The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(31)

Charlie, on the other hand...

He didn’t look at Tom, just walked past, out the front door, as cheery as if he were on his way to get a lethal injection.

“Right,” Tom said to Janice. “I’ll bring him back around seven, then?”

“If you can stand him for that long,” she said, staring at his junk.

“You, um, enjoy your time.”

He walked out to the car, where Charlie was already seated, earbuds in place, starting ahead with the long-suffering expression only a fourteen-year-old boy could manage—Look at me, surrounded by these wankers, counting the minutes till I can get away.

“How’ve you been?” Tom asked, getting in and starting the car. No answer from his companion, though Tom could hear the tinny sound of...well, calling it music wasn’t really fair. “School going all right?” No answer. “Buckle up, mate, be a good lad.” And no answer still. “Charlie, come on.”

Charlie said nothing, just buckled up, rolling his eyes as he did so.

“So I thought I’d take you into town, do something fun, then back to my place for dinner—how’s that sound?”

No answer.

And he had the kid for four more hours.

There seemed to be a new piercing through the cartilage of Charlie’s left ear. Looked infected from here, the skin angry and red from the safety pin stuck through it. “Make sure you clean that properly,” Tom couldn’t stop himself from saying.

He doggedly kept up the chatter: the weather, the town, the lake, the Buffalo Bills (he had no idea if Charlie was interested in football, and he himself wasn’t, but you never knew) until they pulled into the parking lot. And finally, the boy spoke.

“What are we doing here?” His voice, once so angelic, had changed over the past few months to a respectable baritone. Still a bit hard to get used to, that voice. Like when the little girl starts speaking with the demon voice in The Exorcist.

“It’s a gym,” Tom answered.

Charlie cut him a glance so filled with disgust it was hard to recognize the boy who’d once jumped into his arms.

“Right, right, the sign does tell you that, doesn’t it?” Tom cleared his throat. “Thought we could check it out.”

The truth was, Tom had no idea what to do with Charlie, whose only interests seemed to be terrifying music sung by Satan and body-piercing. The days of kites, bike-riding and make-your-own sundaes were over.

But Tom had boxed for years, gone through university on a scholarship, in fact, and made it through several regional championship matches. It had been a bit of a surprise that Manningsport had its very own boxing gym, an old-school type of place filled with the smell of sweat and leather and the rhythmic smacks of men and women punching the bags or jumping rope. He’d joined the first week he moved here.

“I’m not going in there,” Charlie muttered, looking out the window.

“I can’t leave you in the car.”

“Yes, you can.”

“It’s cold. Besides, I’ve got you till seven, so we’ve got to find something to do.”

He waited, and after a second, Charlie opened the door and shuffled inside the gym. Tom followed, gym bag in hand.

“It stinks in here,” Charlie pronounced, the earbuds still in place.

“It smells like a gym, that’s all. Come on, mate, give it a try.”

“I’m not your mate. That sounds so g*y.” His voice was loud.

Tom tried not to clench his teeth. “Where I’m from, it means friend.”

“You’re not my friend, either. And you’re not my father, or my stepfather, and I hate it when you call me your stepson.”

“Right. At any rate, I thought we’d give boxing a shot. No harm, is there? It wouldn’t hurt for you to have some life skills. I got you some trunks, a helmet, a pair of gloves—it’ll be fun.”

“It’s not fun!”

“And keep your voice down, all right?” He pulled out one of Charlie’s earbuds, and the kid reacted like Tom had slapped him.

“Don’t touch me! I don’t have to do what you say!”

Oh, fantastic, someone was coming over. Someone with impressive muscles, a military-looking tattoo, no less, and a badass look on his face.

“Problem here?” the guy said.

“Not unless you count moody teenagers as problems,” Tom said, forcing a smile.

The smile was not returned. Nor did the man look sympathetic to Tom’s plight. “Everything all right?” he asked.

“No,” Charlie said, rolling his eyes. Tom almost wished they’d get stuck, the way his own father had always promised.

“I’m Police Chief Cooper,” the man said to Charlie. Bloody wonderful. “How do you know this man?”

Soon, Tom imagined, he’d be in a cell for attempted child abduction, or worse. Though now that he thought of it, being sent back to England—or prison—didn’t actually seem so bad, when compared with dealing with the kid.

Charlie didn’t answer.

“I’m a friend of the family,” Tom said.

The chief didn’t seem impressed. “Is that true?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” muttered Charlie.

“Would you like me to take you home?” the chief offered.