Unless Jon himself didn’t go back behind the store. “It’s possible someone dumped his phone and wallet back there,” Rio suggested, but he could see from Casey’s eyes that she didn’t think it likely.
“An empty wallet, sure,” she said as she turned to take a plate from the stack that her father had put on the counter near the stove and served herself a less Navy-SEAL-sized portion of eggs. “But there’s still cash in there. All of his credit cards. Nothing was stolen. And that’s a nearly new iPhone.”
It was then that the front door opened.
Casey had a direct line of sight from the stove through the archway between the kitchen and the living room, and she dropped the serving spoon with a clatter. “Jon!” But then her voice changed. “Oh, my god...”
Rio moved fast, putting his plate on the counter and his body between Casey and whatever bad thing that Jon had brought into the house with him.
But there was no bad thing. It was just Jon.
He’d been roughed up.
His mouth was bloody, his lower lip cut. His left eye was swollen and already turning a rainbow of colors. His jeans were torn and bloody at the knees, as if he’d been pushed to the ground and skidded against rough pavement—repeatedly. And he was holding his sides as if a rib had been cracked.
All in all, it wasn’t too bad—his arms and legs didn’t look broken, and aside from that mouth and eye, his head seemed intact. Of course, for someone like Jon, who had never come even remotely close to any kind of physical punishment in his previously sheltered life—like bootcamp or BUD/S—it no doubt felt extremely bad.
His family was staring at him in horror, everyone talking at once.
Casey: “What the hell happened?”
Tina: “What have you done this time?”
Jorge: “Who did this to you, Jon?”
Okay, none of that was useful in this moment, but Casey finally hit the right note with “Are you okay?” She said it in unison with Rio, who hadn’t let the jarring sight of Jon’s injuries keep him from moving toward the man.
“Here,” Rio added, helping Jon into the kitchen and pulling out a chair for him. “Sit down. You’re all right. You’re safe now. It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay.”
Jon was horrified to see him. “Is Dave...?”
“He’s not here,” Rio reassured him. He could smell the man’s fear—the sharp stench of cold sweat—but there was no undercurrent of alcohol, that cloying, sickly sweet smell. It wasn’t on his breath or his clothes. “Just me. I drove up with Casey. You’re okay. You’re safe,” he repeated. “Although maybe we should take a quick trip to the ER...?”
Jon immediately shut him down. “No, I’m not... No.”
Jorge had leaped into action, getting a glass of water for his son and setting it on the table beside him, while Tina, tightly held back by Casey, was finally silent. Her entire expressive face, though, was filled with recriminations, disappointment, and pain.
“How about if I go with Jon into the bathroom, help him get cleaned up.” This time Rio aimed his words at Casey. “Make sure he’s not hurt worse than he thinks.”
“Absolutely not! I need to—” Tina said, even as Casey spoke over her, “Yes. Please, Luc. Go.”
Tina was ready to fight everyone, but Jorge enveloped both her and Casey in a hug, pulling them out of the way so that Jon and Rio had a clear path to leave the room. “I think that’s a good idea.” He spoke over Tina, too. “I’ll get the first aid kit, oh, and some of CK’s old towels.”
Rio stood back a little, taking the glass of water off the table, while Jon painfully lifted himself up out of the chair. As Jon led the way out of the kitchen, Rio sent Casey his best I got this look, which got him a heartfelt but worried nod in return.
The house was small—a bathroom wasn’t too far down the hall, but Jon went past it.
“Um,” Rio said.
“There’s a bath attached to the guest room,” Jon told him. “All my stuff’s in there. And you really don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do.” Rio followed him in. It was a nice room, big enough for a queen bed and a good-sized desk upon which Jon had placed his suitcase. An open door led into a small bathroom—toilet, sink, child-size bathtub with a shower curtain. He set the glass of water on the sink counter, then stepped back out of the tiny room to let Jon have access. “Cause if it’s not me, it’s gonna be one of them, and they’re all really mad at you. Relieved as fuck, which melts down to mad too damn fast.”
Jon surveyed his face in the mirror over the sink. “And you’re not?”
“Mad or relieved?” Rio asked, leaning in the doorway. “Mad, nah; relieved, yeah, a little. Mostly that I don’t need to wander the streets of town calling your name. I’m pretty sure your mom was about to organize a search party and that was not gonna be fun.”
“Towels and kit,” Jorge said. He’d put a pile on the bed next to a plastic box holding a first aid kit, making his announcement as he was already out the bedroom door. He closed it quietly behind him, giving them even more privacy.
