Rough Canvas (Nature of Desire #6)
Page 17After dropping that major bomb, Marcus withdrew almost politely from Thomas' ass. He asked where he could clean up, which he proceeded to do at the utility sink, using paper towels and soap. As he gestured to Thomas to take his place, he refused to answer any questions, simply told Thomas he'd meet him in the car.
Thomas saw his sister at the door of the store as he crossed to the parking lot. When he opened his mouth, she nodded, waved him on. "We're quiet right now. Just come back for the post-lunch rush."
"I told your sister I would have you back in an hour, assuming you get a lunch break." Marcus was standing beside the rental car. "She told me to take as long as we need."
When Thomas got in, Marcus pulled out of the gravel parking lot, gunned the engine to pull ahead of a slow moving pickup truck. Mr. Gardelli, coming to get more fertilizer, Thomas assumed. Who'd probably be eyeing the fast car and muttering about Yankee invasion. "I like your sister," Marcus commented.
"She wants to ditch the next semester to stay home and help. Says I shouldn't be carrying it all."
"She's right, but not about the college part. You set her straight."
"I did, but she's got a stubborn streak."
"Thank God she's the only one in the family. It can be a pain when they're all infested with it."
Thomas sent him a narrow glance, but Marcus said nothing further, just gave him a bland smile.
The Hill farm was five miles down from the hardware store, set back a half mile from the road. It was a rambling old farmhouse, built in the 1940s, in need of work, sitting on ten acres. Mr. Hill had died last year and Mrs. Hill was comfortably ensconced in an assisted living facility. It hadn't been an actual farm for ten years, but the Hills had had some small plots for a roadside produce stand to supplement their social security.
There was a barn with a loft, a storage building, as well as a well-laid-out yard that Mrs. Hill had once kept cultivated with flower gardens. A swing hung from the old live oak in the front yard, which also had the remains of a tree house from when the kids were younger.
"Have you been inside before?" Marcus asked as they got out of the car.
"Yeah. We grew up with a couple of the kids. Mrs. Hill baked a lot. We stole a pie from her window once and she chased us all about five miles up the road with a spoon." Laughing all the way, Thomas remembered. He remembered he'd hung back to get the brunt of it because Rory hadn't hit his growth spurt and was too young to outrun her, shorter legs and arms pumping. He'd been shouting joyously, still too young to know what the word bitter meant.
Marcus was on the porch, had unlocked the door and was letting it stand open. He turned. Gestured to the barn. "Lot of space there. It has a loft. The whole thing would make a great studio."
Yeah. It would. Thomas was gripped between anticipation and apprehension. He didn't want to think it, hope it, because he knew it wouldn't work.
"Marcus, what are you doing?"
Marcus studied him in that intent way again. "Just what I said I was doing.
Reclaiming my property."
He tilted his head toward the door, then stepped in, disappearing. Thomas swore softly, went up the stairs and followed him. He'd always liked the big wraparound porch. Sitting on the bottom step, spitting watermelon seeds at Johnny and May Hill, keeping an eye on Les as his Mom and Mrs. Hill shared cake and talked.
There was no furniture in the big kitchen except for a dusty oak table that had been left there. The paper on the walls was harvest gold seventies floral and stripes, but the smell of old wood preserved by quality care and brought out at this particular time of day by the sun was soothing. There was a quiet to the house, as it waited to become a home again. Perhaps to the two men regarding each other across the room.
"We could restore this together." Marcus put it out there. "Mix of old and new, traditional with our own tastes."
"Marcus, you live in a penthouse."
Marcus shrugged, settled back against the counter, crossing his arms, watching Thomas with those brilliant green eyes. A dragon's eyes. "I live anywhere I want to live.
I can maintain a residence here and in New York. There's a small airstrip nearby that can handle private planes. I can fly back and forth as needed to the gallery. Both of us could go there whenever we want to. I have an excellent general manager. She'd be delighted to take on more responsibility."
"You don't belong here. You don't fit. You'd hate it after a week. Local theater consists of the high school's biannual production of Gershwin, or Rodgers and Hammerstein. No gourmet shops."
"There's only one question relevant for you to answer. Do I belong with you?" Thomas swallowed, looked away. "That's not the issue."
"I just made it the issue. Do you belong to me, Thomas?" A pause, a quick jerk of his head. He couldn't deny it, had said it before. Marcus' eyes flared, quick and hot, but still he didn't move. The room seemed to be getting smaller.
"Then, next question, same question. Do I belong with you?"
"That's not for me to say. I can't - "
"If it's not for you to say, then it's for me to say. Why the hell are you so afraid to take this for yourself? I say I do belong with you. To you." Marcus' eyes traveled around the kitchen. "There's a good fresh market right up the road," he mentioned, changing the direction of the conversation, putting Thomas off balance. "The sign caught my eye. Strawberries, flowers and boiled peanuts. Ordinary things, put on a sign like the most amazing treasures. Reassuring, basic. I picked up some excellent tomatoes and green peppers from a woman wearing a purple and red hat that any pimp on the strip would envy."
Thomas choked on a snort. "That's Mrs. Dorsey."
"She gave me a recipe for a seven layer salad that calls for enough mayonnaise to give me arterial blockage. When I told her I'd bought this place, she said if I needed help making the salad for entertaining my friends, her divorced daughters - one or both of them - would be happy to help." His eyes managed to glint with amusement without losing a watt of that immobilizing intensity. Something in Thomas was responding despite himself, like a bird waiting at the door of a cage that was inching open.
"At which point," Marcus continued, "her mother - who, by the way, looks like she sailed over on the Mayflower - elbowed her and said in a stage whisper, 'Betsy, he's far too good-looking. You know he's got to be one of those homos'. Elongated o's, by the way."
Thomas' lips twitched. "I bet Betsy Dorsey just about passed out."
"She was quite mortified. I took Mrs. Mayflower's hand, kissed it and said she had senses as sharp as a vampire's teeth. And I'd appreciate that help if the offer was still open, because I figured she was the one who taught her daughter how to make the salad to begin with."
Thomas pushed off the door, ran a finger through the thick dust on the table.
"We're not backward here, Marcus. As long as you don't shove your differences in people's faces, they're pretty tolerant."
"Did I sound shocked?" Marcus asked mildly, raising a brow. "We had a good chuckle over it and Mrs. Dorsey talked me into some fresh squash. I know the problem isn't the community, Thomas. It's your history in it. Your family. What will Mrs. Dorsey say when Thomas Wilder shows up with that handsome Yankee everyone knows is gay? But it's not even about that, because small town people are usually a lot sharper than us big city folk believe. Most of them probably guessed it about you long ago." He shifted, tilted his head. "Your mother, your family, is a serious obstacle. But what I've realized is that you're the true problem. What you feel you deserve, the faith you have in us. The question isn't do I belong in this world of yours, but do you want me to belong in it? I'm willing to try, because your mother is right about one thing. You need this part of your life. It's as much a part of who you are as your painting.
And...maybe I need it too, because it's the core of you."
"At the hospital," he said at last, quietly, "you said that if it wasn't for your responsibility to your family, you'd stay with me until I kicked you out. Are they your safety net, your mother, Rory and Les?"
"What?" Thomas' brow furrowed.
"If you believed I would never tire of you, never kick you out, would the answer be the same?"
Thomas shuffled, drew a circle in the dust. "As hard as it is to be without you now, I don't think I could handle watching you get bored with me."
"And you think I would?"
Thomas couldn't answer. Though he thought he saw a flash of pain in Marcus' expression, his voice was still even when he spoke next. "How would you feel if you knew I had every intention of making what we had a forever deal? That I consider you mine, not just now or a year from now, but every year after that?"
"Scared shitless." Thomas managed a smile he didn't feel.
Marcus nodded. "I can see a lot of things here, Thomas. I can see us in this kitchen, making dinner for your family. Your mother might be tight-lipped at first, but then we'd all loosen her up. She'd be giving ideas on curtains before she left. I imagine you on that front swing, your feet bare, toes brushing the ground as you sketch that way you do, like everything else has disappeared. I see a tester bed, a firm mattress, able to take punishment. Like you."
Marcus turned now, his lips curving, voice settling into a lower, enchanting cadence. "I see you leaning against the doorway over there. I can imagine moving past you, stopping just a breath away from your mouth, pressing you back into the frame with the weight of my body. I'd be on the phone, brokering deals hundreds of miles away, and yet my hand would be on your cock, sliding around to your hip to cup your ass, watching your eyes go opaque and dangerous like they are now.
"Bending you over the kitchen table, or pushing you to your knees to suck my cock while watching the sun set over the fields, anticipating taking you up to my bed, fucking you and holding you while you sleep... I can imagine you and us a million ways here, Thomas. I will make my home where you are, because you are my home. I don't know any way to say it any more clearly. So now the ball's in your court." Marcus straightened, faced him squarely. "I want you to move into this house.
Make a home with me."
As Thomas stared at him, speechless, Marcus came across the room. "And another thing. I've had enough of this shit." He laid a hand on Thomas' shoulder, then another on his abdomen, curving over the ache, making Thomas wince. "It ends here. You need someone at your back, making sure you're taking care of yourself, someone who's able to truly kick your ass back into line when you don't. And in the words of the country song, slightly altered, I'm wearing the outrageously expensive Italian loafers that can do it."
It was unreal. Like a Twilight Zone episode, only in vibrant color and without the eerie echoing hopeless ending suggesting that human nature would always disappoint.
Thomas didn't know what to answer, couldn't think what to say. Then Marcus' cell rang. Marcus glanced at it. His eyes darkened, his lips thinning. "I'll be outside. Look around."
As Thomas watched Marcus leave out the kitchen door, step onto the porch, he felt that brief sense of hope drain away.
He looked around the kitchen. Marcus wanted him to make the ultimate step, and yet in this fateful moment, he was demonstrating he wasn't willing to make Thomas fully a part of his life. Perhaps the Twilight Zone episodes were on target, just like Thomas' original feelings. Even if Marcus did think his feelings for Thomas were love, they wouldn't last. A passing phase, having to do with not being willing to hear the word no. Marcus' subconscious apparently knew it even if he didn't, because he continued to feel the need to keep his secrets.
As he had the thought, Thomas realized that wasn't fair, exactly. Once again they were at the point of "I'll show you my hand if you show me yours." Whatever was in Marcus' past was apparently his most closely guarded secret. Until Thomas was willing to surrender to him completely, he wasn't going to trust. Was that how it worked? A slave's full surrender could win a Master's trust?
Or was it like gradually loosening a tight box lid, taking it up a little on either side, not able to get too far ahead of the other side until it all came up at once? Maybe it was different for every two people.
He stepped out as Marcus snapped the phone closed, exchanged a look with him.
Marcus opened his mouth.
"Don't," Thomas said quietly. "Don't lie to me about who that was. If you don't want to tell me, just don't tell me. You've..." He turned and looked at the house. "This is a dream, Marcus. I think it's a dream I want, maybe the dream I've always wanted, but I'm not sure of what you want, or even who you are. You always keep it to just you and me, and a person is about a lot more than that. They are what they come from, who their family is, where their deepest secrets and fears lie.
"You know all those things about me," Thomas said. "I've never hidden them from you - when I tried, you just ferreted them out. But in order to live in a house like this, you've got to appreciate the light. An artist needs light like air. To flourish and create.
To believe in the art."
When Marcus didn't respond, Thomas turned to face him again. Marcus looked at a loss for words. Not being reticent, not muddling through something insightful to take the wind out of Thomas' sails later. It was like he didn't know how the hell to respond.
Marcus was ageless in his looks, but in that second Thomas almost saw evidence of his mortality in the rigidity of his facial muscles.
He stepped forward, the weighty topic thrust aside. "Marcus, you okay? What's wrong?"
Marcus started as if caught doing something wrong, shook his head. Turned away quickly before Thomas could touch him. "I told your sister I'd have you back. Let's go."
"Marcus - "
"Don't." The word snapped out like a whip, and Thomas froze in the act of reaching toward him. Marcus had never rebuffed him. He'd intended to take Marcus' arm, stop him, and the way Marcus recoiled from him, his eyes green and hard, clearly did not invite contact. "Get in the car or walk." Thomas set his teeth and inclined his head. "Fine." He should feel anger and a sense of justification in his mistrust of Marcus' offer to play house. But as Marcus turned away, Thomas watched him closely, the stiff body posture, and all that didn't seem to matter. Marcus, the epitome of dangerous grace, narrowly avoided running into the side mirror before he found the door handle and got back in.
When they got back to the store parking lot, he parked and got out of the car before Thomas could say anything. Alarmed by the way Marcus shoved open the door of the store, Thomas lunged out of the car and quickly followed him in.
Les and his mother were at the cash register. Rory was on the nail aisle, restocking.
His mother paled at the sight of Marcus, but curled her fingers into resolute balls on the counter, even as Les put a reassuring hand on her arm and cast a worried glance at Thomas. Thomas increased his step and managed to almost catch up before Marcus reached them. He'd taken his organizer from the car and now unzipped it on the counter, inches away from his mother's knuckles. "Pen," he said to Les, in a voice so calm and precise Thomas thought it could chisel rock.
Les mutely handed him the pen and he began to write.
"Celeste says you're buying the Hill farm." Elaine raised her chin. Marcus didn't even glance at her.
"It's already bought. In cash, closing statement signed and deed recorded. I know enough about small towns to know that family connections can muck with a building inspector's report."
"You can't buy us," Elaine said, her voice quivering. "You can't buy my son."
"An intriguing thought, and a pity. I think he'd be far happier as my slave than he is as yours." Marcus kept writing. "Thomas, this is your part on the dozen pieces you've done. The courier will arrive later today to pick them up. It's a good agency so you don't need to worry about them getting to me safely." While he shifted his attention to Thomas, Thomas had the strange feeling Marcus was somehow seeing them all, including him, through some type of distorted filter.
He'd done that once as an experiment, painted an image through a wavering piece of glass. For a little while it had seemed as if he was somehow seeing an alternative but perhaps more true reality of what he was painting. In the same way now, Marcus seemed conscious of all of them, but in a way that felt skewed, raw.
Thomas didn't dare look at his mother or sister, alarmed at the tone even as he couldn't help but respond to it. "I want that painting."
Abruptly, Marcus turned and slammed his hand down on the counter, making both women jump. He leaned in, his eyes snapping, face inches from Elaine's frozen features.
"I haven't bought him. I have the goddamned privilege of handling his work. Have you looked beyond your own nose at what those paintings are? They're art. Art is that which touches us down to the soul, tells us this is what life's about. People come into my fucking gallery and stand in front of his fucking work for twenty minutes, because even if they can't put their finger on it, they know they're standing before something so priceless this measly amount," he waved the check, "doesn't touch its value.
"Accepting what people are, what they can't change and loving them with every part of yourself anyway. That's what love is about." He glared at Elaine. "You take that away from him, you make him believe that kind of love doesn't exist... It would be better for you to shoot him rather than destroy him inch by inch, year after year. If you do that, you're not saving his soul, you're killing it. If you'd look into his eyes for once, you'll see it. How we love is our soul." Out of his pocket he yanked the rag that Thomas had left on the sink in the shed and foolishly not thrown away. Marcus tossed it on the counter in front of her. "That brown stain covering about half of that cloth isn't paint. It's coming from your son's stomach lining. I want him to see a doctor this week. If he won't go, you hogtie him and make him do it." He looked toward Thomas. "Or I'll come back and do it for you."
"Marcus, cut it out. Mom, that's not - "
Marcus made a slicing gesture with his hand, relocked gazes with Elaine. "If you still actually know what being a mother instead of a missionary is about, you'll get him there and figure out why he's doing it before he kills himself. He'll do anything to take care of you. Of all of you." He sent a hard glance toward Rory. "Get a clue." As Elaine lowered her gaze to stare at the rag, her fingers reaching out to touch it, Marcus tore off the check, left it on the counter and turned toward Thomas. "I'm headed back to New York. But I'll be back, and we'll pick up our conversation then." Folding the organizer up, he pivoted and headed toward the door as brusquely as he'd come in.
Various questions were churning inside of Thomas, but seeing Marcus about to walk away brought one of them up immediately. "When?" The word was out before Thomas could think to stop it, or completely mask the urgent need for an answer.
Marcus turned at the door. There was such a powerful emotion in his eyes that Thomas almost moved forward, his lover's fuck-off routine be damned. He saw something in Marcus' eyes that told him he'd needed to hear that tone of want in Thomas' voice, in front of his family. Marcus had needed it so desperately that it looked in danger of shattering something within him completely. The last word Thomas had ever thought to describe Marcus was lonely, but it was in his face now.
"Whenever you ask me to come, pet," he said softly. "Just not today. No matter what happens, I can tell you this. I will always love you. No matter what you feel you need to be, where you need to go, I'll always know you're mine. I understand that now.
So you can at least be easy on that, all right? It's okay. I love you." His attention shifted back to Elaine and something altered in his expression, became much colder. She raised her gaze under the compelling power of his stare.
"If you ever touch anything he creates again, you won't have this place, your house.
You'll be lucky to get a bed in a state nursing home when I'm done with you."
"Marcus - "
"No, Thomas." His mother surprised him by speaking. "Let him say what he's going to say.
"This is your dream, your husband's. Even Rory's. Not his. He loves you. That's why he's here and part of what makes me love him, frustrating though it is to love a fucking noble idiot. But don't give me the slightest opportunity to take it away from you, the way you're trying to take it away from him, because I will. His art is his soul.
You attack his soul again like that and I don't care who the fuck you are to him. Clear?" She stared back at him, making no acknowledgement, though her shoulders quivered with the effort of holding the pose under that intimidating glare. It was the most cowed Thomas had ever seen her.
Marcus nodded as if he'd gotten the answer he expected, turned on his heel and left the store.
Thomas ignored his brother's demand for an explanation, his sister's murmured reassurance to their mother and went after him, spell broken. When Thomas caught up with Marcus at the car, he grabbed his arm, bringing him to a halt.
"What the hell was that? What is wrong with you?" Thomas was angry at him, but he was more furious with his inability to figure out what the tumultuous current of murky waters under the surface of the whole scene was about. He wanted answers.
Marcus ran a hand over his face, the back of his neck. When he raised his head to meet Thomas' gaze, it was as if the act took great effort.
"I thought...if you couldn't leave, I could bring it here, give you a way..." He shook his head, moved away from Thomas' touch and got into the car. The window was down, but what was swirling around Marcus, the fact he'd removed himself from Thomas' touch twice now, didn't encourage Thomas to take immediate advantage of the opportunity the open window provided.
Fitting the key into the ignition, Marcus held it there. Thomas felt a spear of apprehension as a shudder seemed to run through his arm. Marcus stiffened, his expression shutting down again as he turned over the ignition.
"You may be right. An artist needs light. And I bring my own darkness. Maybe we don't belong together, Thomas. I don't know. I really don't know anything right now." Reaching out the window, he put a key that was sitting on the dashboard in Thomas' hand. "The house is in both of our names. Move in if you'd like. Maybe I was just...maybe I'm just fucking crazy."
"Marcus." Changing his mind, Thomas put his hand on the window ledge and leaned in, not caring who might be watching. Touching Marcus' face, he ran his knuckles along the slope of his rigid jaw. "Stop," he said softly. "Just stop, and slow down. Trust me. Will you ever trust me?"
Marcus closed his eyes, his lips pressing together, so Thomas moved his touch there, fingers tracing them. Something was terribly wrong, and none of the rest of it mattered.
"No," Marcus said at last, opening his eyes and looking directly at Thomas. "I can't trust anyone. It's just not in me. Not now. Not ever. I've got to go." He hit the window control then and Thomas had to pull back his hand or have it trapped. "Marcus, dammit..."
But Marcus had already put the car in reverse in almost the same movement and backed it. Normally, he was a smooth, confident driver, but now he pushed down on the gas like a teenager learning how to work a clutch. Thomas had to move back fast to spare the toes of his fortunately chosen steel-toed work shoes.
He didn't want to go back into the store. Everything in him was saying he needed to jump in the store's truck, run Marcus' ass down and figure out what the hell was going on. Marcus had never been like this. So dead, so final. An hour ago, he'd been threatening to set up house just down the road. Despite Thomas' doubts, he'd gotten him hoping, considering. Wondering if it was as impossible as it sounded.
Now Marcus acted like...he didn't know where they were now. Thomas tried to ignore the feeling that Marcus had just started the beginning of the end between them.
Over a fricking phone call.
He went back into the store, steeling himself. Something in his face must have warned them, for even Rory said nothing, back to making a quiet clinking sound on the nail aisle. Or perhaps they were both waiting for their mother to detonate. To break down. Instead, she was looking at Thomas' face. "Are you okay, son?" she asked softly.
He swallowed. "Yeah. But I don't think he's okay at all. And he won't tell me why." She pressed her lips together then jumped as the ledger book she'd opened on the counter began to twitch and make a buzzing sound. "What on earth - "
Les flipped up the ledger book to find a cell phone there. On the third vibration, the ring tone kicked in and Rory's brow creased. "Is that..."
"Highway to Hell. Marcus is a closet AC/DC fan." Thomas said absently, then shook his head at Rory as he snickered. "No cracks about closets." Moving to the counter, he picked up the cell. It was an extension of Marcus' arm. For him to be upset enough to forget it made Thomas question the wisdom of allowing him to get behind the wheel of a car.
"Mom, what's the area code for Uncle Ren in Des Moines?"
"515."
Thomas stared at the phone. Iowa. Marcus was getting a phone call from Iowa, and a quick press on the call listing button told him it was the same number his last call had come from.
"Thomas," his mother said. "What are you doing?"
"Marcus...is John. Have a crappy connection out here. You there?"
"Yeah."
Thomas waited, straining his ears to hear through the crackling. When Les started to speak to their mother, he shook his head, made a sharp hand gesture for quiet and hoped no customers came in.
"This..." there was a pause on the other end. "This isn't Marcus, is it?"
"No. This is his partner." Thomas managed not to hitch over it, though in his mind there was a significant pause in thought, trying to decide the best word to use. It left it open to meaning business, or more than that. Apparently, either one seemed to ease John's concerns enough, though he added the question. "So you know what's going on?"
"Yes. Marcus left for a few minutes. Is there something else you need?"
"Is he...okay?"
On that, Thomas was on solid ground, and was able to give the key sense of intimate knowledge that apparently would win John's trust and assumption that he did in fact know what the hell was going on.
"No. He's definitely not okay."
"Jesus." John blew out a sigh. "Then maybe you can think of a way to say this to him. I talked to Mom. She says she's going to respect Dad's last wishes. She doesn't...hell, no good way to say it. She doesn't want him at the funeral. I mean, she does, but Dad didn't and she's just...
"We're going to need another transfer on the burial expenses. His last days were pretty rough, so I tapped out the account for the hospital. He's got to understand, it tore her apart these last days. All she can think about is how much she loved him and misses him, so of course she's going to support his wishes right now.
"Marcus will want to transfer another six thousand in there Friday. That's when I'll need to pay the funeral home. She's worried to death about the farm, but I told her Sue and I can cover everything. Didn't think it was time to lay on her that Marcus has been paying their way out of every tight corner for the past ten years.
"Maybe...after this all dies down, he could come home for a visit. I think she really wants to see him. Hell, we all do. He's probably told you how she is, all the Bible stuff about Dad being the head of the household and obeying him. Hell, if I tried to get Suzie to go that way, she'd hit me in the head with a two-by-four. It's just the way they are.
"He was a mean old bastard. Stubborn, but Marcus is like that too. Stubborn, mean when crossed. They never saw how alike they were, even as different as we know Marcus is. I...I didn't mean that in an offensive way, okay? I mean...I don't know if you're his partner...or his partner. Or both. Ah, hell. Don't know why I'm telling you all this. It just...it's been a hell of a day. Will you just tell Marcus we love him and when this crap is past, he should come home? He really should. I know he won't, but...will you tell him?"
"I will."
When Thomas heard John hang up, he closed the phone and started to slide it in the front pocket of his jeans.
Iowa. Marcus had a family in Iowa. A farm. A father who'd just died.
But he was also Dodger, somehow connected to Toby. On a hunch, he scrolled through the call history, the phone list, and found Owen's name.
One part of him knew this was wrong, but the larger part didn't care. Pieces were missing, but the pieces that were coming together were goading him into the territory Marcus had always declared off limits. Well, to hell with that.
As Thomas cued up the number, finger poised to start the call, he glanced at Les.
"I'm going to New York for a few days. I need you to make sure the courier gets those pieces. Okay?"
She nodded, her eyes full of questions even as she glanced toward Elaine.
"Marcus' father died," Thomas added.
"Oh." Les made a little sound as her mother crossed herself, then folded her hands on the counter.
"Maybe he left the phone here deliberately, Thomas, knowing..."
"Mom, enough." Thomas said coldly, stopping his mother mid-sentence. "This isn't a debate. While I'm gone, ask the Brewster kid to come in. He could use the money anyhow."
He turned to Rory, who'd rolled up close to the side of the counter near his mother, attempting to make a wall of their disapproval. Thomas cocked his brow at him. "While I'm gone, you're in charge of the store."
A surprised expression fluttered across his mother's face. "Thomas, Rory can't - "
"I can't - "
"Yes, you can. More than that, you will." Thomas stabbed a finger at him, his brows drawing down. "You chickenshit out and let Mom take over, as she'll try to do to baby you and your wallowing self-pity, I will yank you out of that chair and put a foot up your ass. Your legs don't work, but your brain does, your arms and upper body does, and you can use Les and Brewster's kid when you need a pair of legs. I need a good manager to handle things this week. You're that guy." He gave his brother an even, take-no-shit look. "You can hold more figures in your head than a rocket scientist. So stop focusing on what you don't have and use what you got. Or I'll tell Amanda Brewster you're really a paraplegic and your dick doesn't work."
"She already knows it does," Rory snapped and then colored to his roots. His mother and sister turned, a look of consternation on one face, barely suppressed laughter on the other.
"Well, if you've got the brains to use it, you can do other things." Despite the circumstances, Thomas felt a gut-loosening grin cross his face.
Then his mother's expression shifted back to him. As he met her gaze head-on, he felt a calmness that was new to him. "When I get back, we'll talk. I may be gone several days. You know how to get hold of me."
For once, without further comment, she nodded. He wasn't unaware of how she had her hands folded together, her short nails biting into her skin, but he would deal with that.
He'd been dealing with things for eighteen months, but hadn't felt in control of anything. For the first time since his father died, that feeling was gone. He was going to New York. To Marcus.