Wild with all regrets, p.4
Wild with All Regrets, page 4
Lucas jumped in the ocean as soon as the man had departed, scrubbing his skin so hard that it went red and raw. He grabbed some whiskey from his flask and swished it around in his mouth. He couldn’t bear to swallow, and he spat the acrid brown liquid onto the pavement. Lovely.
He didn’t like peddling his trade. He didn’t enjoy getting fucked like this.
Even so, he preferred it to stealing because theft left a much worse taste in his mouth, ironically. He hated the idea that he was taking food off someone else’s table; he hated sinking so low as to snatching something he hadn’t earned. At least with servicing strangers the money was his, he’d worked for it, he’d been paid.
And so here he was, nearly a man, preparing himself to get some cash and feed his family in the only real way he knew how. No one had bitten at the docks this evening—a big passenger vessel had just left that day, coffers were empty, and maybe he looked as sick as he felt. So, he made his way into the local tavern and resolved to empty someone’s wallet. The kids needed to eat, damn it, even if he hated doing this.
He scanned the patrons until he found . . . perfect. A big, good-looking idiot was seated at a table at the back, sitting by himself while everyone else in the bar had a nice time. Lucas figured they were about the same age, maybe the other guy was a little older. The guy wasn’t from Dublin, his accent was wrong, and he obviously wasn’t keeping as close an eye on his possessions as he might have been. Lucas waited until the guy excused himself to the toilet and followed, assuming the man was too drunk to notice someone sliding a hand into his back pocket. He came up behind him, took a deep breath, and made his move.
Lucas slid his hand into the idiot’s trousers, his fingers skipping along the leather wallet. As expected, it felt thick and full of cash. What he hadn’t been expecting was a sharp sting in his wrist as his hand was wrenched painfully away from his body.
“A thief, huh? My mother warned me about you Dubliners.” The stranger sneered, not making any move to let go of Lucas’s arm.
“Let go of me! That fucking hurts, you shit!”
“Why should I? You’re a common thief, so you are! I should turn you over to the police!”
Lucas panicked. If he went to prison, his family would quite literally starve. “Please don’t. I’ll work off the debt, I’m sorry. My siblings are starving, and no one will hire me and—”
The other man’s expression was soft, and God, he was pretty. This was the kind of guy Lucas wouldn’t mind selling himself to.
“You’re really thin,” the man noted, releasing his grip. “Let me buy you dinner, okay? We can work something out.”
“Are you an idiot? I tried to rob you, you shouldn’t be feeding me,” Lucas protested, backing away. “You probably shouldn’t have even let go of my hand! I could stab you!”
“S’pose you could. Bet you won’t, though. C’mon, I’ll settle my tab and we’ll go get some food somewhere. Too crowded here, I reckon, we won’t be able to talk properly. I’m new to Dublin, you can show me the good places to eat.”
“You’re a fucking crackpot,” Lucas said, shaking his head. “Honestly, a stupid shit.”
“Be that as it may, I’ll meet you outside in three minutes.” He grinned. “I’m James, by the way. Most people call me Jamie, though. Don’t run off, now.”
Lucas was glad Jamie had turned away at that point; his entire face had gone red. Jesus Christ, of all the people in all the bars to rob— it couldn’t be him, right? It couldn’t be. Fate wasn’t kind to Lucas; it didn’t bring back childhood friends or positive memories for him. That sweet little boy who had held him in the rain. The first human being who had accepted him without being related by blood. He silently cursed his thundering heart, angry at himself for feeling so strongly.
Lucas almost ran off, just to show this asshole what a moron he was. But a little voice at the back of his head told him not to. What if it really was Jamie? His Jamie? And besides, he was starving, and the kids were waiting for him. May as well take advantage. Jamie had offered, after all. Lucas shoved his hands into his pockets and waited out in front of the pub in the cool drizzling rain.
1916
It had barely been three months since they’d shipped out to mainland Europe, and Jamie had been coping pretty well right up until Easter. They’d had a night out drinking together, some well-deserved stand-down after a series of horrific battles. Jamie had a massive hangover, and Lucas was giving him a hard time about it. They staggered toward the mess hall, Jamie’s arm hooked over Lucas’s shoulder. They’d been messing around, laughing about some stupid thing that Lucas, for the life of him, couldn’t remember now.
Lucas was glad he’d followed Jamie into the military; he was glad that they could still have moments like this together. He hated to think about how worried he would be if Jamie had come to this place all alone. He was grateful that they’d been put in the same unit, although to be honest, John had probably had something to do with that. Mr. Murray had been in the army as a young man, and apparently was still good friends with one of the Irish Majors who handled these sorts of things.
Lucas hesitated slightly as they approached the food line—the usual cacophony of the soldiers was nearly absent. English soldiers spoke in hushed whispers behind their hands, officers had their weapons at the ready. The Irish cadets were ashen faced and silent— it didn’t take long for the news to get around. There had been an uprising in Dublin, the British had violently suppressed it: hundreds of civilians dead, thousands more wounded. Jamie tried laughing it off, it wasn’t like he was that much of a patriot at the best of times, but Lucas could see some panic in his eyes. John always worked in Dublin this time of year, there were a lot of big firms that sought his advice. Plus, with all the Irish anger that had been brewing for years, Lucas suspected he’d want to be at the front of the revolution, if there was to be one.
“Jamie . . . ” he’d started, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Yeah,” Jamie muttered, giving Lucas a brave smile. “What are the odds, right? He always said something like this would happen eventually, that’s why he didn’t want me to enlist. Those fucking English—”
Lucas clapped a hand over Jamie’s mouth. They were in the British Army, they served King George with life and limb. This wasn’t the place to get political. It was hard enough being Irish in the army as it was without having some treason bull hanging over Jamie’s head.
“Not here,” he muttered. “You can curse out those bastards all you want once we get back to our beds, okay? Not bloody here.”
Lucas hated the English as much as anyone. He’d seen firsthand how Irish soldiers and officers were treated worse than their British counterparts. The centuries of oppression didn’t help much either, to be honest, and trouble had been brewing for a long time now. It was only surprising that it had taken this long to come to a head.
Ireland seemed so far away. Lucas hadn’t been giving it much thought recently, although Jamie’s father wrote him nearly every week about some new indignity that the unionists had imposed on them. Honestly, Lucas was more interested in keeping both Jamie and himself from getting sent home in a coffin.
There was no letter from John that week. Or the week after that, or the week after that. In time, Jamie was presented with an official notice that his father had been killed during the uprising, and that investigations were being carried out. Those involved on the Irish side of things had been swiftly executed. The majority of deaths had been civilians, and the majority of civilians had been killed by British artillery. Lucas was at a loss.
“Jamie?” he put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. Tried to get their eyes to meet. “Jamie, I’m so sorry.”
A stony silence, a hard jaw, tight eyes, dry lips. He’d never seen Jamie like this before.
Lucas wasn’t sure what to do. He was great at dealing with anger, violence, or sexual arousal—but grief? Compassion? He was fucking shit at this.
Jamie had had a beautiful, easy life up until now. Nothing bad had ever really happened to him. Everything seemed to go his way; everything always worked out. He had a family who loved him, a fully-funded education with a marvelous future at the end, a steady stream of girlfriends, a cohort of companions who would do anything for him. And now, suddenly, the beast he was fighting for day and night had ripped his world in half.
Lucas had never been close to his own Da’, but he’d adored John in the brief time that they’d known one another. He was a kind man, a fair one, and a brilliant father to his only son. He hadn’t wanted Jamie to go to war, he hadn’t wanted him to face the terrors and the evils of battle, and he certainly hadn’t wanted him fighting alongside and for the English. But Jamie’s head was full of ideas of glory and valor, he’d read too many books and wanted an adventure. And of course, John had, as always, been supportive and accepting.
“Be safe, little one. I love you and I’ll pray for you every day. Save the world and come home to us.”
Silently, they made their way back to their bunks in the rest camp and Lucas tried thinking of something to say. They were enlisted, it wasn’t like they could just leave whenever they wanted without facing dire consequences. But how could Jamie keep fighting for the English after something like this? The trenches seemed colder and darker than ever, and Lucas felt more suffocated than ever in those narrow dirt tracks. Unfriendly ears were everywhere, it seemed. He wasn’t about to leave Jamie’s safety to chance.
Once they were alone, Lucas moved closer and wrapped his arms around Jamie’s body, trying to convey the love he felt, even if he couldn’t bring the words to his mouth. He felt Jamie’s arms mirror the motion, felt his heavy chin resting on top of his thick black hair. His fists clenched around Lucas’s jacket and Jamie’s whole body started to tremble.
“Jamie . . . ” Lucas said, stroking his back. I love you. I love you, and I’ll never turn my back on you, I’m here, I’m here and you can count on me, he thought, but he didn’t say that. “Jamie, I’m sorry.”
“I should have been there with him, I could have protected him—I could have fought for Ireland, I—” Jamie’s breath hitched, and Lucas felt a small patch of wetness where his hair parted. “What the hell am I doing here? He didn’t want me here, he—he died thinking I was a fool, fighting for the enemy.”
“You’re here to protect Ireland, too,” Lucas pointed out, trying to be strong, steady. “The enemy is the Germans. You’re not fighting for England, you’re fighting for Ireland, for your father, for yourself. Your father loved you, Jamie, he was always proud of you. This doesn’t change how he felt about you. It shouldn’t have happened; he shouldn’t have been killed—none of them should have—but you being back in Dublin wouldn’t have changed anything. Hell, you might have been the one who was shot. You might have been executed for taking part in the uprising. All he ever wanted was for you to be happy. Look at me.”
Jamie released his grip and met Lucas’s gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, somehow making the brilliant blue of his irises stand out even more. “I’m fighting for the men who killed him. I should have been there.” A bomb went off somewhere in the distance, and Jamie jumped in Lucas’s grip.
Lucas held him steady, stroked his broad back with a chilly hand. “You couldn’t have known. And you can’t change what’s happened. All you can do is decide how this affects what you’ll do from now on, what his death will mean to you.”
Jamie swallowed, looking at the sickly brown fabric of Lucas’s uniform.
“Thank you.” He drew Lucas back into his embrace. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Lucas pulled away just so their eyes could meet. There was a weighty emotion hanging between them. The air was heavy, and Lucas swallowed.
Jamie licked his lips and averted his eyes, cheeks red, brows furrowed.
“ . . . Jamie?”
He took Jamie’s hand and squeezed gently. Change the subject. “I’m with you no matter what you decide. You want to desert, I’ll follow. If you want to keep fighting, I’m at your side. We’re in this together, Jamie. You’re not alone.”
“What would you do?” Jamie looked at him again.
Lucas thought about it. His own father had been a bit of a prick really, but Jamie obviously didn’t need to hear about that right now. He tried to imagine what Jamie was feeling, tried to fathom the gut-wrenching loss that he must have felt at that moment. “I guess I’d try and think about what my father would have wanted me to do. Honor his memory through my deeds, and try and make his death mean something, even in just some small way.”
Jamie nodded and pulled his hand away from Lucas. “I’ll keep fighting. Rise in the ranks, show them all an Irishman can be worth something. And when the war is over, I’ll go back and never stop fighting until Ireland is free.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything else.
“I,” never “we.” Lucas frowned and looked down at the shiny black of his shoes. He wanted to be the center of Jamie’s world, and as close as they were, it wasn’t always going to be like that. Hell, his father had just died, why was he even thinking about something as trivial as word choice at a time like this? He felt like he was imposing on Jamie’s grief, like he was intruding on his life like he had been for years. Did Jamie need or even want his devotion? It was painful to consider the very real possibility that it was a nuisance, a burden, completely one-sided.
Jamie sniffled a little and smiled down at Lucas, touching his shoulder gently. “I’m so glad you’re with me. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to go all this alone.”
Lucas smiled at that. “You dafty. I told you, you’re stuck with me. You and me, we look out for each other.” They’d held each other’s gaze for a moment.
Kiss him. Kiss him, you idiot, this is fucking romantic as shit.
Except it wasn’t, since Jamie was vulnerable and wounded and in no frame of mind to make choices like that. Christ, the timing was all wrong anyway; their first time couldn’t bloody have John’s goddamn ghost looming over it. God, he wanted to, though.
It took some time for the real impact of Jamie’s father’s death to become readily apparent to Lucas. It was little things at first, the way Jamie’s fists would tremble now when mail call came, how suddenly a man being shot in front of him unnerved him, rattled him.
Lucas caught Jamie a few times not paying attention during an active battle. He was staring off into space, putting himself in danger. It fucking did Lucas’s head in, but he did his best to keep Jamie straight.
“Was this how my father died?” he asked Lucas once, shrapnel zipping through the air. “Did he gasp and claw for air like that? Did his bones break the skin? Did his brains get on someone’s shoes? Was he alone? He probably—”
Lucas grabbed him sharply and held him down, bodies flush against the dirt walls of the trenches. Jamie would never get his closure, no chance to see his father’s body, to say a last goodbye. Hell, he was lucky the corpse had been identified at all. He could visit the grave when they got home . . . if they got home.
“Jamie. Jamie, stay with me, now is not the time.” He’d meet those beautiful eyes, and for a moment there would be a flash of panic, insanity, and a slight twitch of the skin. Lucas would clasp him on either side of his face and press their foreheads together. “Please, Jamie. Hear me, I’m with you.” Sometimes he would listen. Sometimes he seemed to be staring out at nothing at all, Lucas’s words not reaching him, his sensibility either turned all the way down or all the way up. Panic or apathy, terror or impassivity, he was dangerous like this. He was a liability.
That had been the start of it. His father’s death had been the first little dent in Jamie’s mind, and every bomb that went off, every lost limb, and every death, made him become a little worse. Every failure now was a reflection on his father’s memory, every little thing that went wrong—You’re not honoring him, you’re not making his sacrifice worth it. Why are you here, Jamie, why are you here?
Lucas would sit with him when these little attacks began, and he stayed beside him every day as they worsened, as his mind became more and more fragile. He’d never seen Jamie like this. Never seen anyone like this, actually. The enormity of his feelings was humbling, and Lucas knew he had a difficult battle ahead of him. He’d keep Jamie sane if it killed him.
1928
Angela was not really one to be deterred, and she insisted that Lucas come to her house for dinner that night. “Come now, you owe me that much at least! To celebrate my engagement! Only one small caveat.”
Lucas groaned. “What is it?”
“Tom’s friend Ryan is going to be there, and I want you to meet him and possibly even talk to him.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“Because he’s, well—he’s like you, Lucas! And he’s handsome, he’s nice, he’s blond, and goddamn it I’m tired of seeing you mope around the graveyard every single month when you could be out living. Jamie wouldn’t want you to be hung up on him forever, right? It’s not like you and Jamie ever . . . ”
Lucas shot her a devastating glare she held up her hands in surrender. “I mean, he would have wanted you to be happy. He’d hate to see you like this—I know he would. He loved you like a brother, Lucas. He wanted you to have a good life.”
You don’t know what he wanted, Lucas thought. He wanted to live. He shut his eyes and took a moment to calm himself. “What do you mean he’s ‘like me’?” he grumbled, refusing to allow his interest to be piqued on principle.
“I mean he . . . well . . . ” She gestured vaguely at Lucas, as though to say, “well, you know, that way you are.’ Angela seemed to be aware of Lucas’s romantic preferences, somehow, and although she teased him for it now and again, it had never really seemed to bother her. Hell, she probably thought of him as the little sister she’d never had. “He seems to prefer the company of lads. Tom says so anyway, I couldn’t possibly comment.”
