Not wasting a moment, Jayne slammed his knee into Bastian’s groin. The swell of Bastian’s fleshy anatomy was crushed by Jayne’s bony joint. There was resistance—more than likely, Bastian’s testicles—then a shift. The resistance disappeared. Off the top of his head, Jayne could list half a dozen injuries he could have caused, but he prayed that Bastian was about to come face to face with the bitch that was testicular dislocation.
It would serve the bastard right.
Not even a moment passed before Bastian dropped to the ground, heaving. Jayne, who felt no pity for him, peeled off the wall, rubbed the back of his head, and stepped over Bastian’s convulsing body. For a moment, he considered kicking Bastian in the shins, but decided that it wasn’t a worthwhile use of his time. If he was going to keep Parker, Shep, Everett, and Caleb safe, what he needed to do was call the police before Bastian recovered.
A thought occurred to Jayne as he reached for his phone—were there security cameras? Jayne looked up, intending to scan the walls to check for surveillance equipment.
He found Caleb instead.
Caleb, standing no more than six feet away, stared at Jayne with wide eyes. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled past his elbows, and his shoulders were heaving like he’d just sprinted a long distance. There was a tense, frantic energy about him that told Jayne he’d been ready for a fight.
“Hi,” Jayne said. His voice was hoarse. In an attempt to mask how shaken he was after the encounter, he cleared his throat, but all it did was make him cough. When he’d composed himself, he looked up to see Caleb had taken a few cautious steps forward.
Maybe he was afraid of vomit.
Jayne glanced at Bastian, who was alternating between spitting out bile, and purging the contents of his stomach.
It didn’t seem like he’d be stopping anytime soon.
“Hi,” Caleb said uneasily. “I guess you don’t need help?”
The same damned weaponized butterflies that Jayne had felt for Everett on the first day they’d met came out of hibernation, firing at will in Jayne’s stomach and chest until Jayne succumbed to their attacks. It wasn’t biology, as Jayne had once concluded. Heat had nothing to do with what he felt.
It was love.
“I might,” Jayne said, “if he decides to get back up before the police get here.” He rubbed his neck, trying to do away with the scratchy feeling in his throat. “I’m sorry to make you wait, but I have some unfinished business I need to tend to, and it’s going to take me another few minutes.”
“You’re fine.” Caleb rolled his shoulders, seemingly to try to shrug off his adrenaline like he might an overcoat. “Parker’s at home with Everett and Shep, so we’ve got all the time in the world. You do what you need to do. I’m here for you.”
It was a simple statement, but it tugged on Jayne’s heart in complex ways.
No matter what, he would be there for Caleb, too.
For Caleb and Everett both.
The war was lost—the butterflies had won. Jayne succumbed to love, and came out stronger for it.
48
Caleb
Two officers in midnight-blue uniforms listened to Jayne’s retelling of the events while Caleb sat sideways on the front passenger seat of the Jag, its door hanging wide open, the soles of his shoes flat on the pavement. As Jayne and the officers spoke, Caleb rested his arms on his thighs and worried his hands, first running his thumb over the knuckle of each finger, then pinching the skin on the back of his hand taut before releasing it again. When he’d come to collect Jayne only to find him pinned by Bastian, something inside of him had snapped, and he’d let instinct take over.
Instinct, as it turned out, wasn’t necessary. Jayne could take care of himself.
It was a strange and humbling thing to witness the assumption he’d made blow up in his face like it had. A month ago, a quarter of a bottle deep into an emotional night, Jayne had confessed that he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to shake Bastian’s influence—that the abuse he’d suffered had scarred him in such a way that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to strip it from his soul. Today, he’d proved otherwise. It had taken courage to do what Jayne had done, and as Caleb lifted his gaze from his hands and remarked how assuredly Jayne stood as he spoke with the officers, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride. As ready and willing as Caleb was to defend the people in his life, Jayne hadn’t needed his help. In the face of adversity, he’d persevered. What Caleb had observed in Shep held true in his brother as well—the Biernackis would fight to the end for those they cared about. It was refreshing to see Jayne’s definition had expanded to include caring for himself.
Every now and then, a breeze cut through the oppressive heat of the day, spiriting its way through the open driver side window to catch Caleb from behind. It toyed with the small hairs on his nape that he needed to have buzzed and reshaped, and caressed the skin of his neck like a lover might moments before sleep. Jayne’s conversation with the officers seemed to be nearing its end. Assured that everything had gone fine, Caleb looked away, focusing on the scuff on the Jag’s wing mirror from that morning’s traffic incident. Silver paint streaked the mirror’s cracked plastic casing, and a hairline fracture broke the glass into irregular fragments.
Life didn’t stop for anything or anyone. It could change in the span of a heartbeat or remain the same for decades. The near accident and today’s encounter with Bastian reminded Caleb of what a fickle thing existence was—how fragile, and how unpredictable. At any time today, he could have lost Everett, or Jayne, or his fathers. His brother, friends, acquaintances, and enemies were no less susceptible. It was up to him to make good use of the time he had—to not squander it while lost in his head, or waste it while paralyzed by fear of what might or might not be. Years ago, his fathers had come to the same conclusion, and they’d hidden the truth from Caleb and his brother in an attempt to help them live their best lives.
Caleb understood their motives now.
There was no telling what could happen one second to the next—no telling which hellos would be the first of many, or which goodbyes would be the last. Inspired by his thoughts, Caleb took his phone from his pocket and sent out a volley of texts. The first was to both his fathers.
Just wanted to say I love you. When can we get together for dinner? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
The second was to his brother, whom Caleb loved very much, but whose new life as a father of two young children and as fiancé to their sort-of cousin had diminished the time they spent together.
