All Wheel Drive

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Healey shook off the thought.

  There weren’t a lot of dark thoughts. But there were some. He’d returned to Bluewater Bay instinctively, looking to ground himself and get help.

  As if thinking about Nash caused it, his phone rang.

  He didn’t have to check the caller ID.

  “Hey, bro.”

  Nash’s voice held anger. “I’m not even going to mention how dumb it was to leave and get on a plane just days after an accident like the one you had.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But you’re in Bluewater Bay. Which for the record, was—at the time you landed there—2,100 miles away from your nearest relative.”

  “Farther than that, cupcake. I thought you guys were in Morocco?”

  “We were.”

  “I have news for you, Morocco is way farther than 2,100 miles from Bluewater Bay.”

  “It is not. Wait, I looked it up, special. Oh, crap. That’s Morocco, Indiana. Whatever, man. Do you know how long it’s going to take me to get home?”

  “You don’t—”

  “Oh, don’t even.” Nash’s raspy voice sounded as irritated as he did. “I’m already in New York. I’ll be in Seattle in . . . eight hours.”

  “Eight? Are you walking?” Healey sat up and checked his soup. Temperature was good. Mm. Tomato and basil.

  “It’s called a layover, Einstein. In Salt Lake City. I hope to fuck I can get a goddamned beer there. So unless you’ve figured out how to fold time and space . . .?” He paused. “I’ll see you when I get there.”

  “I’m at a B&B. Burnt Toast.”

  “Derrick’s place? I know it. See you there. Don’t make me chase you around or when I get there, I’ll break your leg too.”

  “Nice.” Crunch. He lost all his table manners and started to eat while he talked. Good grilled cheese. His appetite had returned with a vengeance.

  “Speaking of nice, the nurses I talked to remember you fondly. Without giving up any medical information, they all offered opinions on how hot you are.”

  “Wish I could say the same. I don’t remember jack, except waking up and telling them I was leaving.” Ooh. Dunking. In went the cheese triangle.

  “They let you? Pop said something about an interview with the police?”

  “Yeah. I did that, and I’ll be subpoenaed to appear. There will be depositions later. I’ll bet there’s going to be a civil lawsuit.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that now, though. What’s next for you?”

  “Don’t know.” Whenever he thought of the future, nausea made his mouth water. “Right now, I’m going to eat the last quarter of this grilled cheese sandwich, and then I’m planning to sleep.”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “No. I’m not even—”

  “Would you stay away if it was me?”

  “No.” He spoke through clenched teeth before disconnecting, then dropped the phone into the bedding beside him. The quilt—some handmade star pattern in rich blue shades—bore the softness of a thousand washes. Running the tips of his fingers over the stitches was profoundly soothing.

  After he finished everything but the garnish, he placed the tray on the landing outside his room, simultaneously wondering if the dog was prone to wandering around by itself and whether a lick of tomato soup would be bad for a dog that size. Maybe if he left the bowl upside down? Instead, he covered it with the parsley—he didn’t see a Yorkshire Terrier sneak-eating parsley.

  Satisfied he could shut the world out, he placed his Do Not Disturb tag on the door, closed it, and crawled back into bed.

  His last thought as he drifted off was cookies.

  Wait.

  He had cookies, and they were delicious.

  He could eat them, if only his head didn’t feel like it weighed so much.

  Okay, then. Maybe later.

  He’d eat them . . . later.

  Something woke Healey. He lifted one eyelid. Blinked. His eyes were gritty, but visibility was zero, the room mired in darkness.

  How long had he been asleep? Must have been hours.

  It took him a few precious seconds to remember he was at the Burnt Toast B&B.

  During those few seconds, he relived the crash.

  Mouth dry and heart hammering, Healey reached for the water bottle he’d left on the nightstand. Of course, he knocked it over. Water splashed into the darkness, audibly hitting the floor. Pooling on the hardwood.

  Blindly, he groped for his phone, which lit up briefly before it slid out of reach.

  Darkness.

  Then, a slice of light from the hallway widened, and suddenly, miraculously, Nash was there, solid and strong. Healey stood on shaking legs, moving toward his twin, grabbing on to the only relief and safety he’d ever known.

  Nash swept him into a full-body hug.

  Into wholeness.

  Into the strength that only came from family.

  How had Healey imagined he could do any of this alone?

  A brand-new dam burst, and Healey’s heart cracked open. Sorrow he’d tried to bury rose up to confront him again.

  “Ah, God.” Healey tightened his good arm around Nash. He could not bear this. He wasn’t letting go again. Not ever. “Christ.”

  “I’ve got you,” Nash whispered. “I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  Light barely cracked the darkness the following morning. Rain spattered down, throwing interesting shadows onto the wall. The droplets created patterns Healey’s brain attempted to decipher. Hieroglyphics? Cuneiform? Spermatozoa?

  He watched as they beaded up, smeared, and swallowed one another.

  Something shifted beside him, and he remembered sharing the too-small bed with Nash.

  He elbowed Nash’s thick biceps. “Hey.”

  Still fully dressed, Nash sat up, frowning. “Jesus. What time is it?”

  “Time to take a piss.” Healey swung his legs over the side of the bed “Back in a sec.”

  He left the room to relieve himself and brush his teeth. When he got back, he found Nash sitting up in bed, digging through his backpack.

  “I’m sure I put my toiletry kit in here. Is it in the suitcase? I left that in the rental car.” He tossed everything aside, fell back onto the pillows, and cursed. “Fuck it. I need coffee. It’s too early for anything but caffeine.”

  “Let’s go find some.” Together, they headed downstairs. In the kitchen, they found a blond man fussing over a cappuccino machine.

  “At last, I meet the mysterious stranger,” he purred. He stopped what he was doing to shake Healey’s hand. When Nash walked in, his eyes widened comically. “Times two.”

  Healey smiled and gently disengaged. “Healey Holly. Pleasure. This is Nash.”

  “Jim.” He splayed his hand over his heart. “My goodness. Anyone hungry? I’m up for a sandwich.”

  Victoria Beckham pushed her way between them unhappily. She still didn’t like Healey, but she was willing to overlook his presence.

  She positively hated Nash.

  “Hey.” Nash backed away. “Don’t.”

  With a growl, she got a grip on the seam of his jeans. He leaped back, but she hung there like a tick, trying to tear him to pieces.

  “Victoria.” Jim made a grab for her.

  “Get it off. Get it off.” Nash called to Healey, aghast. “Do something, you fuck-wad.”

  Healey was doing something. He was laughing his ass off.

  “Dude. It’s just a dog.”

  “That’s not a proper dog, Healey.”

  “Oh, snap. You talk like Spencer, now. You’re hilarious.”

  Jim got Victoria under control while Healey poured himself a coffee from the drip machine.

  Nash swatted him. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Sorry, man.” Guilt made him hand his coffee over. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks for this, anyway.”

  Jim left the kitchen with the dog. While he was gone, Healey took the opport
unity to explore. There were a ton of homey touches in the vast, communal kitchen. He studied the open shelves, which held a bunch of retro gadgets.

  “I like this place.” Knickknacks and vintage products and advertisements kept the eye moving. There were a few tin lunch pails that looked to be originals. Scooby-Doo. Spider-Man.

  “Smells amazing, doesn’t it?” Whatever Jim was baking filled the air with the scent of apples and cinnamon and vanilla.

  Nash leaned against the counter with his mug. He eyed Healey. “Okay. We’ve got coffee. Have we got some kind of plan?”

  “For the day?”

  Nash nodded. “We can start there, yeah.”

  Jim came back into the room without Ms. Beckham. “Are either of you hungry? I could use tasters.”

  “Really?” Healey asked.

  “Nah. I don’t need anyone to tell me this is fabulous. I’m a fucking genius in the kitchen.” He slinked over to a cooling rack. “But I like feeding young men.”

  “In that case, sure. I’m starved. Do your worst.”

  “Try this to start.” Jim placed a small round Danish on a napkin, dusted it with powdered sugar, and handed it over. “It’s quince. Fall fruit. One of my friends has a tree.”

  The pastry was flakey and delicious. Tart and spicy. Wholly unexpected the way Thai food could be unexpected. Sweet and ginger-hot.

  Healey moaned. “Delicious.”

  “I told you I’m good.” But Jim preened at the compliment. “I can make you a fancy coffee drink too. You want?”

  “This is fine.” Healey raised his mug.

  Jim’s smile was lazy. “Easy to please. I like that. So you—” he turned to Nash “—are Spencer Kepler-Constantine’s new squeeze.”

  “I guess.” Nash couldn’t hide the blush that crept up his neck.

  “I’ve bumped into Spencer several times. He’s a delight.”

  “I agree.”

  “Did he come with?” Jim plated a couple more tarts before giving them a sprinkling of mint leaves. “Forks are in the dining room.”

  Nash took his happily. “Thank you. No, Spencer had other commitments and couldn’t be here.”

  Healey took another tart. “I didn’t want everyone to drop what they were doing anyway.”

  Nash clapped him on the back. “Good luck keeping us away. Pop and Fjóla will be here tomorrow probably. Shelby is sick about it, but she’s got finals.”

  “I swear to God, I don’t need—”

  “Shut up, Bubba.” Carefully, Nash looped his arm around Healey’s neck. He was gentle but the move carried the threat of pain. “We need you.”

  “Aw. Come and have a seat. “ Jim led them into the nearly empty dining room.

  Nash glanced around. “Where is everyone?”

  “The fandom sleep off their excesses.” Jim pursed his lips and held up a finger. “Shh. What happens in Wolf’s Landing stays in Wolf’s Landing.”

  Nash sat. Healey grabbed a newspaper off another table and joined him.

  “I’ll just go finish up breakfast,” Jim tidied a table on the way to the kitchen. “I’ll bring you your plates in a minute. If you want anything, just give a shout.”

  “Thanks.” They fell into familiar patterns: Nash scrolled through the messages on his phone while Healey read the paper.

  Breakfast turned out to be eggs en cocotte with a crumbly crust of parmesan and breadcrumbs and basil on top, slab-cut bacon, fresh fruit, and an assortment of pastries. Everything tasted like heaven.

  How had he ever believed he could survive on snack cakes and canned Starbucks coffee? He brushed the last of the crumbs off his fingertips and put his paper aside.

  “So.”

  “So.” Nash spread his hands over his full belly and leaned back. “Now that you’ve got a roof over your head, and you’re fed and caffeinated, what’s next on the agenda?”

  Healey resisted scrubbing his face with his hands. He had so many bruises, scrapes, and contusions it hurt. Anxiety plagued him.

  “I don’t feel so good,” he admitted.

  “We need to get you seen by a local doctor.”

  “Sure.”

  Nash took one last bite of pastry. “And Fjóla thinks you should do a sweat lodge. There’s a place on Bainbridge Island. Whenever you decide to go, I’m in. Let’s make an appointment.”

  “Okay. Um.” Doctor he could see. Sweat lodge with a cast? “Maybe that can wait?”

  “I’m just passing along what she said.”

  “You know what I really want to do?” asked Healey. “I promised this dude I’d help move some things.”

  Nash laughed. “Right. You’re a mess and you’re going to move some guy’s furniture?”

  “It’s not furniture,” Healey countered. “It’s a few boxes of old camera equipment, paintings, and some wooden sculptures.”

  “Wait—” Nash’s brows lowered. “This is the guy who bought Pop’s house?”

  “Yeah. He uses a chair, so until someone brings those things down, he won’t even get to see them. It’s his mom’s things in those boxes—”

  “So? Maybe that’s where he wants them.”

  Healey made up his mind. “I have a plate that belongs to him. Let’s drop it off and ask.”

  Nash groaned.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been in town for exactly two minutes, and you’ve already started an experiment?”

  “A what?”

  “An experiment, a project, a plan, an intervention. You just got through like, twenty-five years of school, for heaven’s sake. You can take some time off to sit and be, can’t you?”

  “It’s not like it’s such a big deal is it? Moving some boxes.”

  “And how’re you gonna do that with a broken arm?” Nash argued.

  “Twin Powers! Activate.” Healey fired off his most disarming grin, the one he knew his brother could never say no to because he was a sap too, and got to his feet.

  “Aw. Fuck you.” Nash stood. True to form, they both picked up their plates and trooped them into the kitchen for Jim.

  “Oh my God. You two are just adorable, aren’t you? Somebodies’ mother raised them right.”

  Healey caught Nash’s eye, and sadness passed between them. “Our pop.”

  “Nice,” Jim said softly. “Pops are nice too.”

  “We’re, um—”

  “Gonna get out of your hair now,” Nash completed Healey’s thought. To Healey, he said, “Let me grab my case from the rental, and then we can get started.”

  “All right.” Nash left him at the bottom of the stairs.

  Healey took the steps up past the first floor, where some of the guests were starting their day. Jesus, had he really slept nearly twenty-four hours?

  A woman came out of her room with a teenage girl, who took one look at him and squealed, “Oh my God. Are you Nash Holly?”

  “Healey, Nash’s brother.” He held up his arms. “Nash is the cast-free, short-haired iteration of our dynamic duo.”

  She was so excited her face was bright red. “Huh?”

  “I’m his twin.”

  “But you know Spencer Kepler, right?”

  He nodded. “My brother’s bae. But Spencer’s not in town right now. I’m sorry.”

  “I know.” The girl nodded. “They said he’s in Morocco. But oh my God. I still can’t believe we saw you.”

  Her mother wore the long-suffering look of a woman forced to listen to “Baby” for the millionth time. Or whatever the current song was.

  She said, “Pleasure,” as they passed each other on the stairs.

  A few minutes later, Nash came into their cramped room with a navy suitcase. It had a tan strap and a red handle and it looked pricey.

  “Aw, man. When did you get rich-people luggage?”

  Nash shrugged. “Spencer got tired of the duct tape.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Nash waited while Healey brushed his teeth, and then the two of them headed downstairs again, out into th
e early-morning drizzle. Nash keyed his remote. A shiny black SUV with tinted windows came to life with a chirp. It wasn’t the kind of car Nash would choose for himself—it being American, for one thing, and a gas guzzler. Plus, it was all automatic and comfortable. It appeared pretty boring to drive.

  Healey guessed Spencer’s assistant was responsible for the choice. “Bast hook you up with this?”

  “Yeah.” Nash glanced to the side before he pulled onto the road. “After the Lamborghini incident in Monte Carlo, Bast has been proactively stomping on all my fun.”

  “I didn’t hear about that.”

  “That’s because Spencer’s PR people are worth every penny he pays them. It wasn’t anything bad anyway. Just a couple of tickets. Some warnings. And a fruit stand. I bought all the fruit. We got ice and Greek yogurt and made smoothies for an entire town.”

  “I’m surprised Bast hasn’t sent you back in a box with some air holes drilled out.”

  “I come back in a box, it will be because I’m dead.”

  Healey took a shuddering breath.

  “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. I’m such an ass.”

  “It’s all right.” He wasn’t going to hold a figure of speech against his brother. But shit could get real fast. He’d learned that, and a lot of other things, in that split second when he’d believed his life was over.

  Healey spent the rest of the drive fixating on the tires as they squished over the damp road. He bobbed his head with the rhythm of the wipers, wishing he could go back in time. If only . . .

  This time he would say, “Let’s stay home.”

  He would deliberately forget something and go back to his and Ford’s apartment. He’d start another fight. Or a seduction. He’d go back inside the apartment, kiss Ford, and then he’d call 911 and he’d tell them the goddamn truth.

  Before. Not after.

  He should have left a kiss on Ford’s lips before the betrayal.

  “Are you okay?” The car jerked. “Bubba. Talk to me.”

  Healey blinked away the irritation. Was that truly how it was? Was he remembering it the way it happened? Had he denied Ford that kiss? Or given it, like Judas?