Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5)

by Cait Forester

  Martin nodded. “She called me, said she’d been robbed. She’d just misplaced some stuff. It’s one of the weird specific things about dementia. And Alzheimer’s. She’s accused me of moving things around just to confuse her before. I mean, she doesn’t mean it, you know? And she snaps out of it for a while. She had two weeks over Christmas where she was totally normal. Then I took the tree down, and the next day I came in and she was putting it back up, panicked about not having it up for when . . . for when Keith came home.”

  “So,” Taggart said quietly. “I’m like a release valve.”

  Martin’s heart clenched, guilt stabbing at him. It was wrong to use Taggart like that. Not that he didn’t have feelings, even if they were complicated. But he couldn’t lie about it. “I know it’s not right,” he said. “I’m just not sure I can help it.”

  “That’s fine,” Taggart said. He smirked. “I got a big dick.”

  Martin laughed and the knot in his chest eased away, replaced by something warmer.

  Taggart continued to smile. He shrugged, and gave a heavy sigh. “I always figured if I gave you a taste of it, you’d never be able to quit. I should have warned you.”

  “Okay,” Martin chuckled. “I guess I’ll give you that.”

  “So what’s next?” Taggart asked. “Do some kind of regular thing? You come over twice a week, we get off, go back to our lives?”

  “What comes next,” Martin said, “is that you come back to PT and get back into therapy.”

  Taggart frowned. “Is that a condition?”

  “Yes,” Martin said, and tried to sound like he meant it. He wasn’t sure he could stay away if Taggart refused.

  Taggart’s lips tugged up at the corners, and he rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re pretty much the only guy crazy enough to fuck me, so I guess I can do that.”

  “Although,” Martin said, “there is the issue of you being my patient. We can’t, ah —”

  “Work is off limits,” Taggart agreed. “I know that. Hell, they’d probably throw me out too. Even though you started it.”

  “Uh, you got the first boner,” Martin pointed out.

  “Only because you felt me up,” Taggart countered.

  Martin rolled his eyes. “I did not ‘feel you up’.”

  “When nobody’s touched your dick but you in about four and half years,” Taggart said, “pretty much any prolonged touch is ‘feeling you up.’”

  Martin pointed to Taggart’s shorts, where Taggart looked like he was getting hard again. “Am I feeling you up right now?”

  “Not yet.” Taggart grinned.

  Martin bit his lip, and eased himself out the recliner to slink onto the futon. “I’m not gonna put it in my mouth after it was in my ass, just so you know.”

  “I don’t want to put it in your mouth,” Taggart muttered. He reached around Martin’s back and grabbed at his ass.

  Round two started, and thankfully, moved to the bedroom, where Martin promised to pick up some actual lube before he came over again.

  But the baby oil worked fine for the time being.

  29

  Martin called ahead during his drive to see if Janey was lucid, and if she wanted anything whether she was or wasn’t. She didn’t answer, which gave him a bit of a panic, so he called her neighbor, Mr. Crenton, who was on the unofficial ‘schedule’ to check in on her.

  Mr. Crenton answered absently. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mr. Crenton, it’s Martin Warner.”

  “Oh, of course. I didn’t recognize the number. How are you?”

  “Fine,” Martin said. “I’m on my way out. I called Janey and she didn’t answer. Was she — how was she today?”

  “Oh, she was a gem,” Mr. Crenton said. “Mostly all there, I think. And she got a visitor before I left her, though I didn’t get his name.”

  Which meant whoever it was, they weren’t from Willow’s End. “What did he look like?”

  “Tallish, black hair, kind of shaggy,” Mr. Crenton said. “Looked a little like he didn’t realize he was middle aged yet, but it happens to the best of us at midlife. I bought a sports car, Wanda was furious. Anyway, does he sound familiar? I’ve been keeping an eye out. He was still there, last I checked. I could go around again if you want.”

  “There’s no need,” Martin sighed. He couldn’t decide whether to be glad that his father had finally come around, or worried. “He’s a friend. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Alright,” Mr. Crenton said cheerfully. “Well, you drive safely.”

  They hung up, and Martin called Janey’s house again, but still got no answer. Maybe his father was asleep as well. That, or he just wasn’t answering the phone.

  His anxiety grew very steadily, every mile bringing him closer to facing Hal. They hadn’t seen one another for, what was it now? Almost five years?

  Martin played through the various scenarios in his head. Was Hal going to be high? Maybe he was in the process of looting Janey’s house. It wouldn’t be the first time. He imagined what he might say, how he might react. Call the cops, probably. Each scenario that played out just made Martin more and more worried about facing his father.

  He wished Hal had just stayed up north and let Martin find the time to come to him, have him sign papers, and leave on his own terms. Hal was a little like fleas — once he came around, getting rid of him was tougher than you expected, even when it seemed like you managed to do it.

  The only scenario that didn’t fill Martin with dread — and it wasn’t even a real possibility — was one that happened by accident as Martin’s mind wandered around the problem. In that one, Taggart was there. Taggart the Marine, who wouldn’t put up with Hal’s double talk or his bullshit stories about how everything was turning around. Taggart, who would tell Hal to keep his hands off Taggart’s —

  Martin shook the fantasy away. Taggart wasn’t here. And if he was, it probably wouldn’t go down like that.

  Still, Martin looked at his phone, warily, and picked it up, careful to keep one eye on the mostly empty highway. He could call Taggart, couldn’t he? They talked. Not a lot, but some. Enough?

  He scrolled to Taggart’s phone number, and hit ‘call’.

  It rang once before he hung up. He put his phone down and shook his head at his stupidity. Taggart wasn’t a boyfriend, and what was he going to say anyway? Probably he’d suggest that Martin kick his ass or something. If all you were given was a hammer, wasn’t every problem a nail? He suspected the Marines probably didn’t give him a very wide toolbox, given what their job was.

  A few minutes later, his phone rang.

  He glanced at the screen and had to decide whether to answer or not. It was Taggart, calling him back.

  Martin bit his lip, and answered. “Hey.”

  “I saw you called,” Taggart said. “Thought I heard my phone ring for half a second. You butt dial me?”

  Martin tried to say “yes”, but what came out was, “I’m about to see my father. The junkie. It’s been five years, and I didn’t know he was going to be up here and I’m freaking out a little bit.”

  Taggart didn’t answer right away, and Martin grimaced. He could imagine Taggart’s expression of utter confusion about why Martin was bringing this to his attention.

  His voice was gentle though, when he responded. “Alright. Just stand your ground when you see him. You’ve got a soft spot for broken people, and your dad is broken as fuck. But you gotta be careful about letting those kinds of people run you. They don’t know how to drive. Get me?”

  Martin was stunned for a moment. He nodded. “I — yeah, I do.”

  “You need back up?” Taggart asked.

  It made Martin’s heart beat harder. Some of his anxiety washed away, something else taking its place. If he asked him to, Taggart would drive up. It just didn’t seem like the man to offer something he didn’t mean. “Not this time,” he said. “I think I got it.”

  “If you change your mind,” Taggart said, “you know where to find me. I got a
lead foot.”

  “Thanks, Tag.”

  “No worries,” Taggart said. “But, ah — look, it’s okay with me, you calling me like this about, you know, whatever you need. I just want to know if that’s part of what we’re doing.” There was no sarcasm in it; Taggart was asking an honest question.

  “I guess it is,” Martin said. “Is that okay?”

  It took a moment for Taggart to answer. “Sure. That’s okay with me. You . . .you give him hell, Good Lookin’.”

  Wonders would apparently never cease. Martin chuckled. “I will. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Roger that,” Taggart said.

  They hung up, and Martin drove for some time in a kind of thoughtless daze. Had that conversation really happened? Screwing around was one thing. He liked Taggart. Kind of. Well, maybe more than kind of, but he hadn’t expected anything like that. Maybe he had a bigger toolbox than Martin thought.

  When Martin arrived at Janey’s house, his father was there.

  He’d passed out on the couch. The living room reeked of pot, and there was a resin-darkened roach and a small pile of ashes in one of Janey’s plain white soup bowls. Martin sighed, and picked it up. He dumped the last of Hal’s joint and the ashes in the toilet and flushed it down before he washed the bowl in the kitchen.

  At least everything seemed like it was still there. Janey didn’t have very much that anyone would call valuable — her house was full of memories and tokens of sentiment more so than anything really fancy. But she did have a large television, and there were gaming consoles in Martin’s room. Nothing new, but enough to probably pay for some drugs if you were desperate.

  He sat down carefully on the love seat in the living room, and watched Hal sleep.

  Hal looked like Keith. Or, Martin supposed, Keith had looked like Hal. He looked like both of their parents, really, but between him and Martin, Keith had the shape of their father’s face, and the broad shoulders that Martin hadn’t gotten. Or, maybe it was just Martin looking for those familiar features which made them stand out. The longer people were out of sight, the less clear you remembered the details, right?

  He had a clearer memory of Keith than he did of Hal.

  Hal’s coat was draped over his stomach and chest, the same dingy leather coat he’d been wearing the last time Martin saw him. One of his arms was covered as well, but the other was on top, and Martin could see the tiny bruises of track marks there. It made him want to push Hal off the couch and throw him out.

  But, he needed Hal. He’d brought in the papers that Clint Tildon had prepared for him, in the event that he could convince Hal to abdicate his right to Janey’s power of attorney.

  He took another moment to remind himself that Hal was just a person. A messed up person — but not the towering, angry, strange deity which he’d been when Martin and Keith were children. Back then, Hal had sometimes seemed like the best father in the world, full of fun and always smiling. Other times, he was a monster, screaming at them both, shoving them away and, sometimes, losing his temper so bad he struck them across the face or threw them across a room. Hal had broken Keith’s nose once. Maybe that’s why they didn’t look quite so similar later on.

  “Dad,” Martin said, too softly to wake the man up. He took another breath, and leaned forward. “Hal.”

  Hal stirred lazily, his eyes barely opening, and smacked his dry mouth. “Hrnm? Wassat?”

  “Hal, get up,” Martin said with more force.

  Hal turned his head at an awkward angle to peer at Martin in confusion. After a few seconds, realization broke over his face. He sniffed as he pushed himself up. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “Hey, kiddo.”

  “What are you doing here?” Martin asked.

  His father looked over the table, searching. “There was a bowl here,” he said.

  “I threw it away,” Martin sighed. “Hal, you can’t smoke pot in Janey’s house. People come over here.”

  “You threw it away?” Hal groaned. “That was the last I brought with me, Martin. Shit’s expensive.”

  “No, it’s not,” Martin said. “And it doesn’t matter, you can get more when you go back home.”

  Hal pouted, like a child, and Martin wanted to slap him. He didn’t, of course.

  Not literally, anyway. He slid the folder on the coffee table toward his father. “I need you to sign these papers, since you’re here. Then you don’t have to worry about any of this.”

  With an irritated look still on his face, Hal grabbed the folder, and looked around for the lamp. He switched on the one on the corner table between the couch and the love seat, and paged through the folder’s contents. “What’s this?”

  “It just says that you don’t want to be responsible for Janey’s care, and that instead you’re approving me as her caretaker,” Martin said. That was the gist of it, anyway. The chances that Hal could afford a lawyer were minimal, but Clint had made sure to specify the ways in which Hal would be abdicating, in the event that he came back later to try and take back power of attorney on some technicality.

  “Why would I sign this?” Hal asked. “Janey’s my sister. It’s my job to take care of her, not yours.”

  Martin straightened, wary. “Hal — Dad, you’re not in any condition to take care of Janey. You can see that, right? Look, I’m not going to lean on you to go back to rehab, or be the father I didn’t get to have, or anything like that. You live your life the way you want to. But you can’t stay high and deal with this.”

  Hal sniffed as he closed the folder and tossed it onto the table. He stared at it for a long time. He scratched the back of his wrist absently, and rubbed his cheek. Eventually, he managed to look at Martin. “I can do better, you know. And lately, I’ve been picking up odd jobs here and there. I’ve got this idea for an app, too, I just need to find someone who —”

  “Jesus, Dad,” Martin groaned. “Can you hear yourself? An app? How do you not see that you’re going to have to get and stay clean before you can do anything else?”

  “I can cut back,” Hal said. “Look, you don’t get to talk to me about what I do with my life, alright?”

  “Yes I do,” Martin snapped. He was on his feet. He hadn’t realized he stood up. His heart was racing. “I do get to talk to you about it. You and mom put us here, gave us away to Janey, and she kept us safe, and made us feel like we had a family. You and your fucking addiction killed our mom. You killed her, Dad. She never would have . . .if she’d never met you, and gotten sucked into your fucking screwed up life, she’d still be here.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Hal said, his voice flat. His eyes were on the table again.

  “I will not allow you to come into this place — the only safe place I’ve ever known — and destroy it like you do everything else you touch,” Martin hissed. “I don’t want you here. I want you to go home and stay far, far away from my Aunt Janey, and this house, and let me take care of her because I owe her that. You don’t. All you want is the money and the fix, and I’m not going to let you shoot the rest of Janey’s life up your fucking arm. If you try, I will take you to court, have you drug tested, and drag you through the mud if I have to.”

  Where it had come from, Martin didn’t know. Or, maybe he did. Maybe Taggart had planted it, and Martin had spent the drive nurturing it. His knees were weak, though, and his stomach wanted to curl in on itself. He had to hold his breath to keep from gasping for air. His eyes burned, but no tears actually came out. He wouldn’t let them.

  Hal swallowed, and hugged himself. His head nodded, slowly. At length, he leaned forward, and picked up the folder. He paged through it again, more slowly. “This is what you want?”

  “Yeah, Dad. It’s what I want. It’s what Janey needs.”

  Martin sat back down and leaned over to pull the drawer out of the coffee table a bit. He fished a pen from inside, and handed it to his father. “Please do this for me. It’s what Keith would want, too.”

  Hal looked up at Martin, and back at the papers. “Yeah
, maybe.”

  He signed the papers, one at a time, with a blank look on his face. When he was done, he closed the folder and handed it to Martin.

  “I had planned to spend the night,” Hal said. “If that’s okay.”

  “If you steal anything, I will have you arrested,” Martin said.

  Hal’s face pinched.

  They sat in silence for a little while, and Martin used the quiet to check that his father had signed in all the marked places, and that his signatures were consistent. It was messy, but they all more or less matched. Clint would fudge the notary just a little bit — he knew it was going to be next to impossible to get Hal into a room on any kind of a schedule.

  “You, ah . . . you got a boyfriend these days?” Hal asked.

  Martin’s chest tightened, and his eyes burned again. Some of his anger drained away, replaced instead by an old, rusted sense of loss for the father he might have had.

  “Kind of,” Martin said. “I’m busy. There’s this guy. He’s from around here.”

  “What’s he do?”

  Martin smiled. “He’s a Marine. Or he was.”

  “Once a Marine, always a Marine,” Hal muttered.

  “It looks that way,” Martin agreed.

  And for a little while, they talked.

  30

  If Taggart could claim anything about himself with confidence, it was that he could keep his word. He called in to the VA and said that he’d had some problems, and they confirmed his Friday appointments.

  For the next several weeks, things were good. He still had a few anxiety attacks, but he did have fewer of them. The nightmares became a little less intense. Grunt learned to ring a doggie doorbell which Martin bought for him and mounted near the base of the door. It only took about a week before Grunt was ringing it reliably to let Taggart know he needed to go out.

  Martin took him through his PT like a drill sergeant. They still did the stretches and the exercises, which were grueling enough, but they started working on ‘ambulation’ — walking around on the prosthesis without a cane. It was hard. And he was sore day and night for a long time before he started to get used to it. Even then, PT was still difficult, but at least it didn’t hurt as much.