Page 81 of The Evening Wolves

John made a slurred noise that wasn’t quite a response.

It was an awkward, tortuous process, getting himself upright without letting John fall, and then shifting John to the mattress. Every movement elicited a grunt or a groan, and Emery wondered how John had managed his recent performance—how, and why. He had to help John straighten his legs on the bed, and then he got a washcloth from the bathroom and cleaned him up. The taped ribs looked like they’d survived the impromptu sex without further damage, but the abrasion on John’s cheek had broken open again and now wept blood. Emery cleaned that up too. John’s breathing was labored, his eyes half closed. Emery cleaned himself up next—he washed his hands, changed his shirt. The sound of the running water put his teeth on edge.

When he returned to sit on the edge of the mattress, John murmured, “You didn’t get off.”

“I’m alright.”

Sounds from below filtered into their silence—Jem saying something, the words indistinct, and the clang of a pot, and a door opening and closing.

John’s eyes opened to three-quarters.

“What?” Emery asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think we can manage a vacation, but not with the terms of your bail. We’ll have to go after the trial.” He tried to smile. “It’ll be a celebration.”

But John’s gaze was strangely intent, and if the words registered, it didn’t show on his face.

“What?” Emery asked again.

“What do you think, what? The baby.”

Emery managed not to say, Are you serious? But what came out of his mouth was “A baby?”

It had been the wrong thing—the wrong tone, the wrong inflection, the rising note of disbelief. John closed his eyes. His face had a stiff, composed look that had nothing to do with rest. And then, after a moment, he rolled onto his side, his back to Emery—managing, in the process, to huff and puff and sound like he was giving himself a hernia.

“Is that really the best position?” Emery asked. “Your ribs—”

“I’m fine.”

Downstairs, that door opened and closed again. Tean laughed. Biscuit began to bark. It was like being in a haunted house, Emery thought. The rule of a haunted house is you can’t leave. You can never leave, not if you’re one of the ghosts.

“John, I didn’t mean to sound like—you caught me by surprise, that’s all. We’ve talked about children, and we agreed—”

“You should check on Colt.”

Emery put a hand on John’s arm: golden skin, dark ink, firm muscle. It lasted about five seconds before John reached to adjust the pillow and, in the process, shook off Emery’s touch.

He thought he should say something. He followed the lines of the tattoo with his eyes, but the lines became a maze across John’s broad back. He reached out his hand, like he might trace the lines more easily that way, find his way to the end or the beginning. But he let his hand fall instead. The springs in the mattress made a small sound when he stood, and he walked as quietly as he could to let himself out of the room.

The hallway was lit only indirectly by the early afternoon: a trapezoid of shadow, an acute triangle of reflected light. He stared until they blurred, his hand still on the doorknob. His hand felt stiff when he finally released it, and he had the odd sensation that the floor wasn’t level underfoot. Something with the foundation, he thought distantly. They’d have to mud jack it. Or have piering done.

Laughter drew him to the kitchen. Colt sat at the table, Biscuit crouched at his feet. He’d had his ribs taped too—you could tell from the slight hunch to how he sat—and a butterfly bandage winged across one cheekbone. Like father, like son, Emery thought with a kind of graveyard humor. No, not graveyard. Haunted house. Jem was picking pepperoni off a slice of pizza and popping them in his mouth, and for some reason, every time he did, Colt burst out laughing. Biscuit apparently didn’t believe she was getting enough attention because she yapped at Colt; the boy, of course, ignored her.

The door to the backyard opened, and Tean stepped in, an empty stockpot hanging from one hand, saying, “My soup wasn’t that bad—” But he cut off when he saw Emery. Jem froze, a slice of pepperoni in one hand. Colt’s laughter cut off, and the light died in his face as he turned in his seat.

“How’s J-H?” he asked.

“He’s alright” was the first, automatic lie. And then Emery was committed, and he added, “Tired, and a little banged up.”

“Does he need an ice pack?” Colt asked. “Did you get him an ice pack?”

It should have made Emery laugh because he remembered the sullen, angry boy who had come to him, the one who had worried so intently, the first time John had gotten hurt, about Pepsi and ice packs. Instead, his eyes stung, and he had to blink to keep them clear.

“Right now,” he said, “he’s going to rest. I wanted to check on you.”

Colt shrugged and looked down at his pizza. “I’m fine.”

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