in the world I want more than you.”
If his legs weren’t jelly, Luke would get out of bed and pace. As it is, he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Jesus Christ. We haven’t even had sex yet. What if you hate it? What if you change your mind?”
“I won’t.”
“What if you…” He trails off when Hal curls his hands around his wrists and pulls him in close again, petting his hair like he’s an upset child. Which he sort of is in this moment.
Luke takes a deep, shuddering breath, sucks in the clean cotton smell of Hal’s shirt, and beneath that, his skin.
“I want to move to DC,” he says, and he realizes, when he says it, that he’d started wanting that well before Hal confessed that he loves him.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” Hal says, voice warm and sweet as honey.
“I want…” He thinks about his sad apartment, about the drudgery of his job, about being largely friendless and joyless, a trod-upon welcome mat of a human being in NYC. His voice catches. “Hal, I wanna come home.” To warm summers, and green grass, and Hal’s smile, sweet touches, and the happiness he lost somewhere along the way.
“Okay,” Hal says, and hugs him tight.
17
“Jesus Christ, I’ve been trying to call you for days!” Linda shouts at him. Her bob sticks out in all directions, and her lipstick was hastily applied. Luke’s never seen her like this: honest to God worried about something. About him.
He tilts the tablet so the sunlight doesn’t cause glare on the screen. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I turned my phone off.” Actually, he hadn’t been able to turn it back on after the explosion, but he isn’t going to tell her that.
“Christ,” she repeats, and passes her hands back through her hair. The polish on her left index finger is chipped. “Are you okay? You look like shit.”
“A little banged up, but I’ll live.” He gives her a smile he knows is crooked, the way the bruises pull at his face.
“Have they caught the guy yet?”
“I’d watch the news in the next few hours; there should be a breaking news update.”
“Oh shit. What did you do?”
He shrugs. “Had a little chat with the FBI. We’ll see if they take me seriously.”
She shakes her head in obvious disbelief. “I sent you down there to interview some old guy, and you get caught up in FBI business. Seriously, Keller?” But she sounds fond, beneath that layer of worry.
“Yeah, about that. Why the fuck did you actually send me down here?” And he lifts his brows to say Don’t feed me any lines.
Her gaze flicks away from the webcam. “Just because we’re mainly a social rag doesn’t mean we can’t talk about real issues, too. It doesn’t hurt to throw something political in every now and then.”
“Linda.”
“Luke.”
“I talked to Hal, you know.”
“Ugh, fine.” She throws her hands up in defeat. Then braces her elbows on the desk and leans in to the camera. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve been absolutely miserable the last six months.”
“I–”
“You have. Don’t lie to me. You hate the things you write, hate this magazine.” She snorts. “Not that I blame you. But you do. So when Hal called asking if I’d think about sending you down to interview Maddox, I thought, why not. Maybe you’d go down there, get your boy, do some real writing, and you’d quit on your own without me having to fire you.”
It stings worse than he would have thought. “You were going to fire me?”
“Let you go, technically. You can’t meet your deadlines.”
“Come on–”
“Luke,” she says, softening. “You know you’re my favorite, right? You know that everyone here watches reality shows as research, and they write at a fifth grade level, at best. You’re my star. You’re the best writer I’ve got, but you hate the work, and you aren’t doing it.”
Luke sighs. What can he say?
“Trust me when I say I’m doing you a favor. Take Maddox’s story and write a kickass literary history novel. You ought to be writing books, my friend.”
“You think?”
“I know. And something tells me your big hunk of man thinks so too, or he’d never have called me.” She grins. “How’s that all going, by the way?”
“He offered to move to New York for me,” Luke says, blushing like a kid. He’d long since lost the ability to feel bashful and happy about romance – or so he’d thought.
“No way!” She shrieks delightedly.
“I said I wanted to move to DC.”
“See? You already knew I was right.” She gives him a genuine smile, nothing like her sharp editor grin.
“Yeah, you were right.” He rolls his eyes. “Does this mean I have twenty-four hours to clear out my desk before you send my shit through a wood chipper?”
“No. It means you have twenty-four hours to email me your proposal for the book.”
“Um, what?”
“I’m an editor, aren’t I? I’m going to help you edit your book, dumbass.”
He takes a breath. “You’re serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. You’re going places; why wouldn’t I want the inside scoop on that?”
“Your optimism is almost depressing,” he says, but laughs, a lightness in his chest despite the pain in his lungs.
Linda gives him another smile. “Hey, Luke.”
“Yeah?”
“Happiness looks good on you. I think you should keep it up.”
The call disconnects, and in the blue home screen of his tablet, he sees Tara’s reflection; she’s standing behind him, arms wrapped around herself against the cold.
“Hey, creeper,” he says as he sets the tablet down on the low stone wall beside him. Behind the house he’d found a garden, tucked away nice and neat until spring, its beds surrounded by a wall that’s no doubt older than his grandparents.
“So you’re fired, huh?” she says.
“Looks that way. Can’t say I’m sad about it.” He gives her a beat, then says, “You lied to me.”
“What?” A flat question, like he isn’t wrong, but she didn’t expect him to point it out to her.
He pats the wall beside him in invitation. “You said you wanted to study dance, but that your dad wouldn’t let you.” He half-turns so he can see her frowning face over his shoulder. “Hal said he offered to send you to New York. Said he’d send you wherever you want to go. You’re the one who wanted Georgetown.”
It’s silent a moment, then Tara sighs and moves to sit beside him, albeit grudgingly. “You suck.”
“Yes. But in this case, I’m right. So what’s the deal?”
She picked at her flaking black nail polish, kicking at the wall with the heels of her boots. “It’s what I tell my friends: that Dad won’t let me. I couldn’t exactly tell you something different, not with yo
u being a reporter and all.”
“Will people please quit calling me a reporter?” He sighs. “Okay, so, why is that what you tell your friends?”
She shrugs and looks uncomfortable. “They would have given me so much shit if I said I wanted to stick close to home. It was easier just to lie.”
“Wow, I’m pretty sure that’s the secret password that gets you into the Two-Faced Politician Social Club.”
“No. I mean…” She makes a face. “My dad’s really unpopular in Washington. Really unpopular.”
“I kinda noticed that.”
She sends him an apologetic look, expression softening. “It’s not self-contained, though. People outside of Washington decided he was a piece of shit. People like my friends’ parents…and my friends.”
“You need new friends.”
“I know, I know…If I told any of them that I wanted to study politics, like my dad, that’s it. I woulda been blacklisted.”
“So that’s what you actually want to do?”
Her smile is small, sad. “He’s pretty brave, you know?”
“Yeah, I’m learning that.” He elbows her. “Maybe it’s time for you to be brave too.”
“Maybe so.”
~*~
The Leesburg house has its own heartbeat. A pulse reverberating deep beneath the floorboards, flickering in the rumpled top corners of the wallpaper. It breathes, sighs dust motes and the sharp scent of cedar-lined closets. It’s full of benevolent ghosts: children thundering down the stairs, young women lingering in the library windows, horses grazing in the pasture, lifting their heads when they hear the voices of their people up on the porch. The wear of hundreds of handprints has sanded the chair railing smooth. The field stone feels like marble under bare toes, cold and polished by feet, and socks, and boots.
A TV runs somewhere non-stop, but the tension feels removed, an echo of worry, rather than a fresh stab of panic. Stronger are the smells of lunch cooking, the ribbing the guys give one another, Will’s endless monologue of complaints.
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