The Lucky One(20)

Seemed like he was always getting pissed off at Ben these days. But it wasn’t his fault; he honestly tried to get along with the kid! And they’d started out okay. Talked about school, had some burgers, tuned in to SportsCenter on ESPN. All good. But then, horror of horrors, he’d asked Ben to clean the kitchen. Like that was too much to ask, right? Clayton hadn’t had the chance to get to it for the last few days, and he knew the kid would do a good job. So Ben promised he’d clean it, but instead of doing it, he’d just sat there. And sat. And the clock ticked by. And then he’d sat some more. So Clayton had asked again—he was sure he’d said it nicely—and though he couldn’t be certain, he was pretty sure that Ben had rolled his eyes as he’d finally trudged off. That was all it took. He hated when Ben rolled his eyes at him, and Ben knew he hated it. It was like the kid knew exactly which buttons to push, and he spent all his spare time trying to figure out new buttons to hit the next time he saw him. Hence, Clayton had found himself on the porch.

Behaviors like that were his mom’s doing; of that, Clayton had no doubt. She was one hell of a good-looking lady, but she didn’t know the first thing about turning a young boy into a man. He had nothing against the kid getting good grades, but he couldn’t play soccer this year because he wanted to play the violin? What kind of crap was that? Violin? Might as well start dressing the boy in pink and teaching him to ride sidesaddle. Clayton did his best to keep that sort of pansy stuff in check, but the fact was, he had the kid only a day and a half every other weekend. Not his fault the kid swung a bat like a girl. Kid was too busy playing chess. And just so everyone was clear, there was no way on God’s green earth that he’d be caught dead at a violin recital.

Violin recital. Good Lord. What was this world coming to?

His thoughts circled back to Thigh-bolt again, and though he wanted to believe the guy had simply left the county, he knew better. The guy was walking, and there was no way he could reach the far side of the county by nightfall. And what else? Something had been gnawing at him most of the day, and it wasn’t until he’d come to cool off on the porch that he’d figured it out. If Thigh-bolt had been telling the truth about living in Colorado—and granted, he might not have been, but let’s say he was—it meant he’d been traveling from west to east. And the next town east? Not Arden. That’s for sure. That was southwest from where they’d met. Instead, heading east would have brought the guy to good old Hampton. Right here, his hometown. Which meant, of course, the guy might be less than fifteen minutes from where he was sitting now.

But where was Clayton? Out searching for the guy? No, he was babysitting.

He squinted through the window again at his son. He was reading on the couch, which was the only thing the kid ever seemed to want to do. Oh yeah, except for the violin. He shook his head, wondering if the kid had gotten any of his genes at all. Not likely. He was a mama’s boy through and through. Beth’s son.

Beth . . .

Yeah, the marriage didn’t work. But there was still something between them. There always would be. She may have been preachy and opinionated, but he’d always watch out for her, not only because of Ben, but because she was surely the best-looking woman he’d ever slept with. Great-looking back then and somehow even better-looking now. Even better-looking than the coeds he’d seen today. Weird. Like she had reached an age that suited her perfectly and somehow stopped aging after that. He knew it wouldn’t last. Gravity would take its toll, but still, he couldn’t stop thinking about having a quick roll in the sack with her. One for old times’ sake, and to help him . . . unwind.

He supposed he could call Angie. Or Kate, for that matter. One was twenty and worked in the pet store; the other was a year older and cleaned toilets at the Stratford Inn. They both had nice little figures and were always dynamite when it came time for a little bit of . . . unwinding. He knew Ben wouldn’t care if he brought one of them over, but even so, he’d probably have to talk to them first. They’d been pretty angry at him the last time he’d seen either of them. He’d have to apologize and turn on the charm, and he wasn’t sure he was up to listening to them smack their chewing gum and chatter away about what they’d seen on MTV or read in the National Enquirer. Sometimes they were too much work.

So that was out. Searching for Thigh-bolt tonight was out. Looking for Thigh-bolt tomorrow was out, too, since Gramps wanted everyone over for brunch after church. Still, Thigh-bolt was walking, and with the dog and the backpack, it meant catching a ride was unlikely. How far could he get by tomorrow afternoon? Twenty miles? Thirty at the most? No more than that, which meant he was still in the vicinity. He’d make some calls to a couple of other departments in the surrounding counties, ask them to keep an eye out. There weren’t that many roads leading out of the county, and he figured that if he spent a few hours making phone calls to some of the businesses along those routes, someone would spot the guy. When that happened, he’d be on his way. Thigh-bolt never should have messed with Keith Clayton.

Lost in thought, Clayton barely heard the front door squeak open.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Someone’s on the phone.”

“Who is it?”

“Tony.”

“Of course it is.”

He rose from his seat, wondering what Tony wanted. Talk about a loser. Scrawny and pimpled, he was one of those hangers-on who sat near the deputies, trying to worm his way into pretending he was one of them. He was probably wondering where Clayton was and what he was doing later because he didn’t want to be left out. Lame.