Page 22 of The Long Game

“You know what I do for a living, right? Your mother doesn’t scare me.”

Jack let out an amused snort.

“I mean it,” Grady said. “If you ever need help around here, just ask. Even if it makes her worse. If it makes it easier on you, I’m in.”

Jack looked a bit bewildered. Maybe Grady shouldn’t have made it so obvious he stood ready to fling himself between Jack and anything that would hurt him.

“You two going to actually mow the lawn or just fuck around in my garage all day?” Jack’s mother shouted out the living room window.

Jack tipped his head back, as if searching the rafters for patience.

Grady chuckled. “How about I mow and you work on whatever else needs to be done?”

Jack sighed. “Thank you. Both for mowing and for the offer to help in the future.”

Grady doubted Jack would take him up on it, but he did seem to believe Grady was sincere, at least. “You’re welcome. Now, stop fucking around in the garage and get to work.”

Jack laughed as he lifted the single garage door. “Asshole.”

They loaded the beast of a couch into the truck first, then Grady got to work on the lawn. He’d lived in apartments his entire adult life, and he was out of practice, but mowing had been one of his childhood chores, so he managed to avoid leaving Jack’s mother’s lawn looking like it had been shorn by drunk goats on a rampage.

Meanwhile, Jack mulched and watered a new cherry tree in the corner of the yard and prepped flower beds in the front of the house. Once Grady put away the mower and loaded the empty gas can into Jack’s truck, he took over planting the flowers—only teasing Jack a little about the detailed instructions on where each type and color should go—while Jack went to investigate a leaky kitchen sink.

Grady was just finishing up when he heard raised voices from inside the house. He quickly put away his tools and went to the back door.

“I’m happy to take care of you, Mom,” Jack said, clearly exasperated.

“No, you said you have to work. Don’t make yourself a martyr onmyaccount,” Jack’s mother shot back.

Grady stepped inside and found Margaret still perched on her new couch, another cigarette in hand, while Jack leaned against the kitchen counter, looking frustrated and tired.

Jack’s mother’s eyes narrowed on Grady. “Why are you here again?”

Jack closed his eyes as if to gather his strength. “That’s enough, Mom.”

“I’m here to help Jack,” Grady answered.

“Andhe’sonly here because he feels guilty,” Jack’s mother informed him. “The day I die will be the best day of his life.”

“Come on, Mom,” Jack said, visibly upset.

Grady’s hackles rose, his determination to stay out of their argument sorely tested.

“It’s true,” she continued, as if she couldn’t see her son’s face. Or just didn’t care. “I’ve been a burden to you since you got out. Since your father died.”

Jack tried to hide his wince. “Can we not do this? Please?”

Jack’s mother’s eyebrows went up. “Does he not know you were in prison?” she asked mildly, like she might not be throwing fat on the proverbial fire.

“He knows,” Grady said.

Jack winced again.

She eyed Grady speculatively. “And do you know why?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Grady said, keeping his voice calm to the point of bland and meeting her gaze directly. “According to all witness statements andthe security footage, your husband marched into a liquor store carrying an illegal and unregistered gun and helped himself to the cash from the till and a six-pack of beer before fleeing, at which time Jack learned what his father had done, panicked, and drove away with your husband in the car.”

Jack’s mother rose slowly to her considerable height—which was still most of a foot shorter than Grady. “Who are you to tell me what my husband did?” she asked, looking Grady up and down.

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