All Wheel Drive

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Diego shook his head. “I can’t, man.”

  “Health shit or religious reasons?”

  “Hypersensitivity.”

  “You look pretty tough to me.”

  Diego explained. “It’s a real thing. Comes with the chair. Sometimes I can’t stand to be touched. Sometimes I need people to touch me extra hard. The problem comes and goes.”

  “I didn’t know that.” He threw his towel over the bar. “Too bad. You’ve got a pretty awesome canvas.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Diego shrugged off the obvious line.

  “No, I mean it.” Ringo pointed at his shoulder. “I’d do a whole round shoulder thing on your delt there. Celestials or the Aztec calendar or something. You’re a beast.”

  The admiring looks went straight to Diego’s ego. When he was done with his reps, they made their way to the free weights. Ringo started adding weights to the press bar.

  Diego asked, “You want me to spot you?”

  Ringo glanced up. “You can do that?”

  “Probably,” he teased. “Maybe? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Of course he couldn’t spot someone who was pressing a ton of weight.

  “Got me. I wasn’t about to trust my thorax to a seated dude. You try out a biceps curl with the weight I press?”

  Diego admitted it wouldn’t happen. “Got me there.”

  “I am the Thorax, I speak for the trees.” Ginsberg stopped at the head of the bench and spotted Ringo’s reps before saying good night on his way out. “Ciao, bello.”

  “Night, Gins. Soon, okay? Margaritas and darts. Guy with the worst location stories buys the drinks.”

  “Only if we’re counting film locations and not your days as a news producer.”

  “Deal.” Diego bumped fists with him, and he left.

  “Cute kid.” Ringo watched Gins walk away.

  “That was Carter Samuels’s stunt double. I wouldn’t call him a kid where he can hear you.”

  “No way! I seen him around, but I thought he went to the college or something.”

  “Nope. He gets his ass kicked for a living.” Diego turned back to Ringo. “Sorry I can’t spot you. You mind spotting me, anyway?”

  “Sure.”

  After three reps he was breathless and bathed in sweat. He counted off the last few while his muscles screamed with effort. He let Ringo take the bar, and pushed himself into a sitting position. With one hand on the bench and one on his chair, he made the transfer.

  “Goddamn. No wonder your chest is massive.” Ringo wiped his face with a sports towel. “You wouldn’t believe the ink I could do with a canvas like that.”

  “I’ll think about it some.” He got his own towel and wiped off. “I could try.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone like you. Lifting like that, moving from chair to bench and back.”

  “I had a lot of upper body strength ’cause I did gymnastics in college. I’m used to building specific muscle groups.”

  “Still.” Ringo shook his head. “Don’t hide your light, man.”

  “Hard work is a great way to kill time.” Diego lifted his water to his mouth, took a deep swig, and sighed with satisfaction. “Sometimes it needs killing.”

  “I hear you,” Ringo said. “When my partner died, I felt the same way.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Has it been long?”

  “It happened years ago. Motorcycle accident.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You can’t kill time. It keeps getting back up like a zombie. Time kills us. Don’t let it.” He draped his towel over his shoulder and started toward the locker room. “Nice working out with you.”

  “You too.” Diego meant that, for a change.

  “Don’t be a stranger.”

  “Hey, wait.” Diego thought of something he wanted. “You do piercings?”

  “Need yours redone?”

  “Yeah.” Diego did not even consider where the idea came from. “I think my ears are still okay, but my eyebrow closed. Can you redo it?”

  “It happens all the time. I’m going to shower and then open the shop. You wanna take care of that this morning?”

  “Sure.”

  Wait. Did he? Healey was pretty perceptive. He’d make the connection between remarking on those piercings and suddenly seeing them repierced if Diego showed up with jewelry on.

  Fuck it. It was his face. He had a right to redo his piercings if he wanted. He was going to foster a soul patch again too. Or maybe he’d grow a Van Dyke, like Cecil’s. Mami said Cecil looked like a modern Don Quixote.

  Maybe he’d get a haircut too. If he was going back out on the meat market, he could use a little grooming. He needed it for a reason—he’d look like himself again, with his piercings in. He checked an old picture on his phone.

  Yep.

  Not only had he looked better back in the day, he’d taken a lot better care of himself then too. Diego didn’t have far to go to see how he looked this morning. The gym was full of mirrors. He was effing swole, and damn proud of it. But there was a time when he’d been far more fastidious about how he looked and how he dressed.

  He used to have a lot more self-respect.

  So, hell yeah, he was going to put his piercings back in. And he should dig some better clothes out of his closet.

  None of which had anything to do with Healey Holly, the man who reminded him of what he used to be by making him forget what he was.

  When the early-morning knock sounded on the door to their room, Nash leaped out of bed, but not before elbowing Healey on his already-bruised eye.

  “Christ. That’s gonna leave a new shiner. Tonight, you get your own damn room.”

  “Last night, you weren’t even here.” Nash dragged a T-shirt over his head on the way to the door.

  “That was a hookup.”

  “So. Make it happen again.” Nash opened the door, and their pop stepped into the room.

  “Land Shark!”

  “What the hell, Pop? You can’t call ahead?”

  Ace wrapped his arm around Nash’s shoulders before dragging him over to capture Healey, so he could hug them both at once. “I’ve missed you two.”

  He let go of Nash and held Healey by both shoulders, eyes narrowed.

  “You okay, Heals?”

  Healey shook his head. “Sure. Sore and sad.”

  Understanding was his pop’s stock in trade. “Goddamn it. I liked Ford.”

  “I still like him,” Healey said quietly.

  Nash let out a snort of outrage. “Don’t defend him, he almost got you killed.”

  “We don’t know everything yet, Nash,” said Pop.

  “We know Healey’s got broken bones.”

  “Anyone can have an accident.”

  Healey stayed silent while Ace and Nash argued about taking personal responsibility and entitled people and making tough choices.

  When he was a kid, he’d stopped his ears when Nash and his dad argued. Ace was a softie, but Nash had a pretty black-and-white way of looking at things. He condemned Shelby’s mother, Christine, even though she’d been a hopeless addict. Healey and their pop had a tougher time blaming her, even considering what had happened.

  After a while, though, they noticed he was staying silent.

  “Healey?” Nash studied him. “What is it?”

  “The pressure on Ford was immense.” Immense and toxic. Ford’s parents threw money at his problems, but withheld empathy. “And a diagnosis of BPD in young adulthood—”

  “Don’t make excuses for what he did,” said Nash. “He made a choice to stop taking his meds.”

  “I don’t make excuses. But there are reasons. If Ford had a brain tumor, no one would blame him for what happened.”

  “But if Ford had a brain tumor that caused him to act out in dangerous ways—”

  Pop cut him off. “Leave it alone, Nash.”

  Nash turned on Pop. “Healey could have been killed.”

  “We don’t know what happened,�
� Pop reminded him.

  Nash pointed Healey’s way. “Because he won’t tell us.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Healey insisted. “Ford’s out of our lives now, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, son.” Pop’s voice softened. “I know you loved each other. That’s rough.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Healey pleaded. “None of us can know what goes on in someone else’s head.”

  Nash gave a disgusted grunt. “I hope you brought Fjóla. We could use someone rational around here.”

  “Absolutely.” Pop beamed with pride. “She’s getting her place ready for guests. I came to take you home.”

  Healey glanced at Nash. “Getting pretty serious, huh?”

  Pink crescents made Pop’s cheeks look painted on. “It hardly makes sense for me to go to a hotel.”

  “We’re not judging you.” Nash grinned. “But we should probably have a talk about when a boy likes a girl and sometimes he feels things.”

  “You can’t be my kid.” Pop turned to Healey for help. “Tell him you had a fateful accident with a copying machine.”

  “Are you sure Fjóla has room for three guests?” Nash asked.

  “Her place is a bit small. We’ll manage.” Pop was always an optimist. Whatever, it had to be bigger than this.

  “I’ll pack.” Healey padded to the closet to get his duffel.

  “Does this mean I won’t have to share a bed with Mr. Sleeps-Like-a-Top?” asked Nash.

  “Look who’s talking, Mr. Snack Breath,” Healey muttered.

  “Are you two still in preschool? Seriously.” Ace checked each drawer of the tiny bureau. “I did not fly halfway around the world to hear you two argue.”

  “Yeah, you did.” Nash brought Healey’s toiletry kit from the bathroom. “You realize leaving here means no more of Jim’s tasty breakfasts.”

  “Oh, shoot.” Healey could practically taste Jim’s lemon bars, but he was still glad they were leaving. He squared his shoulders. “Nope. Not even Jim’s pastries are worth sharing a bed with you.”

  “You couldn’t get a second room here?” asked Pop.

  “There’s a fan event,” said Nash. “No room at the inn for Jesus, even. We were lucky they hadn’t fixed up this room for guests.”

  “There’s always a fan event.” Healey zipped his duffel while Pop double-checked the bedding for anything forgotten.

  Nash got dressed and packed his things in short order. “We just need to tell Derrick we’re checking out. And to say thanks.”

  The three men looked at one another.

  “Weird, us all being here like this—” Healey’s gut tightened “—without the house to go to.”

  “Come on.” Pop patted him gently on the back. “Fjóla will make you comfortable. That’s her superpower.”

  “And if not, you can always hook up with Diego again,” said Nash.

  “Wait, what?” asked Pop.

  “Never mind.” Healey glared at Nash before he grabbing the handle of his duffel. “Just for that, I won’t let Jim pack you a doggy box.”

  “He will.” Nash closed the door behind them. Pop followed them down the stairs. “He likes me.”

  “He likes me better,” Healey said.

  Nash laughed. “Says you.”

  “Victoria Beckham likes me better too.”

  Nash turned to sneer at him. “Her, you can have.”

  “Say what?” Jim brandished an empty coffeepot. “Don’t ask for anything fancier than drip after that crack about my Queen Victoria.”

  “I’m sorry, but we have to go.” Healey held his good hand out to shake. “My pop’s here, and the room is way too small for three of us.”

  “Of course it is.” Jim wrapped both hands around Healey’s. They shook warmly. “But don’t be a stranger.”

  “Be seeing you.” Nash barely managed to exit the door without Victoria Beckham’s pointy little teeth taking a chunk out of his leg.

  Pop followed, and Healey turned back. “Thanks again. Let Derrick know I’ll be by later to settle up.”

  “No worries.” Jim picked Victoria up, put her under his arm, and waved.

  Pop and Nash both had rental cars, so Healey went in Pop’s. Nash drove alone.

  As soon as they were under way, he regretted it.

  Pop turned to him. “You can give Nash that need-to-know bullshit, but this is me you’re talking to. What happened to Ford. Was it the Illuminati?”

  “No, Pop. I’m sorry, but I don’t think the Illuminati are for real.”

  “No?” Pop’s eyes twinkled. “Shelby says that Beyoncé and Jay Z are in charge of it.”

  “Pretty sure not.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I guess it’s need to know, huh?” Pop watched the televisions show Numb3rs religiously. It had been tough convincing him the grad students at Stanford weren’t called in all the time to solve crime or thwart terrorist attacks.

  “Pop.”

  “All right, all right. Keep your secrets.”

  He was playing. There was a wry twist to his lips and a little bit of an expectant air. As if he was waiting for Healey to call him on things. Healey didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  Still . . . you never knew with Pop.

  Pop stopped at a stoplight and turned his way. “You know who is named Diego? The guy who bought our house.”

  “Yeah.” Healey’s face caught fire. “I met him. He did a pretty nice remodel.”

  Pop narrowed his eyes. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  Healey let that go without comment.

  “What’s he like?” asked Pop.

  “Prickly.”

  Pop nodded. “Been in the chair long?”

  “I didn’t ask, but I don’t think so.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know if he’d want me talking about his health.”

  “Probably not.” Pop shrugged. “I guess I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Ask him.”

  The light turned green, and they entered the intersection. “Think I’ll get to meet him?”

  Healey didn’t know. There was Diego’s whole I don’t want a boyfriend thing. That was pretty clear. “I like him, but I won’t be staying in Bluewater Bay, so I doubt we’ll date or anything.”

  “Don’t be afraid to make new friends, Heals.”

  “Pop.”

  “I’m just saying. It’s hard, after you lose someone. You start to wonder if that’s all you get. If it was some kind of fluke. If there can ever be anyone else.”

  They sat through the next light cycle with loss like a wet blanket weighing them down.

  “Obviously, it’s not a fluke,” Healey offered. “There were other women for you, after Mom.”

  The small smile his pop wore probably had its genesis in Fjóla. “They say third time’s the charm.”

  Genuinely pleased, Healey gripped his dad’s shoulder. “You’re tying the knot?”

  “Probably not.” He shrugged. “Why bother? Not like we’ll have kids.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You could have kids. Don’t let anyone tell you how to live.” His father had always advocated on their behalf. “Make the family you want and the haters be damned.”

  Wow. How long had Pop been storing that up? “I will, Pop.”

  Pop turned on the radio and some kind of New Age, Pan-flute music flooded the car for a second before he changed it and Guns N’ Roses took over.

  “Hehehe,” he chuckled. “Fjóla likes that world music stuff.”

  Healey smiled at that. It was weird seeing his pop fall in love, but Ace Holly was young enough and fit enough that watching him and Fjóla was kind of like Thai food. Sweet and hot.

  Plus, Pop was due something good for a change. Something wonderful. He’d been a great dad.

  Pop was owed.

  “Fjóla’s good people,” Healey murmured.

  “The finest.” Something had shifted subtly in his tone. “When your
mom died, I thought I closed the book on love. Christine was different.”

  “Understatement of the year.”

  Pop didn’t deny the charge. “It was nice being needed for a while.”

  “I know.” Healey liked being needed too. He liked solving problems. He liked fixing things. He—

  “Did Ford need you?” His pop stared at him, unblinking. “The way Christine needed me?”

  Something gritty caught in Healey’s throat. “I don’t want to talk about Ford.”

  After studying his face for a minute, Pop muttered, “No need.”

  He probably saw Healey’s unspoken answer. He checked oncoming traffic before making the turn onto a side street where three pretty houses sat in a row, like cottages for woodland elves. Pop pulled into the farthest one and killed the engine.

  “I can make a pretty good guess what happened. Ford started partying a little too heavily?”

  “Ford isn’t Christine.”

  In the shadows, Pop’s face fell. “No. Probably not.”

  “Ford’s family asked me not to talk about the things that led up to the night of the accident, but Pop, you don’t know how it was. He was scared. He took the medicine they gave him, and it just didn’t work all the time, and he was scared—”

  “Oh, son. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not my story to tell.” Healey felt sick saying that much. “That’s why this is so hard. One minute we were on top of the world, and the next, it all turned upside down, but not because we partied too much.”

  “I believe you. But you can see how worried we’ve been, and no one is talking.”

  Healey rested his head against the seat cushion. In the silence of the car, far enough away from all the people involved, Healey was able to say it. “We’d been having problems for a long time. You know about the BPD, but things were getting worse. He started resisting treatment. Missing appointments.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

  When he let the memory play out, Healey gave an involuntary shudder. “After he came back from spending the holidays at home, things changed, but it was so gradual. He withdrew. He wasn’t sleeping. He got seriously back into running—he drove himself relentlessly.”

  “Did his family know?”

  “Of course. I told them. But they weren’t there for the day-to-day and he was good at hiding things. I don’t think they really understood. At some point, I don’t know when, because he was still keeping up a pretense, Ford decided to stop taking his meds.”