The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(68)

“Good! Now your hook. Side of the bag, come on. Get that hand up.” Charlie flailed listlessly, his so-called hook weak and off-center. “Brilliant! So how’s school these days?” Anyone beat you up recently?

No answer.

One would imagine that if Charlie were being bullied, he’d be interested in learning to fight. Perhaps it was a positive sign that he didn’t seem to care about these lessons.

The gym door opened, and Charlie threw himself into the effort, punching like a little dervish, his voluminous T-shirt flopping around him like sweaty wings. The lad glanced at the door—not Abby Vanderbeek. His arms dropped to his sides.

“Hands up,” Tom said, reaching out to tap the lad on the side of the head to demonstrate that an opponent could find an opening.

“Don’t touch me,” Charlie muttered, returning to his lethargic punches.

“There’s a tournament coming up,” Tom said, more to make conversation than because he thought Charlie would actually be interested. “Ages fourteen and up, division by weight. You could enter. You’re getting really good.” A lie, of course.

The bell rang, and without a word, Charlie slouched away. Lesson over, apparently.

Furthermore, the kid wouldn’t shower at the gym, so he rather reeked on the short drive back to the Kellogg house, ignoring Tom completely, staring out the window.

It was bloody amazing, Tom thought as they pulled onto Apple Blossom Drive, how long the kid could hold a grudge. Even if Charlie was correct in blaming Tom for Melissa’s death, when would Tom be forgiven? He wasn’t the one behind the wheel of the car that’d struck Melissa. He wasn’t the one who told Melissa to text and cross a busy intersection at the same time. He’d rewritten his life these past few years for Charlie, and the little bugger wouldn’t give him the time of day.

He loved Charlie. He hated Charlie. He was afraid for Charlie. Every day, there was another tragic story of a teen suicide. Those faces on the news—so young, so doomed—made a cold sweat break out on Tom’s back.

He pulled up in front of the Kelloggs’ house. “See you soon, mate,” he said.

Surprisingly, Charlie didn’t move. “Is anyone else doing that tournament?” he asked, not looking at Tom.

“Um, no, not that I know of.” Anyone else would probably mean Abby Vanderbeek. “I’ll mention it on Tuesday at the self-defense class.” He paused. “Are you interested?”

Charlie shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“Great! That’s brilliant.” So maybe boxing was a way to bond. Or impress girls. Hell. That’s why Tom started. Either way, it was a step in the right direction.

“I can look into it for you,” he said. “I’d need permission from your grandparents.”

Another shrug.

“Right. Well, I’ll walk you to the door and mention it, shall I?”

Janice greeted him with her usual once-over. “Hello there, Tom,” she said to his crotch.

“Janice.”

“How was he? Horrible?”

“No, he was great. See you, Charlie.” Tom waved, but the gesture was not returned. Then again, Charlie didn’t flip him off, either, so maybe that was progress. “Listen, Janice, Charlie might be interested in a boxing tournament for kids his age.”

“Really? I can’t imagine that he’d beat anyone.”

“That’s not a great attitude, is it?” Tom said. “If he’s motivated—”

Janice snorted.

“He’s got potential. I mean, perhaps he’s not born to the sport, but if he’s interested, let’s encourage that.”

“Fine. I suppose it’ll cost more money.”

“I’ll cover it. Not to worry.” She was staring at his neck, vampirelike, if there were middle-aged vampires who wore pink tracksuits, that was.

“I don’t know why you bother,” Janice said. “He’s not exactly a joy to have around.”

Tom gritted his teeth. “He is to me.”

“Right.” Derision painted her features, and for a second, it felt like Melissa was standing right there.

“I’ll be in touch,” Tom said.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “But don’t count on him following through. He’s lazy, just like Melissa.” One more look at Tom’s junk, and she closed the door.

How was that for positive reinforcement?

Tom’s jaw was clenched as he got back in the car. Add to this, it was allegedly spring but utterly beastly out. Freezing cold and damp.

How was it that Charlie was better off with those wretched grandparents instead of him? Maybe, Charlie would have a chance in life if the people he actually lived with liked him a bit more. Didn’t call him lazy or horrible in front of him.

Tom needed a drink.

The little rat-dog went off in hysterics when Tom came in, yapping without stop. Yark! Yark! Yark! “Spike! Enough,” he ordered. The dog ignored him.

Where was Honor? Had she told him she had plans? Was she still cleaning her grandparents’ house? There was no note, and no message on his phone. He could call her, he supposed. Then again, what would he say? Where are you? Get back here, I’m in a bloody horrible mood and I’d really like not to be alone.

Yark! Yark! Yarkyarkyark! The little dog skittered into the room, then commenced growling. “Really impressive,” he said, pouring two fingers of whiskey. “I’m bloody terrified.”