"Oh no …" Remy pulled the covers over her head. "It wasn't a dream."
"Dream? Are you saying last night was like dream?" Bobby asked, raising his eyebrows with a self satisfied smirk.
Remy lowered the scratchy bedspread and gave him her best "give me a break" look. "Nightmare, I meant nightmare." She scooted up in bed, the sheets clutched across her chest, hair rumpled, not a stitch of makeup anywhere – she looked hot.
"Right, then why did you say 'dream'? You're slipping, Rem." He reached out and ran a fingertip over her tattoo that was on her upper arm, tracing it. A gun lying on a bed of roses. Steel and softness. He liked it.
She pushed his hand off her arm like she was swatting a pesky mosquito. "Whatever," she said. "If I could, I would shoot you right now, but someone has to drive Jack to the airport."
Bobby chuckled. "Pretty sure you didn't want to shoot me last night. If I recall, you made the first move."
She blew out a puff of air, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. "Beer goggles."
"You had one beer."
"Post traumatic stress. It's been a long week."
Taking a chance, he slid his hand under the cover and up her naked thigh. "Wanna go another round?"
"You're so romantic, Bobby," she said with annoyance, but she made no move to knock his hand away.
"You know you love it."
"What time is it?"
He didn't bother to look over his shoulder at the alarm clock on the end table. "Early."
He leaned forward, his breath on her neck as he moved his arm up around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She tilted her head to give him better access, and asked, "Jack?"
He nipped her shoulder. "Is not invited."
"Won't he wonder where you are?"
"Jack has never voluntarily woken up before noon in his life. We got time," Bobby said with a grin, rolling her on top of him.
XxXxXxXxXx
A car horn sounded outside and Remy groaned, ducking her head against Bobby's chest. "That's my cab."
"You might want to put some clothes on. Don't want to give the poor guy a heart attack."
She nudged him with her elbow and laughed. "Thanks for the tip, Bobby."
"No problem."
She pulled the blanket off the bed as she stood up, wrapping herself in it as she bent to pick up her crap that was scattered all over the room. She picked up Bobby's briefs and made a face, flinging them at his head.
"I didn't get to say good-bye to Jack," she said, stuffing everything into a cheap duffle bag she'd picked up when they stopped for her to get some clothes to replace the scrubs and Bobby's jersey.
"I'll tell him for ya." Bobby started to get dressed, wishing the morning could have lasted a little longer. The distraction was nice.
She stopped what she was doing and looked at him, for once the bitchy glare was gone and if he didn't know her better, he would have said she looked concerned and maybe a little bit worried. "This isn't over yet, is it?"
"I'm taking him to meet his mom," Bobby answered, choosing to ignore the fact that she was probably referring to guns and bad guys, not family reunions.
"Go easy on him." She said it with an edge, an unspoken threat.
"You say that like I won't."
She rolled her eyes. "You know you won't. It's like you don't even realize half the shit that comes out of your mouth."
The cab honked again, saving Bobby from having to argue that treating Jack like shit toughened him up. He could never understand why chicks didn't get that. It's like they think everyone needs to be coddled and protected. That didn't get you shit in the real world; all that got you was dead.
Remy gave him an awkward kiss on the cheek. "Stay safe," she whispered.
He blinked, not sure how to react to this Remy. He was used to the one who taunted him from behind the bar, the one who had fallen into his bed a few times to relieve the pent up tension that came from working in a strip club, the one who kicked him in the balls less than twenty-four hours ago because he'd jokingly asked for a kiss. He didn't know what the hell to do with the one who kissed him on the cheek and was worried for him. He'd obviously skipped a chapter when writing that book on finesse.
"I will," she said.
"What?"
"I will." She rolled her eyes. "That's what you say back, 'Thanks, Remy, I will.'"
"I will?"
She shook her head. "No you won't."
Bobby's head spun like he was back in high school algebra, one week before giving up and dropping out. "Jesus Christ, woman, make up your fucking mind."
A small smile played on her lips; she took his hand in hers. "You won't stay safe because you have no fucking clue how to do that. Promise you'll at least make sure there aren't too many pieces to put back together this time."
Bobby clenched his hand around hers. "There won't be enough of Sweet left for them ID."
"I don't give a shit about Sweet. I'm talking about you and your stupid brothers." Remy shrugged her bag over her shoulder. "Revenge is going to eat you alive."
"Sweet brought the revenge to my door this time – I didn't go looking for it," he argued to her retreating back as she headed for the door.
She stopped and spun around. "You just don't get it, do you?"
"Just what am I supposed to fucking get?"
She looked at the ceiling, like she was looking for divine guidance. "I know you're going to get Sweet. I get that. Whatever the cost, you're going to get him." She tilted her head, a look of disappointment worrying her brow and hardening her mouth. "But that won't be enough for you, Bobby."
"It will be plenty. It will be over."
"For now. But how long will that last?"
"Why do you care? You're talking like …" Shit, he thought. He knew exactly what she was talking like. Like she was more than a quick fuck. Like he meant something to her. Like there could be something more between them. "No," he said outloud, interrupting his thoughts. "Last night wasn't more than some fun. This isn't some fucking romance novel where we go run off together into the sunset. That ain't you and that sure as hell ain't me."
Remy suddenly kissed him, stopping him in mid-rant. He kissed back, practically attacking her mouth. His hands fisted in her t-shirt, the urge to pull it over her head and tumble with her onto the bed so strong that he almost forgot about the cab waiting in the parking lot outside the room.
She pulled back, pushing him away from her as she brought her hand to her swollen lips. She gave him a strange look – part longing, part hurt, part pissed off - and then stormed to the door. She threw it open and looked back at him over her shoulder as she left. "You're a coward, Bobby Mercer."
XxXxXxXxXx
It was hard to pace on crutches, but Jack was getting really good at it.
He was on the sidewalk, across the street from where all hell had broken loose the day before, clomping back and forth with his head down, nervous as hell.
Bobby rolled down the car window. "Cracker Jack, we don't got all day, get your ass up to the door."
"Shut up, Bobby. You don't know how hard this is."
Bobby's scowl softened for a moment. "Look, I know this is hard. I'm not some fucking heartless monster - " Jack's sharp laugh interrupted him and he took a deep breath. "You're braver than you think."
Jack stopped his pacing, his head hanging down, eyes on the ground. His hands gripped his crutches, fingernails digging into the padding on the handholds. He sure didn't feel brave, not with his chest so tight it hurt to breath and his heart racing a mile a minute.
"He's right, you know," a soft voice said behind him. His instinct was to spin around, but he knew he wouldn't find anyone there.
"You're a bit biased, Ma," he said under his breath and she chuckled.
A ghost of a touch brushed across his forehead and it felt like someone took his hand in theirs, their grip warm and strong. "I'm right here with you, sweetheart."
XxXxXxXxXx
He saw the curtains stir in the front window as he made his way up the sidewalk. They'd probably called the cops on them – Bobby didn't exactly look like the Avon Lady sitting at the curb in that car that was straight out of an 80's crime flick and he'd seen better days himself, all battered and bandaged.
The door opened before he could ring the doorbell. A woman was on the other side, she was a lot shorter than him and her hair was the wrong shade of blonde, but she had the same weird color eyes he had – green one moment, blue the next and a stormy gray on those days he was so deep in his thoughts that Evelyn had joked that the clouds had taken up residence in his brain.
"Can I help you?" she asked, crossing her arms, filling the doorway, a silent "you stay on your side and I'll stay on mine" message. She was wearing a cable knit sweater and jeans, a pair of black Chucks gave him a little hope that he hadn't knocked on the Waltons' door.
He was about to answer, but he didn't get the chance. Recognition swept over her. She knew, he thought. He wondered if the same thing would have happened to him if their positions had been reversed – if he'd opened the door to a stranger only to find his past staring back at him.
"Oh," she said quietly.
Not exactly the greeting he's imagined.
"How …" Her voice trailed off. She didn't make any move to let him in the house or to come out and join him on the front step.
"Letter," he tried to say, but his mouth was so dry, the word caught in the back of his throat. He swallowed and repeated, "Um, the letter. I read your letter."
Her brow furrowed. "I never sent a letter."
He dug into his coat pocket, digging out the crumpled letter the cops had given after taking the shooter into custody. Holding it out to her, he said, "You sent it to my mother. We found it after -" He had to take a breath. "After she died"
She looked down at the battered paper in his hand but didn't reach out to take it. "I wrote a letter, but I never mailed it."
He opened it, his hands shaking as he awkwardly balanced on his crutches. "You don't know me," he started, his voice rough, "but I'm the woman who gave up Jack for adoption. I'm not even sure if his name is Jack, but that's the name I gave him when I held him for the first and only time."
She reached out, placing her hand over the paper, silently asking him to stop reading. "I wrote it." She took a deep breath, her chest rising beneath the nice blouse she was wearing. She looked a lot like the house – nice, tidy, put together, but not too put together. Normal. He felt so out of place on her front step. "I write one every year," she said, "but I never mail them."
"Okay …"
She started to shut the door. "I'm sorry, I'm just not …" He couldn't hear her excuse as the door closed, leaving him on the porch with crumpled up sentiments that were apparently some sort of penance or therapy. He felt like an idiot. Even worse, Bobby had watched the whole thing.
Somehow he had a feeling the walk back to the car was going to be just as hard as the walk up to the door. As he turned to clumsily start the slow journey back, a movement near some bushes caught his eye. Squinting, he saw the bush move again. Figuring it couldn't hurt to look, he limped his way across the yard, his crutches sinking slightly into the damp grass.
"Hey," he said, and the bush gasped.
He nudged it with his crutch and the bush yelled out, "Go away."
"No."
"Please." It was a kid's voice, probably a girl or a boy who more than likely got the crap kicked out of him at school for sounding like a girl.
"Nope." He nudged the bush again.
The bush rustled some more and a girl appeared. She couldn't have been more than ten or eleven and she looked like he felt whenever Evelyn caught him doing something he shouldn't be doing.
She had on a t-shirt with a kitten on it – the kitten was playing a mean looking guitar and Jack couldn't help but grin. "Cool shirt," he said and she shrugged.
"Are you my brother?" she asked and he shrugged back at her.
"Depends. You in the habit of mailing your mother's letters for her?"
"Maybe."
"Got a place we could sit down?" He motioned to his leg. "I'm kinda beat here and could use a place to sit."
XxXxXxXxXx
Swings wouldn't have been his first choice but they worked in a pinch. He started to twist in the one he was sitting in until he was rudely reminded of the stitches holding his side together.
"Got a name?" he asked.
She shrugged again. At least he knew where he got that from. "Sam."
"I'm Jack." She was digging her toe into the dirt, not really paying attention to him, or at least trying to pretend she wasn't paying attention to him. Avoidance also seemed to be another family trait.
He looked up at the back of the house, not the least bit surprised to see the blinds move. He turned his attention back to Sam, not sure how to talk to a kid – no one ever talked to him like one when he was her age.
"So, um, what kind of music do you like?" Music was always his fallback topic when he couldn't think of a damn thing to say.
"Miley Cyrus," she said, her face lighting up. "And Britney Spears."
He made a mock look of disgust. "Seriously?"
She nodded, her grin showing a couple of missing teeth and an overbite that was going to need braces soon.
"Man, you need some good music. The Clash, The Cure, The Ramones …"
Now she rolled her eyes. "Sounds like old people music."
"Old people music?" His mouth dropped open. "They're classics."
"Uh … doesn't that just mean their old?"
"Better than Miley Cyrus."
Sam stopped digging in the dirt and looked right at him. She looked guilty as hell. "Did my mom make you leave?"
He tried to keep his expression bland, like it was every day the woman who gave birth to him shut the door in his face. "I think I freaked her out a bit. I don't think she was expecting me to show up out of nowhere."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Why did you mail the letter though?" He knew the second he found her behind the bush that she was the likely culprit.
"I don't know … I guess it's because she gets sad every year, around the fall." Sam started twist back and forth, the chains wrapping themselves around one another. "I just wanted to help. I found the letter – she had a bunch in her drawer. It was already in an envelope, I just had to put a stamp on it and mail it."
Sam jumped from the swing and picked up a stick, tapping it against the metal frame, making it ping in a rhythm that he had sinking suspicion was a girly pop song. He was already mentally preparing some mix CD's to ship to her when he got home.
"I always wanted a brother," Sam said as the stick kept tap-tapping. She actually kept the beat pretty good. Maybe music was in their genes.
He grinned. "So you mailed away for one?"
She looked like him, but she certainly didn't act like him. When he was ten, he kept his head down and tried his best to go through life like a ghost, ignored and unseen. Never worked, but he tried anyway.
She ignored the joke. "Did you ever want a sister?"
"Never thought about it. Got three brothers, though."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously." He nodded toward the front of the house. "One's out in the car now. He thinks he's scary, but he's not too bad."
"Mom and Dad are thinking about having another one. I think my mom wants a boy."
She had a boy, Jack couldn't help thinking.
The back door slowly opened, drawing Jack's attention. Mrs. Vaughn, Susan, his mother, whatever made her way carefully across the yard. She stopped a foot from the swing set, her arms still crossed like they were when she greeted him at the door.
"I see you've met Sam," she said, her tone a thousand times friendlier than it had been. Maybe she'd had an epiphany or watched some Oprah while they were sitting outside.
"His name is Jack," Sam offered up and Susan smiled, softening her face, revealing the lines around her eyes that told him she smiled a lot.
"She kept it," she said soflty. "Your name, she kept it."
Jack shrugged. "Someone did. I don't really remember them." He didn't want to give her all the depressing details, but he didn't want to hide everything either.
A look of confusion crossed Susan's face.
"The family who adopted me, they were killed in a car accident when I was five," Jack explained.
Susan took a step forward, her hand at her throat. "Oh no … I didn't … I didn't know."
"Is that when you got a new family and three brothers?" Sam asked.
Jack felt those long years of foster care and being caught up in the system steamroll over him in a rush. It would be so easy – and so hurtful – to let the truth spill out. Sam was looking at him, open and trusting, wanting a connection he wasn't sure he was able to give. "Yeah," he said. "Eventually Evelyn adopted me. End of story." He swallowed heavily on the lie. He always sucked at lying.
He met Susan's gaze – her eyes were glassy and he was afraid she was going to cry. He didn't want tears. He sucked at handling tears. And he wasn't worth crying over.
"End of story?" she asked and he nodded. She smiled a sad smile. "You're a terrible liar."
"So I've been told."
"I'm sorry …"
He cut her off. "There's nothing to be sorry for." According to her letter, she was so young at the time and probably scared out of her mind. He had no right to judge her decisions and there was no crystal ball that would tell them how different things could have been. "My ma was great. I love my brothers. I have a great family."
"Maybe it's a little bigger now?" Susan asked tentatively. She still had her arms crossed; she still wasn't sure of him anymore than he was sure of her.
"Maybe," he said with a crooked smile.
She walked over to Sam and put her arm across her shoulders. "Lunch time, kiddo."
"But …" Sam pointed at Jack.
"You're more than welcome to join us," Susan said. "Plenty of PB&J for everyone."
Jack considered it for a second, then he heard the horn honk and he shook his head. "Nah, I've got Bobby waiting in the car and we've got a plane to catch. Trust me, Bobby and peanut butter and jelly don't mix."
She held out her hand and he shook it, formal and impersonal. Hugs would maybe come later, when they felt more natural, when they'd earned them. He ruffled Sam's hair and she giggled. "I'm going to send you some CD's – help expand your musical horizons."
"Only if I can send you some back," she challenged and he laughed.
"Deal." No one said he actually had to listen to them.
Grabbing his crutches, he started to make his way back to the car.
"Keep in touch," Susan called after him and he nodded, meaning it. He would try his best.