Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(58)
The interior of the tree house smelled like dry, flaking paint and dusty fabric, like melted wax crayons and old Elmer’s glue, like years of gooey s’mores and roasted hotdogs.
It smelled like every kid’s wildest dream.
“I bet all those villains had brown hair, mischievous brown eyes, and answered t’the name Grigg,” he mused aloud as he fished his penlight from his hip pocket.
A dull snick sounded just before diffuse yellow light washed through the interior. Overhead, a single, bare bulb hung from a utilitarian socket.
“Wired for electricity?” he asked, impressed, and re-pocketed his penlight. “You and Grigg weren’t playing around when you built this thing, huh?”
“Dad did most of the construction work. Mom’s the one who made the curtains and the cushions for the benches,” she motioned to the low benches under the four identical windows. “She also painted the faux rug on the floor, and she even made sure there was real glass in the windows. Dad was just going to leave them open, but she insisted. I remember her saying, ‘Paul, how are they supposed to keep out the wind and rain and marauders with no glass in the windows?’”
He blinked at her.
“What?” she asked, “Oh don’t give me that look. It’s not like my parents never spent any time with us; it’s just that they preferred each other. And you’re wrong, you know,” she quickly added, then smiled when she saw his confusion. “The villains? They were always blond, tawny-eyed, and answered to the name Ali. Did you really think Grigg would deign to be the bad guy? He suffered from save-the-world-syndrome even back then.”
Yeah, Nate could see it all very clearly. Grigg guarding the tree fort while a ponytailed Ali stood below, shooting up plastic arrows with suction-cup tips, or brandishing a homemade slingshot armed with rubber balls. “You were never able to vanquish him?”
“Well, once I got old enough to get really crafty, Grigg lost interest in playing Knights and Dragons or Cops and Robbers. About that time he started using the tree house as his personal testing facility for the seduction of Candice Honeypot.”
A startled snort erupted before he charged, “C’mon. You’re kiddin’ me. No sane man names his daughter Candy Honeypot.”
She raised a brow that clearly stated, oh yeah? “You’d believe me if you ever met Mr. Honeypot. Let’s just say he could be relied upon to buy us beer while we were underage, not to mention the fact that he smelled like he bathed in his own bong water.”
“Jesus.”
“Mmm,” she shook her head and grinned. “Not even close.”
They were silent for a few seconds as they contemplated the great paternal calamity that was Mr. Honeypot. The rhythmic drone of night insects was a distant hum in the background, the biological equivalent of white noise.
“So,” she finally said. “You wanna see the memory box?”
“Yeah,” he told her, glad for the change of subject because he was seriously considering finding the paragon that was Mr. Honeypot and zealously maiming the guy for encouraging Ali and the neighborhood kids to degenerate behavior.
Man, people should really have to apply for a special license before being allowed to procreate…
With a flourish, Ali pulled a dusty sheet from a large lump in the corner to reveal an old trunk. He raised a brow even as he helped her drag the trunk closer.
“He gave it to me to replace the old toy box we used to use,” she said, running a reverent finger over the stenciled letters PFC MORGAN, GRIGG.
“Mmm.”
Mmm? Really? That was the best he could do?
He opened his mouth to try to come up with something a little more erudite than mmm when she continued. Obviously, she hadn’t noticed the inelegance of his answer. No shock there.
After a dozen years, she was no doubt accustomed to his reticence. At least that’s likely what she’d call it—reticence. But the truth of the matter was, when she got that soft, vulnerable look in her eyes? He was tongue-tied.
Tongue-frickin’-tied.
“You know, a lot of people thought it was strange that Grigg and I were so close. Brothers and sisters usually aren’t, or so I’ve been told. I think it was because our parents were so lovingly…uh, inattentive is the best word to describe it, I guess. Anyway, because of that, Grigg and I had to depend on each other. We’d go together, just the two of us, to Dairy Queen to celebrate our good report cards. I never missed one of Grigg’s baseball games, and he never missed any of my piano recitals.”
But then Grigg died, and now all she had was a big old chest full of memories.
Nate had never really realized it before, and it broke his friggin’ heart to suddenly lightbulb it now, but for all intents and purposes, Ali was alone. And even though he wished it weren’t that way for her, he figured there was some comfort to be found in discovering they at least had that in common.
“Grigg,” she whispered, still caressing those stenciled letters, “he taught me to tie my shoes, to ride my bike. He even taught me how to use a condom.” Her smile was faint, sweet. “With this giant, garden cucumber as a model, no less. You can imagine my disappointment the first time I actually got the chance to try out my skill on living flesh and blood.”
He really didn’t want to know but… “How old were you?”