by Beth Andrews
Marcus was staring at him. Joe recognized the emotions crossing his face like the stages of grief. An automatic need to deny, guilt at not being able to hide the truth, anger at Joe for figuring it out, hope...that Joe might be different.
It was the hope that put a chokehold on Joe. He swallowed against it.
“Anyway. It’s all cool. Accidents happen.” He made a point of checking out the paint job, ran his fingers over the patch Marcus had sanded. “This looks great. Nice job.”
“Thanks,” Marcus said, and cleared his throat. “I’ll paint it later. After it’s dry.”
“I have some patching of my own to do.” Joe grimaced. “Guess I’d better get to it.”
“Thought I heard a door slam earlier....”
Joe watched Marcus struggle with forming a question and took pity on him. “I tried to tell Allison what to do because I’m worried about her. I could have been more diplomatic.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
“Apologize. Seventeen times, if I have to. Whatever it takes to convince us both I deserve her.”
Marcus’s head came up sharply. “You don’t think you deserve her?”
“She’s...special.”
“Yeah.”
“You see it, too?”
“What? Yeah. Her, too. I mean...yeah, I do. See it.” He scrubbed his fingers through his spiky hair and very carefully did not look Joe in the eye.
Joe snatched up the shopping bag. “Well, I better get to it. Any ideas for dinner tonight?”
“Salmon okay?”
“Yeah, great. And, hey, I’m here if you want to talk about...anything.”
Marcus gave a stiff nod. But Joe needed him to know he wasn’t just feeding him a line.
“I’m serious. I’d show you how serious by giving you a hug but I don’t want to end up with my balls in my throat. So how about we bump knuckles instead?”
“Why do you trust me?” Marcus asked suddenly.
Joe paused. “You haven’t given me a reason not to. In fact, that caretaker job I mentioned? It’s yours if you want it. Think about it. Let me know.”
But the kid didn’t look interested. He looked...pained.
All that talk of deserving. Did Marcus think he didn’t deserve the job? Or kindness in general?
Joe hoped the kid would hang around. So Joe would get the chance to convince him he deserved a hell of a lot more.
He was almost at the door when Marcus said his name. Had he decided about the job? Or maybe he just wanted to talk. Joe hid his impatience to get to Allison and turned around.
“What can I do for you, kid?”
Marcus drew himself up. “I’m not a kid.”
No. Joe had a feeling he’d never had that luxury. “Point taken. So what’s up?”
“Mind if I take the truck for a bit?”
So this was what it felt like to be a dad. Despite—or maybe because of—Marcus’s insistence that he was a man, Joe was careful not to smile as he dug his keys out of his pocket and tossed them over.
“She’s all yours.”
Marcus nodded his thanks and turned away, muttering something that sounded a lot like, “I wish.”
Seconds later, Joe hesitated in front of #2. He’d thought about what to say to Allison, had even rehearsed a decent mix of explanation and self-reproach. But he had a feeling that once she let him in—if she let him in—he’d end up on his knees, begging her forgiveness. Five weeks was short enough. She couldn’t end things now.
Could she?
He licked his lips and tasted desperation. Glanced toward his office, and the emergency stash he hadn’t been able to bring himself to dump. He hadn’t thought about taking a drink since the day before. Not much, anyway.
One drink, for courage, and he’d get right back on the wagon. One drink, to give him the confidence to fix what he’d broken.
Hell, he’d sailed through the past twenty-four hours. What harm could one whiskey do?
* * *
MARCUS KNEW BETTER than to wear his hoodie into the diner. The old ladies would squeal and flap their hands and the old men would throw themselves into cardiac arrest trying to take him down. Someone would call the cops and the whole ugly truth would come out. He’d be screwed.
Maybe he was being paranoid. He hadn’t shown his face around Castle Creek in a decade. But being paranoid had protected his ass in jail. In more ways than one.
Bottom line was, Cal could recognize him. Was it worth the risk?
He thought of what Joe had done for him. Allison, too. And remembered the hurt in Liz’s big blue eyes when he’d made it clear he had no interest in being friends.
Yeah. It was worth it.
Walking into the diner was odd as hell. Everything looked the same, just...shinier. The floor was new. Same with some of the stuff on the counters. And the stools were red and yellow, now—when he was a kid they’d been covered in turquoise, and had a lot of rips. What hadn’t changed was the noise—muddled conversations, silverware clacking and the squeak of the waitress’s shoes as she hurried across the floor. And the smell. He’d always associated cinnamon with brightness and plenty.
And escape.
“Hey. You’re not gonna be sick, are you?” A skinny chick with pale skin and pretty brown hair watched him from behind the counter, her eyes heavy with suspicion. She threw out her right arm, index finger pointed. “Men’s room is that way, if you think you’re gonna hurl. Olivia just finished mopping, so if you mess up the floor it’ll be my turn to clean it up.”
“I’m okay.” Except he was standing there gawking like an asshole where anyone could see him. His body flushed hot and he moved up behind the register, snuck a glance at the pass-thru that opened into the kitchen. Someone was moving around back there, but it wasn’t Cal.
Marcus exhaled, and a tingling of undeserved relief swept through his gut. He’d just told Joe he wasn’t a kid, and here he was acting exactly like one.
He tugged his wallet free of his back pocket, and pulled out one of the twenties Joe had fronted him. Resisted the urge to look around and see if anyone was watching.
“Got any cinnamon rolls?”
The girl eyed him warily, as if expecting at any moment he’d spew all over the counter. “It’s a little late in the day for those,” she said, in a tone that hinted he should have known. “We usually sell out by lunch and it’s almost time for the dinner crowd. But let me see if there are any in the back.” She turned away, then spun back, her cheeks suddenly pink. “You that guy who’s staying at Joe’s?”
Shit. That was the thing about life in a small town—even if you didn’t know what you were doing, someone else always did.
When he gave her a reluctant nod, she pushed her shoulders out of their slouch and straightened her black polo shirt. She glanced nervously at the diner door, as if talking about Joe might make him magically appear.
“You may not have a choice,” she warned. “I mean, between regular and special. How many you want?”
He’d meant to buy three. One each for Allison and Joe, as a small token of thanks. And one for Liz Early, as a weak-ass apology. But why not get one for himself, too? He looked down at the bill in his hand, and thought about what he planned to do to the man who’d given it to him.
Had planned to do.
He set the bill on the counter and carefully smoothed it out. “I’ll take three,” he said softly. The girl turned toward the kitchen. “What’s the difference, anyway?” he asked. “Between regular and special?”
She stopped herself mid eye-roll, the color in her cheeks going from pink to red. “Special means heart-shaped.”
An image of Liz marched across his mind. He deserved that eye roll. “Just regular.”
She shrugged. “I’ll check.�
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Five minutes later, Marcus left the diner with a sweet-smelling box and strict instructions from the girl—Rachel, she said her name was—to make sure Joe knew she’d risked her entire hospitality career by raiding Cal’s private cinnamon roll stash. Marcus shook his head. Joe certainly had a knack for inspiring devotion.
He set the box on the passenger seat of Joe’s truck and was headed for the driver’s side—thankful he’d made it in and out of the diner without being recognized, and disgusted with himself for taking the risk in the first place—when he heard a slapping sound, followed by a frustrated grunt. He looked around. A man knelt at the front bumper of a cherry-red compact, scooping up papers from the pavement. Marcus turned back to the truck. The dude seemed to have it under control.
Then a breeze kicked up and he heard the ominous rustle and flutter as papers scattered. The man swore. Marcus gritted his teeth and turned to help. What was one minute more? He joined the man in the chase for what looked like spreadsheets. Invoices. Tax documents.
Oh, shit.
He straightened his stack as best he could and thrust it at the gray-haired man, his body angled away.
“Here you go,” he said gruffly, and as soon as the man accepted the papers he started for the truck.
“Wait, I want to thank you.” Calvin Ames stepped in front of him, his expression harried but friendly. “It’s not often—” He frowned, his gaze roving over Marcus’s face, his eyes growing distant as he struggled to place him. Marcus sighed. Cal paled.
“Marcus? Marcus Watts? Is that you?”
Busted.
* * *
ALLISON HAD HER laptop open and her eyes closed when the knock came. She jolted upright and stared at the door, half expecting Joe to let himself in. Or try to, anyway. This time she’d thrown the bolt.
She stood, and wiped her sweaty palms on the seat of her jeans. Another knock. Should she let him in?
Grow up, Allie. She couldn’t hide out in her room forever. He may be an arrogant so-and-so, but they did have a deal.
Besides, there was always the chance he’d come to apologize. And even if he hadn’t, it was ridiculous to stay in here and sulk. She was hungry. She’d missed dinner.
Oh, who was she kidding, she’d missed him.
She ran her hands through her hair and opened the door. And blinked.
“Marcus.”
He held a white bakery box, his shoulders hunched over it to protect it from the slow drizzle that had already created puddles in the parking lot. When had it started to rain? A gust of air pushed the cool mist against her and she stepped back.
“Come on in.”
He set the box on the table and glanced around the room. “Joe around?”
“I thought he was with you.” But apparently he was practicing his own avoidance techniques.
Marcus shook his head. “The office is dark. I didn’t want to knock.” Red streaked his cheeks. “Guess I shouldn’t have come here, either, but—”
“It’s okay. As you can see, you didn’t interrupt anything.” She closed her laptop and set it aside, perched on the edge of the bed and gestured for Marcus to take a chair. He sat, and fingered a corner of the bakery box.
“So your...talk didn’t go well?” he ventured.
“What talk?”
“With Joe.”
Her stomach reacted with a sour flip. She yanked a pillow free of the covers and curled it into her lap. “I haven’t seen Joe since we got back from Hazel’s and he said he had some errands to run. He told you he was coming to see me?”
“To apologize.”
To apologize. She breathed a little easier. “I’m sorry he’s not here, Marcus. He must have arranged a ride somewhere. Did you need him for something important?”
“I was hoping to talk to you.”
“To both of us? Together?”
“Just you.”
“Oh. Sure.” She clasped her hands on top of the pillow and smiled. “What’s up?” He didn’t answer right away. He swallowed, then swallowed again, and when he looked over at her, his eyes were haunted.
“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly.
He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered over to the door. “I used to live here,” he finally said. “A long time ago.”
Whatever she’d expected to hear, that wasn’t it. “Do you still have family in Castle Creek?” Was that why he’d come? To reconcile with his family, maybe?
“You don’t understand. I used to live here. My stepfather owned the motel. He—” Marcus looked down at the carpet and gripped at his hips.
Oh, God. Oh, no. “That little boy,” she whispered. “That was you?” He nodded, and her heart squeezed as tight as the hands she’d fisted around the pillow. “Oh, Marcus. I’m so sorry.”
“I survived,” he said stiffly, and raised his head. “I’m not telling you so you’ll feel sorry for me.”
“I know. Of course not. Why are you telling me?”
He nodded at the box on the table. “Cal recognized me when I was at the diner, and I need to tell Joe before he does.”
“Marcus, I...I can’t imagine what you went through. But you were a child. What happened wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to be ashamed to tell Joe who you are.”
Inwardly she cringed. Easy for her to say. But what else could she offer him?
“It’s tough to talk about. And...there’s more.”
But he didn’t say what “more” was, and there was no way she’d push him. “Do you want me to be there when you tell him?” she asked gently.
“I just wanted...” He jerked his shoulders up in a sad little shrug. “I don’t know, the chance to practice saying it out loud.”
“Did your stepfather go to jail?”
“Yeah. He died of liver cancer after he got out.”
“Where did you go after they arrested him?”
“I left first, then they arrested him.” Hands still in his pockets, he leaned back against the door. He held her gaze, an almost feral glint in his. “One of the motel regulars decided to ‘rescue’ me. He gave my stepfather five thousand dollars and took me home. Wasn’t much of a rescue, but at least I wasn’t passed around anymore.”
Dear God in heaven.
A shocked, solemn silence gathered in the room, Marcus’s revelations mocked by the homey scent of cinnamon wafting from the box on the table. Allison’s muscles started to ache and she realized she was bent over the pillow, and it was damp with tears she hadn’t even known she’d shed. Slowly she sat up, while Marcus paced in front of the dresser. Rehearsing the rest of it.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any more.
“When I was fourteen I ran away from the guy who bought me,” Marcus continued. “I lied about my age and got a job at a restaurant. I’m only telling you all this so you’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
He stopped and faced her, that gleam in his eyes turning defiant. “Why I came back to burn down the motel.”
She gaped. He nodded.
“Since I was eight years old I’ve dreamed of lighting that match. Of standing back and watching this place burn, room by room, the heat searing my face, the flames destroying what destroyed me. It’s what kept me going. What I lived for. Imagine my surprise when I finally make my way back here and instead of an abandoned building, I find someone’s pet project. I find Joe.” He shot her a look that begged her understanding. “I checked. To see if he had insurance.”
Slowly she pushed to her feet, crossed the room and pulled him into a hug. He resisted at first, then his body loosened and he wrapped his arms around her. They stood like that for a long while, until Marcus whispered, “He’ll hate me.”
Gently she freed herself. “You should know better th
an that.”
His throat worked. “I’ll tell him. I will. I’m just...not ready. You won’t tell him, will you?”
“I promise.”
“Thank you. For listening.”
“Anytime.” She bit at the inside of her cheek. That wasn’t true, was it? She wouldn’t be in Castle Creek much longer. And she’d never expected that to make her heart ache.
* * *
MARCUS STEPPED OUT of Allison’s room and into full-fledged rain. The gutters rattled and pinged under the onslaught and despite the overhang, the sidewalk kicked up the wet and his clothes were damp in no time. But he didn’t mind. He felt lighter, freer, after talking to Allison. Meathead was one lucky guy.
If he ever got his head out of his ass.
Where was he, anyway? And why had he blown off that apology?
Marcus looked toward the office. It was hard to tell, what with the rain reflecting the beams from the security lights, but it looked like Joe still hadn’t gotten back from wherever he’d disappeared to. But since he and Allison were both starving, he’d offered to try the lobby door, see if he could get in to cook up that salmon. Cinnamon rolls just wouldn’t cut it for dinner.
He pulled at the handle and the door swung open. Yes. But before he could step inside, Tigerlily darted outside. She recoiled at the damp, then scampered up the sidewalk, toward the woods.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Here, kitty.” Where the hell had she gone? He squinted through the rain and caught a flash of orange at the tree line. The moment he stepped off the sidewalk, he was soaked through.
“That’s it,” he yelled. “No salmon for you.”
He lost track of time as he slogged along the tree line, calling the cat’s name. No sign of her. Screw it. He’d have to ask Allison for help. As he was turning back to the motel, someone behind him let loose a bellow and jumped him. Marcus landed face-first in the sodden grass and pain exploded in his jaw. His attacker straddled him and started punching, shouting like a crazy man.
“I know what you’re up to, you son of a bitch. Either get your ass out of here right now or I’ll kill you! Understand me?”