This trip was not going at all the way Leroy had planned. He felt bad for freaking Charlotte out with the revelation that he wasn't human. The way she'd looked at him left a pang in his chest—all the trust he'd built over the last four years gone in an instant. The murder and felonies didn't help anything. And to top it all off, he'd dashed her newfound hopes of ever speaking with her father again and bummed her out so bad that she hadn't spoken to him in hours. All he'd wanted to do was to help her get out of whatever trouble the P.I. would have caused, not turn her world upside down and cause her even more problems.
The question of who had hired the P.I. still lingered in his mind. Mallory's client saw the pictures of him and recognized him. They'd been looking for her before they knew he was involved. But what would one of his enemies want with Holly Barnes? The whole thing left a bad taste in his mouth, and an unsettled feeling in his gut.
Not to mention the fact that he distrusted the instinct to protect her. He had already gotten far too attached to her than he should have—though admittedly that boat had sailed the moment he'd met her. He hadn't felt this way about anyone in a long time—it made him nervous. He couldn't bear to lose her, but his caring for someone always ended badly. There was a part of him that wondered if she'd be better off on this road trip without him.
"Now that we've put some distance between us and the scene of our kidnapping, I was thinking I'd change course to like, Kansas or something." Charlotte broke the silence, and he turned to look at her, blonde curls ruffling in the artificial breeze of the AC blasting in the car.
Clearing his throat, he shrugged. "We could go there if your heart is set on it. I've also got a safe house in Arizona if you'd rather go there."
"Really? Arizona? You don't strike me as someone who'd like it there."
"Oh, I don't. Not even a little bit. Much too hot for me. But in the winter, they can still get snow? That's borderline inhumane. No thank you. That's why it's a safe house. No one who knows me would ever think to find me there."
Despite the air conditioning, he was sweating so much that it felt like every inch of his body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Even his goddamn eyelids were sweating. With a sigh, he pulled his flask up out of the center console and shook it. He hadn't had anything to drink since he'd woken up from the gunshots. Every tremoring cell in his body was begging him to drink the rest of the whiskey in the flask—but he was trying to keep a clear head for Charlotte's sake. Even if a clear head meant he had to sweat out decades' worth of alcohol.
"Where are you from? Not Arizona, I take it."
"New York City, baby," he said in a bad imitation of Austin Powers which he regretted as soon as the words had left his mouth. He'd lived with Charlotte for four years; she was the only real friend he'd had since the nineties. Somehow telling her the truth about him made him uneasy, like telling her the truth had opened up all the doors he'd intentionally left closed. But now, he kept saying the first thing that came to mind, word-vomiting more information than he wanted her to know. And the uncomfortable jokes? For the love of God why couldn't he knock it off with the bad jokes? He couldn't remember the last time he had a problem talking to someone he found attractive. He hoped it was the withdrawals having the effect on him and not Charlotte herself—at least he knew that withdrawals would eventually subside.
"You know it snows there, too, don't you?"
He rolled his eyes, "Believe me, I know. I almost froze to death in it more times than I care to remember. Why do you think I've lived in Southern California for so long? Can't stand weather; I much prefer to live where it's the temperature stays around eighty degrees and it rains less than fifteen days a year."
"I didn't realize you'd lived in California for so long. When did you move out there?"
"When I got back from the Great War. Had some business to take care of, but I liked the place so much, I never left."
"Hold on—you fought in World War I?" She looked over at him, her green eyes wide. He couldn't help but resent the incredulity in them a little bit.
"Why does that surprise you?"
"Well, you know, you always see World War I vets as fresh-faced kids and clean-cut guys with perfect, short hair."
Leroy ran a hand through his unruly black mop feeling more self-conscious than he had in a long time. "I wasn't always the definition of dysfunction, you know. I did fight in the second one, too. You saw me in the picture—clean-cut or not," he added as he winced. There he went again with the oversharing.
"Enjoy pounding on some Nazis, did you?"
"I can't stand war—even if it's justified." He looked out the window at the yellow fields passing by. "Every war comes down to a bunch of old men sending idealistic boys to fight their battles because they don't know any better than to do what they're told. The old men in charge might change, but it's only ever the boys being killed."
"Hold on a minute," she half-shouted, making him jump a little as his head throbbed from the noise. "If you're older than dirt, why didn't you help me in my American History classes? I got a Bon that World War I essay."
He let out a sigh of relief. "I guess I'm just an asshole like that."
She elbowed him, her skin leaving a tingling trail where it brushed his, a playful expression lighting up her face before tightening her grip on the wheel.
That smile in the corner of her mouth made it impossible for him to stop staring at her. At least she didn't seem to notice his gaze as she drove too fast down the interstate. She changed the radio station to country station. He hated country music—if it wasn't Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, or Dolly Parton, he didn't want anything to do with it. But he watched as she sang along to the upbeat song, slamming her hands against the steering wheel and dancing in her seat with that alluring smile on her face. It almost made him like the song just because she enjoyed it so much.
"You know what we should do?"
"What?" he asked, a smile creeping in the corner of his mouth as he looked at her. The newfound enthusiasm she had was so infectious that he almost felt a bubble of excitement rise up from his stomach.
"We should go to a bar tonight! Let off some steam."
"I don't know if that's a good idea. We need to make the most of our head start," he said even while every cell his body screamed Whiskey!
"Oh, come on! It won't throw off our schedule much, and it'll be at least another day before we back track to Arizona." She turned and flashed him those big green eyes. "Please?"
He shrugged. "Whatever you want. You're the driver."
Later that night they checked into a Hilton. Leroy did not want to make a habit of staying in seedy motels. He'd conceded that the previous night it was necessary because of the detective—he didn't need for anyone to see them carrying an unconscious body in and out. But he preferred nice beds and clean sheets. Plus, this time he was able to get a room with two beds. He couldn't help noticing that Charlotte hadn't curled up against him the night before. At least, not until she'd already fallen asleep. Then she'd rolled over to him like it was instinct, burying her head in his chest in that way that made him feel alive.
He tried not to take it personally, but he wondered what he'd done to drive her away. It might not have anything to do with him, he kept reminding himself. Everything that had happened was lot to take in—it had been overwhelming for him when he'd first heard it. Whatever the reason, it depressed him a little. She wasn't the only one who slept better when they spent their nights curled together.
Charlotte claimed the bed by the window and they hopped a cab from the hotel out to the first bar they could find. Leroy sat at a table in the corner and ordered water while Charlotte ordered a double bourbon. The bar had one of those high-tech jukeboxes that played songs from a computer repository. Charlotte took a ten-dollar bill and went over and selected a whole slew of songs in a row. Soon after she sat down, her first pick played over the bar's speakers. That song about the Grim Reaper by the Blue Oyster Cult. Leroy shook his head at her, rolling his eyes, but she couldn't stop laughing at her own joke.
They sat and drank, not saying much but instead watching the other customers around them. A new song with lyrics about whiskey started up. Charlotte downed her third bourbon and slapped the glass down loud enough to startle Leroy's frazzled, sober nerves. "I love this song. It always reminds me of you whenever I hear it. Let's dance."
Leroy laughed, "Why?"
"Because it'll be fun. I've never seen you dance before." When he didn't move, she slid off her bar chair and held her hand out to him. "Come on, old man, let's go!"
After a bit more cajoling, Leroy stood and followed her to a space empty of tables. No one else was dancing, but that didn't seem to bother Charlotte, so he tried not to let it bother him either. He took one of her hands in his, placing the other at her waist. They started a slow swaying, occasionally appearing to be doing something of a waltz.
Charlotte pressed her face up against Leroy's so that they danced cheek to cheek. The smell of her coconut shampoo wafted up to his nose and it made his breath catch in his throat. He'd held her this close before, but it was always when she needed him to be there to chase her nightmares away or to comfort her. This was different; she wanted to be in his arms. There was something about dancing this close to her that made his body tingle all over and it made him uncomfortable.
"You're not a bad dancer," she whispered, startling him from his thoughts.
"Never said I was."
"This is nice. I haven't danced in a long time."
"Me either."
He spun her out, then dipped her, forcing more confidence into his smile than he felt. She didn't seem to notice, throwing her head back as she laughed. Her arms around his neck tightened to keep herself from slipping. Leroy relished the smile on her face—it wasn't often that she forgot herself enough to smile a real smile like that. He looked down into her eyes, feeling like she could see right into the depths of his soul. He cleared his throat and stood up straight. The song ended, and they went back to their booth.
Another drink later, Charlotte asked, slurring her words, "What was your wife like?"
"Her name was Sarah. She was...exasperating most of the time. Brown hair, blue eyes. Been a hundred years and if I'm being honest, I've forgotten what she looked like."
"How can you not remember what the love of your life looked like?"
He choked a little on his dissatisfying water. "Whoa there, I never said that, did I? I just married her, I wasn't in love with her."
She rested her face on her hand, her elbow propped up on the bar, her eyes far off but sparkling. "Well, then, what was the love of your life like?"
"Who put it into your head that I ever had one of those?"
"You've lived long enough that you had to have a love of your life! You've been alive long enough that should have had like, five."
He shook his head. "The kind of love you're talking about—the kind your romantic movies have worked so hard to sell you—doesn't exist. Falling in love is only a disappointing waste of time."
She elbowed him. "Of course, it exists! It'd be too depressing to think that it doesn't."
"Well then tell me, Miss Love Expert, which of your serious relationships was the one to make you believe true love exists?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I haven't had any serious relationships."
He feigned surprise, "So then you must have got it into your head based on a loving, long-lasting example set by your parents?"
"Just because I haven't seen it myself doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
He raised one eyebrow at her and took a gulp of his water before continuing. "And what does it say that I haven't found it in over a century?"
"That you haven't been looking hard enough. You choose to live your life alone because you don't want to lose anyone. And I get that. But have you ever thought that if you'd kept looking, you'd have found someone to love your curmudgeonly ass? There could be a Grim out there for you. The great love of your life could be out there waiting to give your miserable existence some meaning but you won't even look..."
"I don't have to look," he hissed at her, breathing quicker. "I've fallen in love before. It ended...badly. Both times. Romantic love is always conditional and when you can't meet those conditions, they'll leave. That true love you're looking for...it just isn't out there."
"Maybe you just keep telling yourself because you're too afraid of what will happen if you find it." When he had no answer to that, she stood up, wobbling from all the alcohol. "Stay if you want." She hurried out to a cab, Leroy watching her go as he downed the rest of his water, trying to pretend it was something stronger before he got up to follow her.
***
The ocean swelled around him, tugging him back under. Water filled his lungs as his panic rose. He struggled, kicking his legs as he grabbed desperately for the surface. But she pulled him deeper and deeper into the ocean.
"Leroy..." she called, inviting him to embrace his death as she pulled him farther under the water. "Come back, son."
"Please," he tried to say, but it ended up as little more than a gurgle as his last bit of air came out in a bubble in front of his face. He started to choke on the water.
His mother blew him a kiss, a smile on her tired young face as she released his ankles. "Come back to me..." she called after him, even as he struggled to the surface away from her.
Leroy groaned awake, feeling worse than he ever had in his long life. Every part of his body hurt. He'd had fantastic hangovers before, but he was alarmed to find that withdrawals were even worse. He rolled over and looked at the bed by the window. At first, he thought Charlotte was still in bed sleeping. When he heard her sniffle, though, he knew he'd fucked up. He knew better than to say what he had. He should have left her love life out of it.
With a sigh, he stood up. The sniffling stopped. He dragged himself over to his suitcase in the corner and fished out some aspirin. He took it with water from the bathroom tap and crawled back to his bed, wanting to fall back asleep but feeling too terrible.
Laying on his back with his eyes focused on a small patch of ceiling, he croaked, "Char?"
"Fuck you, Leroy." She wrapped the comforter tighter around her so that he could see even less of her.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that stuff to you."
"If you were really sorry, you wouldn't have said it in the first place. You're just sorry I got mad."
He sighed, "Well, you've got me there. I meant what I said—I've never seen any evidence that it exists."
"But you can't prove that it doesn't," she said. She sat up at the edge of the bed and looked over at him. The pain in her eyes felt like a stab through his chest.
"I'm sorry, Char. I just don't want to lie to you. To think there's more to relationships than deciding to settle for someone is naïve."
"Yeah well you're just a grumpy old man and I won't be like you." With that, she stood and grabbed her things and headed into the bathroom.