Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5)

by Cait Forester

  Taggart rubbed the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and stood up. “Well, then how about while we’re up there we do that, too. It’s far enough from the hospital no one’ll see us, right? And I haven’t been back to Willow’s End for years. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”

  Martin’s mouth started to tug up a little into a smile. His cheeks were red. Funny how after all the other stuff, something like that would make him blush.

  “Plus it’s the weekend,” Taggart said. “Maybe we could sneak into the high school and do what we didn’t do before. Rewrite a little history.”

  Martin snorted, his smile widening. “I suspect they lock it down over the weekend.”

  “I used to sneak in all the time,” Taggart said. “It’s easy.”

  “Do we really want to do this?” Martin asked. “We have a good thing right now. If it’s — if this is all you want, that’s okay with me.”

  Taggart kissed Martin — not the aggressive, consuming kisses which got Martin hard and made his hole weaken and crave Taggart’s cock — but a soft, simple, eyes-closed kiss.

  It did what he hoped it would.

  Martin’s breath turned a little ragged, and his hands slid around Taggart’s waist. They stayed like that, trading kisses, tongues exploring like it was the first time again, for some time; hours or minutes.

  “Okay,” Martin finally whispered. “We should go, then.”

  “You can drive,” Taggart rumbled against Martin’s mouth. He reached down and gave Martin’s cock a squeeze — it was just as hard from that kiss as the other kind. “I’ll take care of this on the way.”

  32

  Taggart was as good as his word, as always. He couldn’t reach Martin’s prostate, which was usually how he managed to get Martin off even though he wasn’t that good at giving head. It wasn’t Taggart’s fault — he didn’t have a lot of practice. Though, Martin recalled being pretty good right out of the gate, but maybe he was just more enthusiastic.

  However, Taggart had considered the solution.

  They took the Camaro.

  It seemed silly to Martin, at first, but by the time they were on a fairly empty stretch of highway and pushing 90 miles per hour against Martin’s judgment, that changed.

  Taggart didn’t do anything particularly new or different, but in about five minutes after he scooped Martin’s soft cock and smooth balls out of the scrub pants and went to work, Martin’s foot pressed the gas pedal harder, and had to struggle to keep still and focused as Taggart drained him.

  After, Taggart sat up with a self-satisfied grin on his face. “See? Told you. Fast cars, baby. Does it every time.”

  Martin slowed down considerably, and glanced at Taggart. “Was that the general, euphemistic ‘baby’ or?”

  Taggart’s grin fell, but didn’t go away entirely. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. “I don’t know. What if it wasn’t?”

  Martin didn’t answer. He just smiled a little, and sped up again.

  They made impressive time in the Camaro, but the tank was nearly empty, and it had been almost full when they left.

  “You don’t get a muscle car for the fuel efficiency,” Taggart sighed when Martin pointed it out. “It’s about style.”

  Martin grunted. “It’s fun to drive on the highway, I’ll give you that. But I think I’ll keep my dinky little Mazda and my forty miles a gallon.”

  “I figured you would,” Taggart chuckled. He looked out at Janey’s house. “Place looks different than I remember.”

  Martin frowned. “Did you ever come over?”

  “Not exactly,” Taggart said. “I might have followed you home once or twice.”

  Hearing it now shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Martin grew uneasy anyway. He had to forcefully banish the feeling. That was then, this was now. Things were different. Taggart was different.

  Still, all the things that could have happened.

  “Why?” Martin asked.

  Taggart sighed. “I don’t know. I — I was messed up. You don’t want to hear that shit, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Maybe he was right, then. Martin cleared his throat and opened his door. “We should go in.”

  Martin handled Grunt, hooking the lead to his harness to get him out of the narrow back seat and into the open air. He immediately peed, which was probably a testament to his improving bladder control. Taggart still gave the back seat a thorough check.

  They went in, and found Janey on the couch, reading a book with the television on, dressed in a nightgown and a shawl. She smiled up at Martin when she saw him.

  When she saw Taggart, her eyes widened. She put the book down, and reached for her glasses. When she put them on, her expression sobered.

  She stood and greeted them, kissing Martin on the cheek. “And who’s this?”

  “This is, ah . . .” Martin stalled out. He’d told his Aunt about Taggart. She’d gone to the school once to complain to the principal, who had promised to do something but, of course, hadn’t.

  “Taggart Coulson,” Taggart said.

  There was half a chance Janey wouldn’t remember. More, maybe.

  But she looked at Taggart’s offered hand, and back at Martin. “Wasn’t he the boy that —”

  “No, Janey, he —”

  “It was me, Ma’am,” Taggart said. “I take it Martin told you about what was going on in school.”

  “He did,” Janey said coolly.

  Taggart stood a little straighter, and looked for a second like he might salute. “I was a bad kid, Mrs. Warner. I like to think I’m past that now. At the very least, I can say that Martin and I are working it out now. And we’re doing an okay job so far. I apologize for how I treated him. It must have broken your heart.”

  “It did,” Janey said quietly. She smoothed her nightgown, and tugged her shawl around her shoulders a little tighter. “Well, if Martin is okay with it?”

  “I am, Aunt Janey,” Martin said. He smiled. “We’re . . . uh . . .” His smile faltered. He and Taggart had been so busy blowing each other and getting caught up in this next step they hadn’t discussed what would actually happen when they got here. What the story was.

  “Me and Martin are going —” Taggart squirmed, just slightly, and covered it with an obviously fake cough. “We’re going out, Mrs. Warner.”

  Janey’s eyes widened again. “You two?” She looked from Martin to Taggart and back. “You’re together?”

  Martin was just as stunned. He managed to overcome it. “Yeah,” he said. “We are.” He looked at Taggart, trying to look less surprised than he felt.

  “Okay,” Janey said. She smiled, and clasped her hands. “Okay, this is big news. Ah — Martin, did I already . . .?”

  Martin smiled, and took her hand. “No, Auntie, you didn’t know. I haven’t really talked about it much with anyone, actually.” He flashed Taggart a look that Taggart clearly caught the meaning of.

  Not that he minded a declaration like that. Did he? Well, it was just that they hadn’t discussed it. He couldn’t decide if it was sweet — romantic, even — or a little overly enthusiastic and even premature. Meeting his aunt Jane was one thing; introducing Aunt Jane to the first boyfriend Martin had ever brought home was entirely another.

  He suspected that Taggart knew they would discuss this later.

  Grunt barked, and Janey looked down, shocked for a third time, and gasped as she knelt down and held her hand out. “And who is this?”

  Martin smiled. “That’s Grunt. He’s Taggart’s dog.”

  “Oh, you are the most adorable — well, I’ll be.” She looked up. “He gets around on three legs?”

  “He’s quickly learning to get around very quickly on three legs,” Martin said. “We — Taggart got him at a shelter a couple of months ago.”

  “That is something,” Janey muttered. She scratched under Grunt’s chin and behind his ears. Martin suspected that he’d just made a friend with a generous hand for petting.

  As much as Marti
n would have loved to stay and hang out for a bit to ease this transition along, he’d come up tonight, at least, to meet with Clint. “I have someone to meet,” Martin said. “It won’t take long. I’m gonna go upstairs and change, and I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour or so, okay?”

  Janey nodded, and waved Taggart toward the kitchen. “Come in, then. Can I get you something to drink? Did you bring the little one food?”

  “I’ve got his bowls in my pack,” Taggart said. “And sure, anything’s fine.”

  “Water,” Martin said from the foot of the stairs. He looked at Taggart and shook his head quickly, his eyes wide in warning. The last thing he wanted was for Janey to have a moment and flavor his diet coke with ketchup, which she’d done before when she didn’t think it was sweet enough.

  “Water sounds good,” Taggart said. He gave Martin an embarrassed sort of smile and shrugged. “I’ll come help.”

  That was probably best. Martin hurried up the stairs and dug around in his old dresser for a pair of pants and a shirt, and put a hoodie on from his closet. It occurred to him, just then, that if he and Taggart were staying here for the weekend, that meant they’d be very likely sleeping together.

  Maybe Taggart would sleep in Keith’s room.

  Now wasn’t the time to think about that. If he started, he might not be able to stop.

  He scurried back downstairs and found Taggart and Janey at the table. She had a photo album out. Somehow, she’d managed to stay seemingly lucid and remember where everything was. At least it wouldn’t be quite so tense for Taggart. Grunt had his face in a bowl near their feet.

  “I’m going,” Martin said. “Be back soon. You two play nice.”

  Taggart winked at him, and Janey waved, and went right back to pointing at a picture.

  Martin stifled a groan and left to meet with Clint.

  33

  “And this one was Martin’s seventh birthday,” Martin’s Aunt said, pointing at a picture of a skinny, floppy haired little boy with Martin’s eyes, chin, and nose. “That was right after they came to live with me.”

  Taggart smiled, and looked at the other pictures on the page as well. “Which one of these is Keith?” He asked. He idly rubbed Grunt’s belly, the small dog stretched out over his thighs and passed out from the excitement of the long drive.

  Janey hesitated, and turned the page. She tapped a picture of a slightly older boy, who looked like he might grow up to be handsome like Martin was, but maybe a little wider at the shoulders. He had the same eyes as Martin, but a more squared off jaw, and a slightly bigger nose. It was easy to see they were brothers, though.

  “He was eleven there,” Janey said. “Or maybe twelve, I think. This was after he got into little league baseball. We went out for ice cream afterward. See that cone Martin has?”

  Taggart peered at the photo closer. “I do.”

  Janey sighed. “Martin tripped on the curb just out there,” she pointed toward the door and the street beyond it, “and dropped his cone. He scraped his knee, and lost his ice cream. Keith didn’t even ask, or hesitate. He just helped his brother up and gave him his. He was always like that, always looking out for Martin. He’d have done anything for him. If they’d been close enough to go to high school together,” She gave Taggart a meaningful look. “Well. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the boy that gave Martin any trouble.”

  “I can imagine,” Taggart said. “It would have been good for me, though. Someone to set me straight.”

  Janey smiled sadly and touched Taggart’s arm. “I suppose we all make mistakes.”

  “Keith was deployed, wasn’t he?” Taggart asked. “Did you get any pictures of him in the service?”

  “Oh, yes,” Janey said. She smiled and flipped further into the album, almost to the end. “That’s Keith, right there. All grown up. When you first came in, without my glasses, you — you almost reminded me of him. That hair, I think.”

  “Regulation military,” Taggart said absently. Keith had grown up to be a good looking man. Distinctly good looking, in fact. Most people were if they had the right mass, really. He’d been entirely closeted about his sexuality in the Marines, but he did notice other men; that was unavoidable.

  And he was almost certain that he’d seen Keith at some point. Trying to sort through where and when made his heart speed up, so he stopped, but the sense of familiarity was intense. “Do you — I don’t know if you know or not, but was Keith even near Mosul? Did he mention it?”

  “He didn’t,” Janey said quietly. “But the letter they sent us did.”

  The most painful letter any parent — which is what Janey really was — could get. It would have been the letter informing them of his valiant service, detailing any commendations he received, including the same purple heart they’d given Taggart. It was a poor replacement for a son, or a nephew, or even a friend.

  Taggart leaned in, and looked closely at the patch and printed information on Keith’s flack jacket.

  “You served, then?” Janey asked.

  “I did, Ma’am,” Taggart said. “Second battalion, seventh Marines. Three years and nine months before . . . I got hurt.”

  Janey’s eyes widened, and she looked him over as if trying to find what had happened.

  Taggart scooted his chair away from the table and pulled up the leg of his jeans a bit. “Other one’s real,” he said. “This one’s starting to work almost as well, thanks to Martin. Not quite the same, but —”

  “You know,” Janey said, “the very reason Martin wanted to become a physical therapist was so that he could help injured soldiers. A couple of Keith’s friends that were, well they were with him when it happened, they were injured. Martin went to school within the week, and applied for a scholarship and a few grants. The money the Army sent helped as well.”

  Taggart knew about Keith, but he hadn’t known about Martin’s reasons for doing what he did. It made sense, though, and he probably should have guessed. “He’s got a real good heart,” he said quietly. His throat was a little tight, and he finished his water to clear it up. “You raised a good man.”

  “I did,” Janey said. She looked at Keith’s picture. She looked at it for a while, silent, her eyes fixed.

  Grunt stirred in Taggart’s lap. He looked up at Taggart, and at Janey, and whined softly. Taggart looked down at the puppy, and scratched him behind his ears, and looked to Janey’s distant expression.

  “I don’t want to intrude too much,” Taggart said, partly to get her attention, “but we didn’t eat anything before we left and Martin skips lunch half the time. Would you mind if I rustle us up something to eat? I’m a pretty fair cook. Sort of.”

  Janey looked up at him, uncomprehending, and nodded slowly. “Sure . . . there’s . . . I have . . .” she waved in the direction of the main kitchen.

  Taggart’s heart ached. He took her hand. “It’s okay, Mrs. Warner. I can handle it. Why don’t you tell me something about Martin. From when he was a kid. Or about Mr. Warner?”

  “Jacob,” Janey smiled. “Oh, Jacob was a fisherman, when I first met him in Maine. I’ve always been a little plain, you know. And he was so handsome that I didn’t think he’d ever look my direction. But he did.”

  Taggart held Janey’s hand instead of cooking, and listened to her stories, prompting her for another each time she finished. He kept his emotions in check as he listened, and stayed with her until she came back.

  34

  Martin returned within an hour, feeling guilty but resolved. Clint had collected all the necessary documents. If Janey agreed, they would meet with him later to sign them and transfer power of attorney to Martin.

  His feet were heavy walking from the car to the house, and he worried about the conversation. Hopefully, at least, Janey would realize that the whole thing was just meant to make things easier on her.

  He turned the knob, and found it locked.

  His first instinct was to try it again. Janey hardly ever locked her door. When he confirmed that it
was, in fact, locked, he dug for his keys.

  The locks jiggled before he could get to them, and the door opened. Taggart was smiling apologetically on the other side. “Sorry. I have a thing about locked doors.”

  “It’s okay,” Martin said. He came in and looked around. “Is Janey in bed?”

  “Yeah,” Taggart said. He looked sad when he glanced at the stairs. “She had an episode.”

  “Jesus,” Martin sighed. “Taggart, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to put up with that.”

  “Hey,” Taggart said, quietly, and rested his hands on Martin’s shoulders. “It’s okay. We did fine. She told me stories for a while until she came around. She couldn’t help it. Believe me, I know how it can be.”

  Martin’s shoulder relaxed. “What stories did she tell?”

  Taggart smiled, and tugged Martin toward the couch. They sat, and Taggart scooped the sleeping Grunt up gently and gathered him into his lap.

  “She told me about meeting your uncle,” he said. “With like, crazy specific details.”

  “Her long term memory is good,” Martin said. “Dementia mostly affects the short term. Long term kind of fills in the gaps, which is why she gets confused.”

  “I guess so,” Taggart said. “She told me about when you and Keith were babies. About how bad it was for you. She told me about bringing you two to live with her. She talked about Keith a lot. She must really miss him.”

  Martin moved closer to Taggart, and Taggart put his arm around Martin’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Grunt stirred, yawned, and dragged himself across Taggart’s thighs to wiggle down in between them.

  “I don’t know that I’d say Keith was her favorite,” Martin said, “but they were really close. He was about eleven, I think, when we first came to live here. They used to talk a lot. I guess I had problems at that age, but Keith was a little more capable of talking about them, you know?”

  Taggart pressed his lips to Martin’s forehead.