The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(33)

Charlie stared at the photo.

Then he turned and shut the door in Tom’s face without a word.

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT, after the agonizing visit had ended and Charlie had been returned to his grandparents’, Tom was considering a trip to O’Rourke’s, which had a magnificently stocked collection of single malt whiskey and Scotch in addition to eighteen types of beer. Perhaps Droog was up for a drink and some darts.

Then again, it was past ten.

Perhaps Tom should get a dog. Or a cat. Or a fish.

But chances were he’d be leaving America soon. He’d had emails from both of the companies he’d applied to, informing him they’d hired another candidate, as Tom had expected they would. No work visa meant he’d have to go home.

It would be all right, he told himself, ignoring that flash of pain in his chest. It wasn’t like he was doing any good here, anyway.

The bleat of his cell phone startled him. He looked at the screen. “Charlie?” It was a first, the boy calling him.

“Can you come get me?” The words were muttered, barely audible over the background din.

Tom paused. “Yeah. Of course. Where are you?”

Charlie mumbled an address and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Tom turned onto a grungy street in Bryer, two towns over from Manningsport. His heart pulled the second he saw Charlie, a small, dark smudge sitting on the curb.

“Hey,” Tom said, rolling down the window. “Hop in.”

Charlie did, walking faster than his usual shuffle. He slumped in the seat.

“Buckle up, m—”

“Just get out of here,” Charlie said, pulling the seat belt across him.

Tom obeyed. It was hard to tell in the dark, but by Charlie’s careful breathing, he thought the boy might be crying. A block down from where Charlie had been waiting, people streamed and yelled from the porch of a dilapidated two-family house. Most were wearing similar clothes to Charlie’s—black, torn, adorned with chains and metal. A thunking bass rhythm slammed into the car, making it reverberate.

Charlie sat low in the seat, looking at his lap.

When they left the neighborhood, Tom glanced over. “Bad time?”

Charlie shrugged. There was a trickle of blood coming from his ear, where the safety pin pierced the cartilage, and for a second, Tom’s vision flashed red. He turned his eyes back to the road and loosened his death grip on the steering wheel.

“Did someone hurt you, mate?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“Your ear’s bleeding.”

Charlie reached up and touched it. “It got caught.”

Bullshit. Someone had roughed up his little boy. Again, he had to force his hands to relax. “Want to stay at my place tonight?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Okay.” Charlie looked out his window, his face away from Tom. “Don’t tell my grandparents the party was so...whatever. They’ll freak.”

“Right. I’ll call them when we get home and let them know you’re with me.”

When they got to Tom’s, Charlie headed straight upstairs. “Do you need anything?” Tom asked.

“No.”

“Make sure you clean that cut, all right? There’s hydrogen peroxide in the cabinet.” He nodded toward the loo.

“Okay.” Much to his surprise, Charlie turned and almost managed to make eye contact. “Thanks,” he mumbled to the region of Tom’s collarbone.

Despite the black eye makeup and piercings, Charlie’s face was still that of a little boy, his skin unroughened by beard, his jawline still soft, reminding Tom of the kid who’d never run out of things to talk about at bedtime.

“You’re welcome,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Any time.”

Then Charlie closed the door, and Tom felt a rush of love so deep and fast and helpless that it felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

What kind of a gobshite picked on a kid who still didn’t weigh a hundred pounds? And just who would Charlie have called tonight if Tom went back to England?

No matter what it took, he was staying.





CHAPTER SEVEN

AT 4:45 ON Friday afternoon, Honor was contemplating another cruise through eCommitment or OnYourOwn.com and wondering if four was too many times to see the latest Bond movie. But Dad and Mrs. Johnson had an in-house date, since Mrs. J. thought it was too soon to go out in public, so Honor wanted to make herself scarce. Because, my God! What if an in-house date meant she had to overhear something? Then she and Spike would have to kill themselves.

However, once again making the trek to the theater and power-eating popcorn and Sour Patch Kids (the ugly face of addiction...or the ugly hips, as the case may be) held little appeal, even if she could look at Bond, James Bond, for two hours. Plus, the low-bellied clouds looked like they were about to birth some snow. The lake was black from here, and the grapevines were dark and twisted. The air was raw with cold.

Maybe she’d just stay here and work, despite her pledge to be different. The Black and White Ball wasn’t far off, and it was Honor’s pet project of all the charity events Blue Heron participated in or hosted. The ball raised money for the parks and recreation services in town. In years past, the ball proceeds had funded a new playground, replacing the rusting equipment Honor herself had played on, a skateboard park and the municipal pool.