Page 2 of All The Things: The Last Thing He Needs Omnibus

As he slipped the boxes into his coat pocket, he heard a familiar voice and felt a warmth behind him.

“Put it back, Tom.” McAlister. Christ. Of all the stop-and-robs in this shitty town, he had to pick this one?

Tommy let out a sigh, shoulders dropping a bit. “I can’t.” He gritted his teeth, his cheeks flaming with heat, not over the fact he couldn’t pay for something like this, but because he’d been caught. And Bobby McAlister had just called him Tom in a husky whisper. His breath brushed against the skin at the back of Tommy’s neck.

“Why the hell not?” Bobby asked quietly, standing a little closer than he needed to.

Then he realized Bobby was blocking the clerk’s view of him.

“Zoe and Max are sick and they need this shit and I don’t have enough to pay for it. Till I get paid,” he added with a defiant tilt to his chin.

Bobby narrowed his eyes and stuck his hand out, demanding without a word that Tommy pass them over.

“Christ, are you gonna run me in for this?” Tommy bristled, feeling angry now. His little brother and sister were at home and in need, and this guy—this guy he thought was an angel fifteen minutes ago—was standing in his way.

The snort of laughter from Bobby was unexpected, and Tommy handed over the two little boxes. “Did I run you in when you beat the ever-loving shit out of the Hopkins brothers?” he asked, his lips twitching in a smile.

“Hey, those guys had it comin’ for what they did to—”

“To Colleen, yeah, I know. I looked the other way and didn’t push it when they didn’t press charges, right? Or the time I caught you and Mikey lifting spare parts off that dead guy’s car?”

“He was dead, not like he needed them.”

Bobby shook his head, but he laughed. He turned toward the front counter, the medicine in his hand. He stopped to grab himself a pack of beef jerky, a box of chocolate-covered doughnuts, and a pack of gum. Tommy thought absently it was probably what he’d come in for in the first place. With a little jerk of Bobby’s head toward the counter, Tommy walked up behind him, going to put the chips and soda back. “Those too,” Bobby told the clerk.

“Hey, no… I got enough for these, it’s cool.”

“My treat.” Bobby sounded amused, but at the same time he gave Tommy a look that made him put the things on the counter.

Once they’d paid for everything and headed out of the store, Bobby walked over to his car—not the cruiser Tommy usually saw him in, but a little black Mustang that shone even in the dark. “I’ll give ya a lift.”

“Nah, I’m good—just a few blocks.”

Bobby raised the bag, reminding Tommy he still didn’t have what he needed. “Suit yourself.” Bobby clicked the remote to unlock the doors. He smirked as he slid behind the wheel.

“Bastard,” Tommy muttered, rolling his eyes as he got into the car.

“Changed your mind?” Bobby’s tone was playful, teasing, as he buckled his seat belt before starting the engine.

“Did I have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice, Tom.”

Tommy didn’t want to respond to that. Other people had choices—he had got-to, need-to, and won’t-do. He expected the car to back up, for them to be on the road, but it sat there purring, as if Bobby was waiting for something.

“What?”

“Seat belt.”

“Yeah? I…. Oh, right.” He couldn’t help rolling his eyes again as he reached across himself and pulled the strap down, buckling up. “Safe and secure, Officer. Or did you have a helmet for me too?”

“Hey, you have no idea how many morons I find with skin and hair in the windshield, teeth in the dashboard, just because they were too stupid or drunk or proud to put on a damn belt.” He started backing up, then added, “I’ve seen you, ya know. You always make the kids wear theirs.”

“Yeah, well, Christ, they’re kids, I don’t want ’em to get—” Tommy cut himself off, not wanting to make Safety Officer McAlister’s point for him.

Bobby only lifted an eyebrow, but his expression was full of smug triumph.

The house, normally dark and quiet at this hour, looked bright from the curb. Anxiety started to roil through Tommy’s system, knowing they couldn’t afford another doctor visit since Cheryl had been too high or too lazy—or both—to sign the forms to get the kids on medical and keep the food stamps. He’d filled it all out for her—all she’d had to do was sign the damn things.

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