by Jeff Mann
Lucas rolled over, his face gleaming with tears. He pressed his face into Brice’s chest hair and choked up a strangled sob.
“Hey, buddy, go ahead and cry if you want to.” Brice hugged him close.
“Naw. If I get started, I’ll go on all goddamn morning. Eric…. By the time it was over, Eric was on the floor, looking up at me, a knife in his chest and his throat half-cut open. I stumbled over to him, and he grabbed my hand, and he smiled up at me, and he coughed up about a fucking bucket of blood, and he closed his eyes and died.”
“Christ. What happened then?”
“Then the powers-that-be covered it up. They told me they’d fuck up my parole if I made a fuss. Eric had no family left to miss him, and neither did the son of a bitch he killed. I had only three months till my release—early release for good behavior—and Eric was gone, so…the warden told me that he’d arrange for my protection during the little time I had left inside, so no more rapes. My Mommy and Phil came to visit me while I was healing up, but I didn’t tell ‘em what happened. No point. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
“It means a lot to me that you trust me enough to tell me. Your mother’s still alive, right? You never mention her.”
“Oh, she’s alive. She’s still living in the house in Mabie. But she’s so ashamed of having a ‘queer whore,’ as she puts it, for a son that we don’t see one another very often. Holidays like Christmas or Thanksgiving, Uncle Phil has invited her up here, but let’s just say the conversation is as awkward as the food is fantastic. Speaking of food….” Lucas wiped his face yet again. “I’m tired of being all sad and pathetic. Thank for listening. Your reward is gonna be another big country breakfast.”
Lucas gave Brice a quick kiss on the mouth and slipped out of bed. “By the way, for future reference, I got tested when I got out of prison, and I’m glad to say none of those bastards gave me any kinda disease. Kind of a miracle, really.”
“Thank God for that. Well, for future reference, I’m clean too. I got tested before I left Nashville.”
“Damned fine news.” Lucas poked Brice’s shoulder. “Get dressed, Daddy Bear. I’m famished, and it’s gonna take a while for that cheesy grits casserole to bake.”
LUCAS HAD THE SAUSAGE AND APPLES FRIED, the casserole in the oven, and a warm fire going in the great room. Both men, dressed in thermal undershirts, jeans, and thick wool socks, were sipping Bloody Mary’s, and Brice was fooling around on his guitar, picking out a new melody surfacing inside his head and beneath his fingers, when the phone rang.
“Odd. No one ever calls up here,” Lucas said. He bounded up off the couch and answered.
“Yeah? Hey, Grace. Yeah, Brice is here. What’s going—” Lucas frowned. “What? What? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Yep. Yep. Okay. We’ll be here.”
Lucas hung up. The look on his face was flushed fury. “I’ll be goddamned. You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?” Brice lowered his guitar into its case and stood, on the alert.
“There’s some fucking reporter down at Grace’s store, asking about you. How the hell could they have found out where you are?”
“I don’t know. Dammit!”
“Grace just sent him on a wild goose chase. She’s gonna keep an eye on the store, since he said that other reporters were on their way. But Amie, she’s coming up here to tell us what the bastard looks like, what gossip rag he works for. Plus she’s bringing up some of her potato soup. She always sends some up when something bad’s happened or someone’s sick. Maybe we should hide your truck. It’s got Tennessee tags, right?”
“Yeah. We can do that. But…. Shit, I think I know how those assholes found out I was here.”
“How?”
“Just a couple of days ago, I heard from my label—well, my ex-label—asking for an address to send the piss-ant amount of money my CDs have earned recently. I gave them your all’s post office box number. They’re the only folks who would know where I am, other than my sister and that Travis Ferrell boy. I’ll be damned.”
“Travis would never give you away. He thinks you’re a hero. Some sneaky bastard who works at the record company sold the information?”
“Exactly.”
“That motherfucker. Okay, let’s hide your Ram. There’s a shed that’ll do just fine.”
BRICE AND LUCAS HAD THE telltale vehicle safely stashed and were nervously finishing their drinks by the fire when steps sounded on the porch and there was a knock at the front door.
Lucas jumped up and peered out the front window. “It’s just Miss Amie.” He loped over and opened the door with a smile.
“Howdy, ma’am!” Lucas said, throwing his arms around their visitor before escorting her into the great room. As Grace had said on Brice’s first day in Brantley Valley, Amie did indeed resemble the glamorous pin-up model Betty Page, with long ink-black hair, thick bangs, voluptuous hips and breasts, and dramatic make-up. She was wearing black stockings, a low-cut dress in a flowery print, a black woolen shawl, and high heels. A string of pearls gleamed around her neck, and jeweled rings flashed on her thin fingers. She carried a scarlet clutch purse that matched her lips. Behind red cat-eye glasses, her long-lashed eyes were a friendly dark brown.
Amie smiled at Brice and offered her hand. “There you are! One of my favorite singers. I can’t believe you’ve been up here for weeks, and we’re only now meeting. Grace told me to give you your privacy, and I have. But now…I had an excuse to come visit.”
“Great to meet you, Miss Amie,” Brice said, taking her hand. On a whim, he gave it a light kiss.
“Oh, you Southern men are always so gallant,” she said. “We don’t get that too often up in Pennsylvania, where Grace and I grew up. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, Mr. Brown.”
“Please call me Brice, ma’am. You come bearing unpleasant tidings, I gather.”
“Yes. A reporter from Country Weekly. A tall, gangly, ill-favored man who’s the spitting image of Ichabod Crane. He came into the store, claiming that he knew that you were ‘holed up,’ as he put it, in Brantley Valley. Grace and I pretended ignorance, so then he offered us money. Grace told him you were staying in the lodge up at Canaan Valley State Park, so off he went, the little ferret.”
“Good job, Grace!” Lucas enthused. “Hey, you wanna stay for breakfast? Or, at this hour, I guess it’s brunch. Sausage, fried apples, cheesy grits? You want a Bloody Mary?”
“I’d love one. Do you mind if I stay for brunch, Mr. Brown?”
“It’s ‘Brice,’ and I don’t mind at all. I may be a notorious homosexual, thanks to the scandal sheets, but I’ve always enjoyed the company of elegant ladies like yourself.”
“And I may be a high-femme lesbian, but I’ve always relished handsome gay men with immaculate manners. Oh! I forgot the potato soup in the car. There’s a loaf of cranberry and orange nut bread too.”
“I’ll fetch ‘em,” Lucas said, grabbing his black denim jacket and black ball cap off the coat rack. “Car unlocked?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Be right back.” Lucas jogged out the door, slamming it behind him.
“That boy’s a treasure,” Amie sighed, slipping off her shawl. “He looks like a tough little redneck, but he can be sweet as pie. Awful, the things he’s been through. He’s alone too much. I’m so glad you’re here to keep him company, since Mr. Philip is in Florida.”
“Me too. I haven’t been here very long, but I’ve already gotten mighty fond of him.”
Amie batted her eyes. “Oh? Have you managed to break through his considerable defenses? He can be downright glacial to strangers.”
“Lucas was pretty rude at first, but I’m glad to say he’s opening up to me. Hey, where are those manners you were talking about? Have a seat and let me make you that drink.”
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
Brice was pouring chilled vodka at the bar when Lucas entered, carrying a paper bag. The young man looked
perturbed, with set mouth and furrowed forehead. “Uh, oh,” Brice murmured, regarding him.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Amie asked, rising from the armchair.
“There’s a car coming up the hill. I don’t recognize it.” Lucas placed the bag on the bar. “Brice, buddy, you better hide. Just in case.”
“Hide? Like a criminal? I don’t want to hide.”
Lucas scowled. “Brice, dammit. Just do it. If it’s reporters, if they see you up here, they won’t leave.”
Amie nodded, pulling on her shawl. “Lucas is right. If it’s a journalist, we can send him packing.”
“Makes me feel like a coward,” Brice groused. “Why should y’all have to stand up for me?”
“Just do it, man! Go down to the kitchen and check on that casserole, will you?”
“All right, all right.”
Brice headed down the stairs, just far enough to let Lucas and Amie step out onto the porch and close the door behind them. Then he retraced his steps. He stood in shadow beside the front window, opened it a crack, and peered out.
The car, a boxy green thing, was parking in the driveway below the porch. The man who climbed out was clearly not the gangly journalist Amie had described as appearing at Radclyffe’s Roost earlier that day. Dressed in a travel-rumpled gray suit, he was built much like Brice, with a strong-looking torso and arms and a moderately plump midriff. His features were sharp, his graying hair short, his eyes keen. A camera hung around his thick neck.
“Hello!” he said, lifting a hand. “Is this Philip Rogers’ place?”
Lucas shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yep. He’s in Florida. Who’re you?”
The man flashed them a friendly smile. “I’m Robert West. I’m a reporter for the Star. Who’re you?”
“I’m Lucas, Philip Rogers’ nephew. What d’you want?”
“I got a tip that country music star Brice Brown was staying up here, and I’d like to interview him.”
“Brice Brown? Up this valley? Ain’t he in Nashville?”
“No, he ‘ain’t.’ He’s getting mail at a post office box a few miles from here, in Pickens. The lady down at the store told a colleague of mine that Brown was in Canaan Valley, so he went to check that lead out, but right after that, this lady drove up here in a big hurry, so I figured I’d follow her.”
Amie pulled her shawl more tightly around her. “You followed me?”
The man’s smile was vaguely apologetic. “Yes, I did. And damned if you didn’t lead me here. This is the place where a big pickup truck with a Tennessee license plate has been parked, according to a local down the valley who’s scraped your road after the last snowfalls. A slate-gray Dodge Ram 2500, which, last I heard, was the kind of vehicle Brice Brown was driving when he fled Nashville for his hometown.”
“You see any such truck here?” Lucas said, folding his arms across his chest.
“No, I don’t. But I see some mighty big tire tracks in the mud over there. I’d like to take a look around anyway. If you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” Lucas growled. “Brice Brown ain’t here. This is private property. My uncle left me in charge of this place. I’m thinking you should leave now.”
“It’ll just take a few minutes. Hey, did you say your name was Lucas?”
“Yeah? So?”
“Lucas Bryan?”
“Yep. So?”
The man’s smile widened. He took a few steps forward. “Some folks in Pickens told me about you. You’re the kid who got sent to prison for prostitution and stabbing a man. You’re gay. So’s Brice Brown. This is all looking even better than I’d thought. Are you two sharing some sort of homosexual love nest up here? Maybe I should interview you, if Brown isn’t around.”
Lucas spat off the side of the porch rail. “You ain’t interviewing nobody today. Git on outta here.”
“Ah, come on.” The man took two steps up the porch stairs. “I could pay you well. This kind of story is worth a lot of money to the Star. Are you Brown’s new lover now that his old guitarist has dumped him? How old are you anyway?”
“You need to get the fuck off my uncle’s land, buddy. Now.” Lucas clenched his fists.
“You’re sure you won’t give me an interview? I’d love to hear about your time in prison. Did that experience make you a homosexual? A good-looking boy of such small stature would surely have been popular in there.”
“Goddamn you. Shut the fuck up,” Lucas rasped.
“Are you normally this hateful, Mr. West?” Aimee said, shifting her clutch purse from her right hand to her left. “Leave us alone, or you’ll regret it.”
“You heard the lady. Get outta here, or I’ll kick your ass over into the next county.”
The reporter snickered, though he took a step back. “I don’t think you’re in any position to do that, Mr. Bryan.”
“And why the fuck not? Just ‘cause you’re bigger’n me? I’ve taken down bigger guys than you.”
“I’m sure you learned some fighting skills in prison. No, I’m not talking about your size or strength. I’m talking about the fact that you’re probably still on parole. You probably have a parole officer somewhere. You brawl with me, and you’ll get sent back to prison. Is that right?”
“Damn you,” Lucas snarled. “Just leave us the fuck alone.”
“That’s what I thought,” West said. “I think I’ll just look around the property a bit before I go. You sure you don’t want to tell me about prison? About being a truck-stop prostitute? Our readers would love the nasty details about how many men you serviced with that pretty mouth of yours. You’re a manly little guy. Who ever would have guessed that you were slinking from truck cab to truck cab, head bobbing up and down on—”
Brice had had enough. He threw open the door and stormed out onto the porch. “Hey! Asshole! Leave the boy alone!”
“Brice, you retard,” Lucas said, but his blue-gray eyes were full of thanks. “You shoulda stayed inside.”
Brice gave Lucas’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I wasn’t going to let that prick talk to you that way.”
West’s face gleamed. “Brice Brown! So you are here! Surely you’ll give me an interview.”
“What the hell do you think? No, I’m not going to give you an interview. I’m going to give you something else, something a lot more memorable. I’m going to give you the ass-kicking of your life if you don’t get in your car and get the fuck out of here now.”
West moved backward, still smiling. “Just a few pics before I go. This is priceless. The infamous gay singer who’s lost everything but his new lover, who happens to be a white-trash truck-stop hustler young enough to be his son. Just beautiful. Just beautiful.” He aimed his camera and began snapping photos. “Say cheese.”
“Okay, that does it.” Brice stomped toward the edge of the porch. “I’m gonna feed you your front teeth.”
Amie placed a soft, bejeweled hand on Brice’s forearm. “I’m sorry. I abhor violence. Let me handle this loathsome person.”
Brice paused. “What? How?”
“Like this.” Amie opened her purse and drew out a small pistol. It was a delicate thing, with a pearl handle and leafy etchings all along the barrel.
Brice and West both gasped. Lucas guffawed. Amie aimed and fired into the snow a mere foot from West’s right shoe.
“Holy shit! You crazy bitch!”
West ducked and fled. In a few seconds, he’d scrambled into his car. He sped away. Amie aimed again, nicking the left edge of his rear bumper. A score of seconds later, the vehicle had raced out of the compound and disappeared around the corner.
“My God,” Brice breathed. “That was amazing.”
“You’re a frigging goddess!” Lucas exclaimed. “I forgot you carry that thang around.”
“After a girl’s almost raped by a predatory, porcine businessman in an alley following her first burlesque performance, she learns to protect herself. And her friends. I’ve been a crack shot since I was twenty-three.”
>
Amie slipped the pistol back into her purse and took Brice’s arm. “Well, that’s enough excitement for today. How about we go in to brunch? I haven’t savored Lucas’s cooking in many a month.”
“THIS SHOULD SCARE AWAY SOME OF ‘EM,” LUCAS said, wielding the hammer.
One by one, he mounted a series of homemade signs along the wooden fence that fronted the Phagg Heights compound. Made of old boards, the signs announced, “Trespass at Your Own Risk!” “Don’t Piss With Us!” and “Our Friends Are Cops!” Lucas had even drawn skulls sporting exaggerated fangs on some of them.
“You really think the local police will help?” Brice stared down the dirt road and up the leafless hillsides, feeling profoundly paranoid, as if a reporter might materialize from any direction at any time, even parachute out of the clouds.
“Considering how much money Uncle Phil donates to their department, yep, they’d damn well better. I don’t know that they’re all that much into defending queers, but they sure are into protecting locals of whatever stripe from pushy, intrusive outsiders. ‘You all may be gays, but you’re our gays,’ as Doris Ann likes to put it. Our family’s lived in Brantley Valley for generations, and that kinda thing counts for something around here. All we need to do is call the cops if one of those reporters trespasses, and Chief Willey said he’d send someone up to drive ‘em off.”
“That would be great. As much fun as it was to see Amie pull her pistol this morning and send that shithead packing—”