“Mugs? That doesn’t seem like you.”
George frowned. “It was Tom, my husband. I always liked delicate china cups. The civilized, tea-drinking kind. I had a couple in my dorm room when I first went to school, drank my tea in them while everyone else guzzled coffee from those thick college mugs. Anyway, Tom made fun of me and started buying me these; he said it was a better investment.” She held up the mug, remembering his ribbing with a brief, almost painful, nostalgic pang. “He was right.”
“Did he buy you that one?”
“Yes. This and about twenty others. But it’s gotten out of hand—even today. Every Christmas, my nurse and receptionist buy me ridiculous mugs. I’ve got…many.”
“Hmm. Want a refill?” Jessie asked, and George held out the vessel in question. “So, what’s goin’ on?”
“Don’t call them,” George said.
“What?”
“Don’t ask about the Sultans.”
“Don’t—Oh. Why not?”
“It’s…it’s a betrayal, what I did. Not just unethical, but…” George swallowed. Closed her eyes. Opened them again. “I betrayed him. I wanted to help him, but…whatever’s got him running, it’s not good. He trusted me, and I betrayed him.”
Jessie put her cup down. “Can I help?”
George shook her head no.
“Crap. I made a call already. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” George deflated, closing her eyes as she sank into the chair.
“Hey. Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Left a message, which’ll probably never get returned. Some bigwig in Baltimore.”
“He’s…he told me never to discuss the Sultans. He said it was too dangerous. For me. Probably for him too.”
“Look, I’ll be subtle if they get back in touch, okay? Besides, the guy I called was ATF. It’s not like I called Sultan headquarters or anything, right?”
George nodded. “Right. That’s true.”
“And if he’s trying to get away, to get out of that life, then there’s no reason for them to look here. There’s nothing to draw them here.”
“Okay. That’s true too.”
“So, you’re involved. With him.”
George nodded.
“George.” Jessie grabbed her hand, waiting until she looked her right in the eye. “Don’t feel guilty. You’ve only been good to him. If the man is in trouble like you say, then he couldn’t have picked a better person to ask for help. You get that, right? You’ve got this heart of gold, and he’s lucky to have found you. Stop worrying about the Sultans and enjoy this…thing for whatever time you’ve got it. Just don’t get too invested. Please?”
George nodded, picturing him on her floor, his flesh hot, his body taut beneath hers. She pictured his face: the pain stretched over his features, the skin pulled too tight over high cheekbones. She remembered the way her chest had felt when he’d groaned, like she’d been hit with a sledgehammer, her throat clogged with the need to love him.
Not too invested. Right.
* * *
Clay was happy when he set out to find a hardware store. Jittery happy. First-crush happy. New-life happy.
Unfortunately, Sunday morning in Blackwood, he remembered belatedly, was a retail wasteland.
You couldn’t fix sagging steps and rotting clapboard without the proper tools, but nothing was open. Nothing but churches, that was. The churches were doing one hell of a brisk business.
It wasn’t till he hit Charlottesville and found a big chain store with a hardware section that he could stock up, without knowing exactly what he needed. The half hour into town and the half hour back gave him plenty of time to wonder if he’d fucked everything up last night—between the brutal stairs sex and the night terrors. Christ.
