by Nya Rawlyns
“So you came alone. On your bike?” Kit nodded yes.
Josh focused on being a cop. Ask questions, get information, even if the bits and pieces were disjointed, seemingly unrelated. Listen for a word, a phrase, something... hell, anything that might led to the next question, the one that would shine a light or crack open a door. A word like history, or whore. Somehow Kit Giniw had been hovering around the margins of Centurion long enough to insinuate himself into Petilune’s life. Josh had seen plenty of people blend in during his career as an MP, but nothing compared to how well the boy had managed to stay off everyone’s radar.
That opened up the question as to why. What had changed to bring him out of the shadows? What was it about the girl that so attracted Kit? Had Petilune been the reason or just an accident? He treated her like a fragile porcelain object. He was infinitely patient, unerringly kind... speaking slowly and carefully so the child could understand. Josh needed little else to convince him that Kit Giniw was head over heels.
Looking at him sitting on the steps, Josh sensed the teen was a coiled spring of hate and rage. The system had failed Kit Giniw on a fundamental level. Josh wanted to know more, but he was no fool. The boy would spin a pack of lies, say or do whatever Josh wanted, because that’s how it worked for boys like him. Tell the man what he wanted to hear. Give him enough rope to hang himself, then Kit would be in the wind, off to find another mark, another way to scratch out a living.
Josh suspected that history Kit alluded to with Petilune’s brothers had a lot to do with them running drugs up and down the valley. What his role had been was still up for speculation. Following up on that line of thought, Josh asked, “Do you know the white kids?”
That question turned Kit’s face to stone. He swiped the lank strands of black hair behind his ear and retreated behind a wall of grief and pain.
Josh said, “They nabbed two of them. And the Goggles kids. The one with the knife got away.” There was no reaction, not a whisper of movement. It was creepy enough that Josh had to restrain himself from moving away from the teen. He took a breath, held it, then exhaled slowly.
As if sensing Josh was about to ask more direct questions, Kit stood up. He glanced at the kitchen door and the rectangle of light on the wood porch. His features melted into an intense yearning that morphed to resignation as he jumped off the steps and walked quickly toward the bike.
Josh lunged to his feet and followed. By the time he got to the front of the house, Kit had wheeled the bike around and was securing a helmet to the back seat support. Josh noted the kid wasn’t wearing one. Motorcycle helmets weren’t required in the state, but the fact he had one suggested he’d bought it for Petilune. That it looked new confirmed Josh’s suspicion.
Even after a shortened version of twenty questions, Josh still knew too damn little about the boy—where he was from, why he was here, how long he intended to stay. Marcus had found out that “Giniw” meant Golden Eagle, and if his tribe of origin followed similar traditions to those in Wyoming, his current surname was conferred when he reached puberty. That factoid might be an entrée into the psyche of the teen. If he could get him to talk about it.
As Kit settled on the bike, Josh asked, “Why Golden Eagle?”
Kit glared at the ground, considering the question. Josh pressed him because this was as personal and intrusive as it could get. He was looking for insights into what made the kid tick, mostly because he and Marcus were going to need everything they could bring to bear to keep Petilune from being irretrievably harmed. The kid had triggers, they all did, those who’d come through hell and emerged on the other side, whole or in parts. Finding those would be key.
“Did you select it, your name?” He got a nod and asked, “Why? What’s it mean?”
Josh stared at the sudden play of emotions over Kit’s face. No one, certainly not a boy scratching at the door to the world of men, deserved to bear the burden of pain and disenfranchisement that haunted so many of the kids from the rez. No matter how others saw him, Kit knew in the darkest reaches of his heart that he was lost, that there was no lifeline waiting for him, no light at the end of a tunnel, nothing and no one to rely on but himself.
Josh knew and understood the consequences of the solitary confinement your brain imposed in order to protect what was left after all the others had helped themselves to pieces of your soul. He would change that if he could, if the boy would allow it, though Josh knew it would never happen. The best he and Marcus could do was keep the one thing the boy cared about safe.
Kit rolled the bike off the kickstand and reached for the ignition. Josh stayed his hand and said, “They’ll be coming after you, Giniw. Ted Sorenson was asking if I’d seen another Native American teen leaving the parking lot.” Kit could have countered with, and what did you tell him, but he didn’t.
The words... I’ve got history... niggled at Josh. Whether or not Kit had a part in whatever was happening between the Goggles brothers and the gang of white thugs, he was certain Jackie and Joey would be spinning a mountain of lies destined to bury Kit and anyone else in the fallout zone.
If Sorenson managed to find and take Kit in for questioning, it wouldn’t take the PD long to determine if they had a bona fide felon on their hands. Even if they couldn’t find a record, the kid was the stranger in town, the one not like the others. The lost were always expendable because they never had anyone to speak for them.
Josh said a prayer that, in this case, it wouldn’t go down that way.
The engine roared to life, but before peeling away, Kit shouted, “Freedom. It means freedom.”
Josh watched the taillights disappear behind a stand of pine, the roar of the engine gradually fading. There was no reason on God’s green earth for him to feel any affinity for the boy, but he couldn’t help the tug of empathy, the sense of responsibility to make right what someone else had tried to destroy. He had no idea how far gone the kid was, or if there was anything he could do to begin the process of recovery, but he damned well couldn’t not try.
Besides, he and Marcus had Petilune to show them the way.
****
Marcus was sitting in the ancient recliner when Josh entered the house. To Josh’s question about the girl, Marcus said, “I put her in the spare bedroom. It took a while but she finally fell asleep. I think she’ll be fine for now.”
Josh noted, “You don’t look fine. Can I get you anything?”
“Nah, thanks. I found aspirin in the kitchen, took three.” He yawned and stretched. That prompted a groan and the admission he was nearly dead on his feet.
“Why don’t you go lay down in my room?”
Marcus objected, “But what about you?” and then mumbled, “I can go home...”
“No, you can’t and you won’t.” Josh pulled Marcus out of the chair and led him into the bedroom. He pushed the man onto the bed, removed his boots and helped him wiggle out of his pants and shirt, folding the clothing neatly and setting the items on the dresser. When he returned to the bed, he asked, “Who’s president?”
Marcus grinned. “Putin.”
“Close enough. Now sleep. I’ll check on you and Pet later.”
“Wait, what’re you gonna do?”
Josh removed the Glock from his waistband and said, “I’ll be on the porch for a bit.” At Marcus’ pained expression, he said, “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to leave you alone.”
Pausing at Marcus’ sharp intake of breath, Josh set his lips in a thin line and added in a whisper, “...ever.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ride the Cowboy
Marcus woke up in a blind panic, unsure of where he was and not exactly clear on who he was. It took Petilune’s sweet, “Uncle Marcus, are you okay,” then his nod, followed by, “because we have to open at the store this morning.”
He pulled the blanket higher, painfully aware he was naked from the waist up and too fuzzy-brained to know if there was anything from the waist down, because holy hell he’d been having the dream
to end all dreams. And it wasn’t the kind that usually left him in a tizzy, with tears and regret and a flailing against fate because he’d lost the only person he’d ever loved.
This one had been different.
Hot, naked, sweaty different. And unlike most of his dreams, it seemed determined to linger in his consciousness as he shifted to make room for an erection the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in... forever.
Petilune had vanished from the doorway. He heard doors banging, metal being set on a counter. A pan on the stove.
Petilune cooks?
“Uncle Josh says to get your ass in gear. Breakfast will be on the table soon.” Petilune grinned, pleased with herself at slipping in a naughty word. She bounced away, the blonde braid lifting and settling right, left on her narrow shoulders. She’d traded her dance togs for one of Josh’s tee-shirts. It fit like a grain sack and fell almost to her ankles.
He muttered, “Huh, it’s ‘Uncle Josh’ now. What happened to ‘Mr. Josh’ like they’d agreed on?”
Praying the coast was clear, he inched his way to the edge of the mattress and slowly lowered his feet to the floor. Pain and shyness about having anyone see him without clothes had done little to convince his wayward libido to stand down. If anything, listening to Josh bang around his kitchen preparing their meal had him wanting to lie back on that bed and squirm underneath his imaginary lover.
Grabbing his clothes off the dresser, he peeked around the corner, spied the bathroom across the hall and dove in that direction. Shutting and locking the door, he leaned against it wondering if he had time for a quick shower. A shower with benefits.
God, how long had it been since he’d woken with such a raging hard-on? When was the last time he’d wanted to experience unbridled lust, even if the relationship was with his right hand? He grinned and slipped his shorts to the old linoleum floor. Feeling frisky wasn’t usually part of his mindset. Not even with Tommy.
They’d been staid, stodgy partners, content with their routines, glorying in the gift of predictability, cherishing each other quietly and without fanfare. Both of them, cast from the same mold. The sheer sameness in their personalities had been the glue cementing them together. Then once a year, they’d peeled away that glue and shed their masks, heading to the Vegas strip for a week of debauchery, sex and rock ‘n roll.
Marcus flicked his fingers in the stream of water. It was lukewarm and hard, the acrid bite of iron assaulting his nostrils. He eased in, enjoying the sting on scrapes and dings his skin had suffered when he’d ended up in a heap on the ground. Turning his back to the flow, he braced his left hand on the tiled wall and ran his hand down his belly, the approach tentative, uncertain.
The first touch was exquisitely painful, an unwelcome intrusion into the privacy of his enforced solitude. Touching, feeling... it reminded him of those times when he and Tommy had gone wild crazy free, walking down the strip hand-in-hand and perving to subtle glances or outright stares.
Tommy. God, how he missed him.
He’d been the picture of a gentleman scholar, all tweed and wool slacks, loafers and wire-framed glasses. Long, elegant fingers that had played Marcus’ body like a fine instrument, the melody ever familiar but none-the-less satisfying. The chords had resonated deep inside with a wantonness Marcus couldn’t accept outside their hidden world, yet still it fed their mutual self-indulgence with simplicity and purpose.
But there were many ways to show love, some outrageous, some contained, some dangerous, others so corrupt not even the sinner sinned with such decadent clarity.
He squeezed body wash onto his right hand. A coconut-based scent flooded his nostrils as he released it into the humid air with short, sharp strokes, his belly twitching in anticipation of each twist and pull. Lungs sucking water and air and the promise of release, he bent into a rictus of memories...
...of the first time Tommy had shocked the hell out of him, donning sequins and heels and the unimaginably painful torture device to hide his junk from protruding through the filmy fabric. Him, going mad with desire. He’d always lusted after tall, dark, and dangerous. Tommy, in heels and a Cher wig, had fulfilled that fantasy a million-fold.
He wondered what had kept them saner... their predictable lives in a small town in the middle of nowhere or their brief foray into smashing their boundaries, stepping outside even the most licentious of excuses to misbehave. Whatever it had been, Marcus had been grateful for the chance to be someone else for a single week.
Of course, when Tommy became ill, those respites from the cages they’d built to hold their secrets close finally shut down. In truth, Marcus hadn’t missed them. Fantasy was just that... an escape from reality that couldn’t possibly last. They’d had meaning with Tommy. Without them, they were nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
Yet here he was, stepping outside his comfort zone, not once but almost on a daily basis. Pumping slow and steady, he counted off the miscues and near misses. Taking on Petilune, he and Josh wading into a melee to save Will, Kit, the fire, and the dance... And at every turn there was the promise of Josh.
Biting his bottom lip, Marcus’ knees buckled as nerves exploded, his body convulsing. The pleasure was so intense, so transitory he regretted giving in, because in his submission to the fantasy of Josh he’d loosed a need so profound there was no going back. Tommy had been his anchor and his reason for living, and then he was gone. Now, what he felt for Josh—that was so outside his experience, so intense and commanding, he had no idea how to process it, let alone react.
At first he’d worried Josh was only filling in the emptiness Tommy’s passing had left, but he realized last night that wasn’t true. Josh was Josh—unique, challenging, adventurous, and totally unpredictable. Those Vegas weeks, when he’d been the other Marcus Colton? With Josh he sensed that he could be that man all the time.
Icy water pummeled his back. Gasping Marcus grabbed a towel and rubbed himself down. A glance at the mirror offered his usual reality check. The frisky Marcus Colton wasn’t the one staring back at him. That man was a figment of his imagination, boxed up and placed in the attic, never to see the light of day again. This Marcus Colton was familiar. A middle-aged shopkeeper who was nothing special, average in every way. Graying, softening, and wilting with the slow death of age and wear and tear.
How anyone as vibrant and alive as Josiah Foxglove could even bother to give someone like him a second glance was a puzzle he simply couldn’t solve.
He dressed quickly and tidied up the space, because that’s what predictable, good guests did. The knock at the door, a bam bam bam, had him jumping out of his skin.
“Breakfast’s ready. Come and get it.”
Come... Oh fucking hell.
Marcus opened the door, struggling to keep a neutral expression on his face and knowing he was failing miserably.
Looking Marcus over, from his toes to his forehead, Josh smirked. “Took your time in there.” Marcus squeezed past as Josh whispered in his ear, “Hope you enjoyed it.”
Marcus rooted to the spot, wondering if he’d heard the man correctly. A devil he didn’t know existed made him spin and say, “Yeah, I did. Best I’ve had in a long time.”
Piercing blue eyes raked him over as Josh teased, “There’s nothing like a good hot shower.”
Heat flooded Marcus’ face, then plummeted to his groin, but he stood his ground and assumed what he hoped was a taunting expression. Nodding coyly, he murmured, “The shower was good... too,” then turned and headed toward the kitchen.
He could have sworn he heard Josh snort with laughter.
****
Marcus closed out the register and gave a sigh of relief. Between the Saturday crush of customers and him having to take time off to go all the way into Laramie to give a statement, they’d been so busy he’d called in reinforcements, two of the seniors happy to have something to do and pick up some extra cash. Marcus slipped them a small bonus at the end of the day, grateful for their assistance.
; Petilune continued to be a revelation. Everyone saw her as simple but Marcus knew better. Her brain processed things differently, and her emotions could be all over the place, from her near breakdown over Kit’s loss of manhood—euphemistically speaking—to her competent, take-charge actions that morning. She’d practically force fed him breakfast, got him into the van, and then organized their day as Josh drove them to the store to drop them off and pick up his rig.
So, she needed simple, concrete instructions, but once assigned a task she was a bulldog attacking it. Marcus understood he had no right to mull over the girl’s quirks, but if he could find a way to remove her from Janice’s toxic parenting and place the child in a more stable environment, he would personally see to getting her tested. He knew absolutely nothing about autism or related conditions, other than what little he’d read online, but if it were a problem like that, then there would be specific actions he could take to see to her security and well-being.
The bombshell, mercifully dropped after Josh had pulled out, came after Marcus complemented her once more on how nice her hair looked, moving aside some stray strands and tucking them behind her ear.
She’d said, “He had to do it all over again ’cause it got messed up sleeping.”
Petilune only shrugged when Marcus gurgled, “He... what? Wait... He didn’t...”
The possibilities flashed in sequence—Petilune, sleeping alone in the spare bedroom, Kit sneaking in to be with her, fixing her hair in the morning like he’d done the night before. And then slinking out without alerting either him or Josh. It was a blessing Josh didn’t know because he would have gotten his hunting rifle out and been stalking the lower forty instead of dishing up scrambled eggs and sausage.
The girl ignored his blathering, smoothed down the old work pinafore and shyly said, “It makes him feel good to take care of me.” Marcus couldn’t imagine what expression he wore, but whatever it was, Petilune hastened to add, “”It’s okay, really... I don’t mind.”
Christ, out of the mouth of babes.