Ember boys, p.12
Ember Boys, page 12
part #1 of Flint and Tinder Series
I glanced back at Jim; his jaw was set, but he met my eyes and nodded.
Moving deeper into the room, I ducked under the chest of drawers. One of the pulls caught on my shirt, and I had to wiggle to get loose. When I got to the other side, I straightened up. The destruction in the main room was even worse: the bed frames were splintered; the night stands, both of them, looked like they’d been hit with wrecking balls; near one window, an old CRT television lay on its back, the glass shattered, wisps of smoke leaking up. The source of the burnt-electric smell, I decided.
“Ok,” I said. “This is bad.”
“Come on,” Jim said, but he didn’t touch me again.
I stepped over a broken length of bed frame, toed the box spring, and then lifted it. Underneath, I saw only more splintered wood and the usual collection of dust bunnies. I let the box spring drop and studied the walls. Aside from the long gouge near the door, the rest of them had escaped unscathed. Even the watercolor print hanging on the back wall was still in place, although slightly askew. I straightened it, turned, and studied the room from the inside. On the floor to the left, a small table was overturned, spilling Chloe’s keys, her wallet, and toothbrush onto the carpet. I bent and grabbed keys and wallet, stuffing them into my pockets, using the wall to stay out of Jim’s line of sight.
“What do you see?” Jim called.
“She was still fighting when they took her,” I said, straightening and moving back into his field of vision.
“We don’t know that.”
“She’s still alive.”
“We don’t know that.”
I pointed to the chest of drawers. “See how it’s fallen across the hallway? She pulled it down when they dragged her out.”
“Who are they?”
“The Solars.”
Jim was silent for a minute.
I pressed into the opening. “It couldn’t have fallen over before; whoever came in would have pushed it out of the way. Look at the damage in here. Nobody who could do that kind of destruction would bother crawling under a piece of furniture. They’d just smash it, knock it out of their path. The only way it could have ended up like that is if she pulled it down behind her.” I swallowed. “She probably grabbed it, tried to hold on so they couldn’t take her out of the room.”
“And we didn’t hear anything?”
Shrugging, I glanced around again. “When we were fighting the first time? When we were fighting the second time? When I left and you came after me? When I ran to the drugstore and you were crashed? God, who knows. I was so tired last night, they could have come into our room and I would have slept through the whole thing.”
“I mean nobody else heard?”
I headed out of the room and rapped hard on the door to the left of Chloe’s room. After a minute, I tried the door on the right.
“This place isn’t exactly booming,” I said when I went back. “Nobody heard because nobody’s in the rooms next to her.”
Jim squatted, studying the carpet. He ran a finger across a dull spot and held it up.
“Blood?” I asked.
“Mud.”
I knelt down to look. It was definitely mud, and it was in the shape of a footprint.
“Should I take a picture?” Jim asked.
“We’re not playing fucking Sherlock Holmes, Jimbo. Get your head on straight.”
He did it again: the red spots in his cheeks, the careful control as he brought himself back down.
“She’s still alive,” I said. “We need to find her.”
“She was still alive when they took her out of here,” Jim said. “That doesn’t mean she’s still alive now.”
“If they didn’t want her alive, at least for a little while, they would have killed her here. She’s still alive, Jim. Maybe not for long, but she’s still alive.”
“How did they even know she was here?”
“Let’s find out.” I grabbed the motel phone from where it had fallen to the floor and dialed zero. A bored-sounding woman said, “Front desk.”
“Yeah, can you tell me how much I owe for my calls last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“I made a long-distance call last night.”
“Not without a credit card you didn’t,” the woman said. “We had to block them. People were skipping out.”
“Can you just check?”
“I’m looking at it right here. One phone call at ten thirteen last night. Local. That’s it.”
“Ok,” I said. “Can I get that number?”
“What’s going on?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Thanks.” Hanging up, I said to Jim, “She called somebody last night. Local. She must have reached out to someone, and it didn’t go the way she expected. She was worried about someone inside the Shadow Nest; it looks like she was right. The Solars must have gotten here first.”
“I hate this stuff,” Jim said.
I stood up; Jim followed me to the door and caught my sleeve. Neither of us spoke for a moment. It was one of those perfect California mornings: the chill that made me want a sweater, the tang from the bay, the humidity ringing the security lights in a haze that would be gone when the sun finished rising. When I shivered, Jim’s hand slid up to my elbow; heat poured off him, and I recognized the invitation. I stepped away.
“Emmett, if the Solars took Chloe, we can’t get involved.”
I took the stairs to the second floor, Jim close on my heels.
“This is different than last time,” he said, his voice dropping. Down the hall, an old woman was walking a puffball towards us. “We don’t have backup. We don’t know what we’re facing. We don’t have any resources. You can’t use your ability—”
Slapping the electric key over the lock, I said, “Why?”
“Why can’t you use your ability?”
I led him into the bedroom; the old woman with the puffball slowed as she passed the door, trying to get a look at us. I shot my eyebrows up, smirked, and watched her blush and hurry away. Then I closed the door and threw the bolt.
“Yeah,” I said, turning to face Jim. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Things are different. My ability is different too. I used to be able to create these . . . infernos, firestorms. I don’t know. You remember, right? And here, I don’t know, there was this weed whacker, but—it’s a lot less, that’s what I’m trying to say.” Jim combed fingers through his hair, mussing the schoolboy part. “Do you remember with Vie? It was always about his emotions, his . . . his happiness, maybe? That’s not quite right, but I don’t know how to say it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m plenty happy.”
Jim ran fingers through his hair again and watched me.
“I think it’s those fucking meds they put me on,” I said. “I think that’s what messed me up. Clozapine, that shit is serious.”
“You’ve been off clozapine for a while.”
“But it might have messed me up. It might have permanently altered the chemistry of my brain.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“What the fuck do you know? Did you become a fucking specialist while you were passed out with a fucking fever last night?”
Dropping onto the edge of the bed, Jim rested his chin in one hand. A minute ticked by. And then another. I paced to the bathroom, ran both the taps, didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and slapped my hand through the water before turning it off. When I went back, Jim was still in that some pose.
“So now you’re the Thinker, is that it?”
He smiled. “You were paying attention during our unit on visual art.”
A small scream escaped me. “Don’t do that.”
Jim didn’t shift. He didn’t squirm. He didn’t even blink.
“Don’t act like . . . like things are the same, ok? Don’t act like you’re still my teacher. You’re just some homeless guy I know. Do you understand that?”
Jim finally changed position, leaning back, supporting himself with both hands on the mattress. It put his long, lean form on display. A man’s body, that little traitor inside my head said again. Not a kid’s. A man’s muscles, hard and compact and dense.
“I understand you’re upset about last night.”
“Stop.”
“But I want you to know that I’m ready to talk about it whenever you are.”
“Just stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“It’s important to talk about it, Emmett. You’re important to me, and I want to keep our friendship.”
I spun back to the bathroom; when I got to the sink, I leaned forward until my forehead rested against the mirror. I closed my eyes against the stinging heat.
When I trusted my voice, I said, “Anyway, maybe it’s the buprenorphine. Or the naltrexone.”
Jim’s answer was a long time coming back, but when it did, the words were painfully normal. “You told me you’re in withdrawal.”
I ran the water again, and then I slid down until my head was resting on my arms, the rush of the water filling my ears. When his hand touched the small of my back, I probably should have been startled—I hadn’t heard him moving. Instead, though, it felt so right, so good, that my whole body got hot, and my eyes started stinging all over again, and I buried my face in my elbow.
“If the buprenorphine and naltrexone were affecting your ability, maybe you should try again. Maybe the drugs are out of your system and you can make a shield. Let’s see.”
A knot filled my throat; I swallowed twice before pushing up, sliding along the counter, turning so that Jim’s hand dropped away and I had backed myself into the corner. My sneaker jostled a spare roll of toilet paper and sent it rolling across the tile.
“I had a tee ball coach like you.”
Jim raised strawberry-blond eyebrows.
“He was such a fucking moron.”
Jim sighed.
“Everybody bats, you know, in tee ball. Everybody. No matter how fucking awful they are. And so when it was my turn, he’d send me up to the tee, and I’d just whiff it, over and over again. I mean, it’s a fucking ball on a fucking tee; how fucking hard can it be? It got so bad I begged him to let me sit on the bench. He never did.” I moved in toward Jim. My heart was pounding in my chest. My words were getting clearer, crisper, harder. “I was a whiffer, Jim. That’s just who I was. And that fucker was too fucking stupid to get it. He kept saying things like ‘You’ll get it next time.’ And ‘Attaboy, champ.’ You know what, Jim? That fucking asshole was my dad. Now, that little story I just told? That was a metaphor. Did you get the meaning?”
The sharp line of his jaw was set and rigid. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. When he spoke, his voice held that carefully modulated tone I hated so much.
“I think you mean it’s an analogue. Or possibly an allegory, although I don’t think you see the story as an extended figurative account of life.”
I grinned. “Here’s the analogue, Jimbo: don’t be a fucking moron. I don’t need a coach. I don’t need a teacher. I definitely don’t need a friend.” We were close enough that I bumped my chest against his, and even though he was older and definitely stronger, he took a step back.
“Stop, Emmett.”
“Teacher voice.” My grin was bigger. I bumped into him again, and he retreated another step. “Tell me again.”
“Please stop.”
“Oh, begging. I like begging. Maybe if you’re on your knees. Do you want to try? I made Vie beg a few times.” I bumped him again, driving him toward the door. “I’ll tell you about it, and you can bone up and think about how close you came to fucking his tight ass—”
The change was so immediate that I didn’t have time to process it. Jim charged into me, catching me by the shirt, lifting me so that my heels left the ground. His speed carried both of us across the bathroom until I hit the wall, and my head thunked against the plaster and bounced once.
“Stop it,” Jim said, his voice low, the words gritted out.
“Button number seventy-nine,” I said, hearing myself laughing, unable to stop the words. “Talk about the teenage boys he wants to fuck.”
A flicker of confusion disrupted Jim’s anger, and then he was locking down his anger again, the way he always did. His grip relaxed, lowering me. Then, the words still clipped, he said, “You know what, Emmett? You’re right. I’m not a teacher anymore. And that means if you’re an unmitigated shit, like you’re being right now, I can beat the living daylights out of you. Is that what you want?”
“Daddy likes to hit.” I bit my lower lip and turned on the sex eyes. “Kinky.”
“Get out.”
I stayed where I was.
“I’m going to shower,” he said, grabbing his shirt and dragging it off. Hard muscle, the dusting of blond hair, the thicker patch below his navel. Then he shucked his jeans and stood there in those tight black boxers. His eyes met mine, caught me staring, but for once Jim didn’t pull back, didn’t retreat. Instead, he held my gaze, and then he stretched, arms going back behind his head, the swell of biceps and triceps, deltoids and lats and pecs, all suddenly on display. He held my gaze through the whole thing. And suddenly I was blushing. I slid around him and went for the door.
He didn’t laugh. But he didn’t close the door either, and I heard his boxers hit the floor. I tried. I lost. I glanced back and saw a very nice ass as he got into the shower. I waited until the spray was really going, and then I grabbed a pillow, held it over my face, and screamed.
18 | JIM
I dragged the shower curtain closed; leaving the door open had been—what? A challenge? An invitation? A fuck you?—but I immediately regretted it. I didn’t want to back down and close the door, so the best compromise was to make sure the curtain was drawn all the way.
What if he came back?
What if the curtain twitched, and then he was stepping inside, long, lean limbs, tan all over, every inch of him perfect in a way he’d never understand?
I’d done all the resisting I could. I’d done all the fighting I had strength for. Standing under the shower head, with the spray coming down in hard jags against my face, I planted both hands on the wall and tried to hold out.
I didn’t last; I jerked off, just a few breathless twists, and came against the wall. Then, even through the aftershocks, I kept my face in the spray. I scrubbed myself down. It didn’t make any difference; when I turned off the water, I still felt dirty.
I dried off and wrapped the towel around my waist. Carrying my clothes out to the room, I said, “I’m going to run down to the car. I’ve got a—”
But I stopped, because Emmett had laid out on the bed a pair of khakis, compression shorts, a white undershirt, and a gingham button up. He’d even found socks and my other pair of shoes.
“Thanks,” I said.
He was sprawled sideways in the armchair again, flipping channels.
“That was really thoughtful,” I said.
Emmett shrugged.
I waited, and when nothing more came, I gathered up the clean clothes and carried them back to the bathroom. I was almost to the door when Emmett spoke.
“Kind of a long shower.”
That was all. He didn’t look at me, didn’t even pause as he clicked through channels.
But somehow, he knew, and heat climbed my chest, my neck, my face. I darted into the bathroom. I thought I heard him laughing, but I couldn’t be sure.
“I was thinking,” I said after I’d dressed, “maybe we should try to get some help finding Chloe.”
“You were thinking,” Emmett said, arching his back and running a thumb under his waistband. Then he dropped back into his sprawl and clicked through a few more channels. “That’s why your shower took so long.”
“Uh, so I was thinking—”
“For a long time. In the shower.”
“I was thinking maybe we should report her missing to the police.” I braced myself; I felt like an old-fashioned miner, turning my back, crouching, plugging my ears. The dynamite was about to blow.
“Sure,” Emmett said.
“Uh.”
“That’s a really good idea.”
“It is?”
Punching the power button, Emmett turned off the TV and got to his feet. “Yeah, it’s a great idea.”
“Ok. So, let’s call the police. After we give them our report, we can get you back to San Elredo. I know you don’t want to go, but just hear me out. You need those meds. And I’ll call your parents and explain that you’re unhappy there. We’ll get you transferred somewhere else this week, but I really want you back on your medication. Today, Emmett. It’s important.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He ducked his chin, shoved his hands in his pockets, and then mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok.” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry too.”
He nodded.
“Let me call the police,” I said. “The sooner they get here, the sooner we can get you back to San Elredo. Just for a little bit, Em. I promise.”
“I know.” His head came up; his eyes were dark and huge. “I know you’ll take care of me.”
“We take care of each other, right?”
A small smile—the real one, the one that didn’t stretch all the way because of the heavy scar tissue on one side of his face—tugged at his mouth. “Right.”
I found my phone and placed the call.
As it was ringing, Emmett said, “Damn it. I’ve got to run down to the car.”
“What?”
A voice on the line said, “Fremont Police Department, this is a non-emergency number. How may I help you?”
“I had to move the box of cash to get your clothes. I just need to put it back in your trunk.”
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Hold on,” I said to Emmett. “I don’t want you taking my keys.”
“Your keys are right there,” he said, pointing to the nightstand. “I don’t even need them. I left the back door unlocked; I just need to put the box in the trunk.”
“Sir? Hello?”
