CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 31 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
Tony skated lazily up the road alongside Joey; foot in front
of foot, he was barely pushing off, gliding with a grace on the pavement he
would have on ice. It was supposed to have been the night that West would
have come out with them. Tony was disappointed; the fledgling relationship
had died far too quickly, but that was life. And despite the fact that it
was over, it didn't stop him from feeling angry over what had happened to
West.
"Who did it?" he repeated, dropping off the curb to
avoid a newsstand.
"Fucking Brad." Joey was seething, he had been for
days. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his Nike windbreaker and a
scowl was painted on his face.
"But the cops--they're involved now, right?" Tony
pried.
"The cops can't do shit," Joey snarled. "They
arrested them, but they were let back out yesterday."
"Yeah, but that's pending a trial," Tony pointed out,
shrugging. "They aren't going to get away with it. Look, dude, the system
may suck, but it does work; they'll get banged up and that's it, it's over."
"Yeah?" Joey turned slightly. "Then what, they
get a few months probation, maybe some community service, while my brother's
lying in a hospital bed?"
Tony shook his head, "Look, bro, I don't know what you're
thinking, but stop, man." He reached out a hand to lightly touch Joey's
shoulder, "You don't need any more shit right now."
Joey shrugged off Tony's hand, "You don't understand..."
"I do," Tony insisted. "I like West, remember?"
He sighed, "I'm also your friend and I'm telling you, you need to calm
down before it's you who gets busted."
They were walking up the small road that connected to the east
entrance of the mall, a spring drizzle making the roads damp. Tony, as usual,
didn't seem to care about the rain, or the fact that he was getting wet. It
was just water to him, and he never got why some people had to run from storefront
to storefront just to avoid a couple of drops of water getting in their hair.
He watched Joey carefully; he'd known the guy for some time,
and knew his moods. Joey wouldn't just forget it. He'd seethe as the thoughts
simmered over a slow boil in his head until it dried out, or boiled over.
And Tony knew the only thing he could really hope to do was keep Joey from
exploding and doing something that'd get them both locked behind bars.
* * *
Peter was in his typical spot on the rug, game controller in
hand, trying to vent his frustration at a particularly difficult computer
game. The smells of Jeff Sternosti's pasta sauce filled the air.
It was a usual Friday night, friends coming together for yet
another impromptu tradition that had just seemed to take hold one day and
become a weekly event. Jeff was in the kitchen whipping up his sauce. Will's
former university roommate, and Lisa's current boyfriend was a true Italian;
his sauce was unbeatable, and it just seemed to go with everything from lasagne
through to ravioli. If pasta had been made for a purpose, that purpose was
to be smothered in Jeff's sauce.
Lisa and Will were out on the balcony talking, close friends
who saw each other every day, and yet they always had something to talk about.
Peter could see them through the patio doors, Will gesturing with his hands
as he talked, emphasizing some important point or another. Will was probably
off-loading to her about work.
Andrew and his friend Jared were sitting on the couch behind
him, a couple of bottles of beer in hand, the two lost in talk about the hockey
team Andrew was coaching. Andrew was explaining to Jared, probably the only
one out of all of the people in the house that night who understood what Andrew
was talking about.
Jared was a good guy, a used-car salesman turned banker. One
of those investment types constantly pressing a business card into your hand
and promising to turn a meagre paycheque into a solid return. He knew Brody
was the only one of them that invested with Jared, the rest never seemed to
have the money needed. Will was a call centre manager, Andrew a student, Jeff
worked construction and Lisa worked PR. Brody, however, never seemed to actually
have a job--not one that required him to go to an office at any rate. Whatever
it was he did, it had him jetting all over the place.
Peter had tried to guess a few times, based on some cryptic
clues Brody would drop intermittently. It had started sometime after Brody
had done school; it involved people, and trips to the States. Well, the first
few trips had been to places like Montreal and Toronto. Peter's guesses had
ranged from drug kingpin through to pimp. But while Brody was always larger
than life, he never came across as a criminal.
Sure Brody skated a fine line between legal and illegal. But
he never seemed to get caught. Well, he had come close once when a female
cop had busted him, but apparently one night a uniform shirt and a badge had
been found, and the charges had been dropped the next day. Brody had a magical
touch that seemed to make things go his way. That he had found a way to make
that turn into money was proof positive the guy was lucky.
Will's other friends, Farah and Rafik, were usually left out
of pasta night, primarily because Will didn't get along with Farah. They were
like oil and water, they just couldn't mix. Farah was a possessive and controlling
woman who had her new husband's testicles in a vice-like grip. Will for his
part simply thought she was a bitch and was quite vocal about it.
It was funny being Peter; he sat oftentimes overlooked by everyone,
Will's little tag along. He didn't quite fit in, yet everyone was fond of
him. He was a part of the extended family that existed in a group of people
that had been drawn together over the years to find their way to that house
on a Friday night enjoying Italian-style pasta and good company.
Will came back into the house, nodding to Andrew and pausing
a moment to tussle his sprog's hair as he headed for the coffee pot in the
kitchen. Lisa followed him into the house.
"So when do you have to have it done by?" Lisa was
asking.
"You know my boss," Will carried on the conversation
as they entered the kitchen. Lisa took a moment to kiss Jeff while he stirred
in the secret ingredient to his sauce--three teaspoons of instant coffee.
"Everything has to be done yesterday, it doesn't matter that I have to
find a polite way of saying 'you suck that's why people are quitting'."
Will shrugged and poured his coffee.
"What about going over his head?" Lisa asked. "You
know, to his boss and explaining the situation?"
"I thought of that," Will nodded. "Problem is
Scott's office is right next to the regional managers, so I have to walk right
past it to speak to Mister Labora, and to be honest, Labora isn't much better
than Scott is. It's not about the people, it's about the numbers."
"You need to get out of there," Lisa observed, as
they walked back across the living room, and again Will messed up Sprog's
hair.
Lisa glanced down at Peter and folded her arms. "Your hair's
too long," she remarked. "And what's with the clothes?"
"He's been raiding my closet," Will commented shaking
his head. "I don't understand; I come home and all my shirts are out
of order and he's there parading around in..."
"Wait," Lisa paused and looked at Will, "you
order your shirts?"
"Yes," Will nodded, "light to dark..."
"You really are gay!" Lisa grinned.
"You should see his sock drawer," Andrew glanced up
from his conversation with Jared.
"What, he organizes from largest to smallest?" Lisa
asked, smiling innocently.
"Largest to smallest?" Will blinked, wondering what
that meant.
Lisa rolled her eyes, "You know, your battery-operated
recreational vehicles?"
"What are you on about?" Will's frown deepened.
The room giggled, even Peter laughed, as Will stared at all
of them in total confusion. "Right, so you're all cracked," he said,
shaking his head and heading back out onto the veranda.
Lisa stayed a moment and smiled at Peter. "You're coming
with me tomorrow," she said firmly. "Get you out of old man clothes
and into something," she glanced towards the door Will had stepped out
of and dipped her voice, "a little more stylish."
"I heard that!" Will called through the open door.
"You were supposed to," Lisa called back, going out
to join him again.
* * *
It was raining fully now; Tony had changed out of his skates
and had pulled his own windbreaker from his backpack. He and Joey were walking
through the market since the rain had all but killed the skating idea.
The rain drummed off of his ball cap, dripping down the back
of his neck, occasionally making him quiver as the cold droplet rolled beneath
his collar and slid down his back. There were still plenty of people about,
hurrying up the street, their umbrellas bumping together as they jostled through
the cramped and narrow sidewalk of the market. The fruit and veg stall owners
were still making transactions despite the fact that it was raining, trying
to milk out a last few sales before they shut up shop for the evening.
"Where are we going?" he asked vainly; Joey hadn't
been very responsive since they had left the mall. He only stopped occasionally
to answer his phone and make the customary palming handshakes with people
he was meeting.
Joey knew everyone; well, more aptly, everyone knew Joey. The
drug deals on street corners, the cars that stopped he would get into and
then out of. It was all part of him, and Tony just shrugged it off as what
Joey chose to do. The CD case Joey carried with him everywhere had enough
of a supply in it to ensure he turned a tidy profit from a few hours work.
"I've got one more to make," Joey said dismissively,
hands in his pockets and his head turned down to the wet pavement as he walked
through the jostling crowd.
Tony shrugged, pushing up his ball cap and glancing at the grey
sky that was slipping steadily towards twighlight, "You sure you don't
want to stop somewhere, grab a bite to eat?"
"Nah," Joey shook his head, "not hungry."
"Right," Tony said, falling quiet again.
They passed the army surplus, crossing the street and turning
up past 'phods towards the American Embassy. Tony shook his head, wondering
what it was going to take to get Joey out of the weird headspace he was in.
He seemed fixated on his own thoughts, and whatever they were, he wasn't about
to share them.
He wondered if he should just go, catch a bus back round to
his apartment, leave Joey alone for a bit. But he didn't think that was such
a good idea. Joey was wound up tightly and Tony wasn't about to leave him
go off by himself. It was part of being friends, he guessed, keeping each
other out of trouble.
"Well," Tony said, breaking the awkward silence again,
"we could hit a bar or something tonight, after you're done."
"Mm," Joey grunted, not really listening.
"Right," Tony said again, looking back down at the
pavement and his sneakers splashing through the thin puddles. He dug through
his pockets and pulled out his packet of cigarettes, knocking one out and
lighting it up, taking shelter a moment in a doorway to get his lighter lit.
As he turned, he had enough time to catch sight of Joey sprinting
across the road towards a group of guys.
"Aww hell!" Tony commented, dropping his cigarette
and chasing after Joey as the young skater ploughed into a tall blonde man,
his fist sailing.
* * *
Peter was thinking about West while sitting with a plate full
of lasagne staring at the TV and watching the hockey highlights. Ottawa was
in the playoffs, and much to Will's complaining, the television was hijacked
by the guys to ensure they could get the latest report as to what was going
on out on the ice.
The problem was every time he looked up from his thoughts all
he saw was skates, ice and pucks, which reminded him of West and he was back
on the emotional roller coaster brought on by his conflicting emotions on
the subject of the hockey player in question.
He poked the gooey mass on his plate with his fork--was he falling
for West? Tall, arrogant, cocky... grey eyes that made him flinch at their
openness... the fact that he always stood a little too close, close enough
that Peter could smell the combination of cologne and the faint musk that
was all West...
The fact was that Peter couldn't stop dreaming about hockey
pucks lately. That annoyed Peter-- his dreams were supposed to be his own.
True reflections of his artistic nature, steeped in romance and classic Jane
Austen cheesy one-liners. But his Mister Darcy always had West's face. It
just wasn't fair! How was he supposed to have a good wet dream when the only
person he could think about infuriated the hell out of him?
Will was watching him, and Peter realized he had been playing
with his food. That was a dead giveaway that something was troubling him,
and he quickly began to attack the pasta in front of him in an effort to ward
off Will's inevitable questions as to what was troubling him.
What was troubling him? The fact that he was thinking about
West? The fact that West had admitted he liked him? Or was it that it was
West, period? Sure he was hot, Blake had weaselled him into admitting that
much. But could Peter see himself dating West? He wasn't exactly the ideal
guy Peter had imagined his first relationship would be with. In fact he bore
very little resemblance to that guy--was that what was bugging him? That he
was holding out for an ideal guy that didn't exist? Perhaps it was the fact
that he did exist that held Peter back.
Was that fair on West?
Peter rolled his eyes as he was back to poking his pasta again;
here he was, thinking about what was fair for West, what about what was fair
for him? No, life hadn't been fair to him, in fact in places it had been downright
unfair. But that still didn't mean he had to stoop to the level of leading
a guy on, did it?
Would he be leading him on? West was handsome, charming, funny,
and he seemed to like Peter a whole lot. And Peter was clinging onto something
he could never have, something so unattainable that he was missing out on
life just waiting for a chance to grab it.
He liked West. He could almost hear Blake's 'Well duh!' in the
back of his head. But it was strange to realize what everyone else around
him had been seeing for ages. Like he was finally opening his eyes and admitting
the truth.
What did he do about it now? His head fell back against the
side of the couch staring at nothing. The lasagne was still untouched in front
of him, as he let realization just sink in.
He stood unsteadily, looking at Will, setting the plate of pasta
aside.
Will frowned at his sprog, trying to read the strange expression
on his face; and gleaning nothing from it, he glanced at Andrew.
"I need your keys," Peter said; there was none of
his shyness in his voice, only firm determination.
"Counter," Will gestured.
Peter was gone a second later, grabbing Will's leather jacket
as he jogged out and around the Jeep, ignoring the rain coming down as he
unlocked the doors.
Will stood in the doorway looking down at him as he climbed
behind the wheel, starting the Jeep and driving away quickly.
* * *
West had been discharged from the hospital the day before. Peter
knew he was probably at home, as he drove with a strange need, a determination
that kept his hands tight around the steering wheel. He wasn't stopping to
think, he didn't want to think, he didn't care to think. Screw thinking, he
was past letting his own fears tell him what he could and could not do.
The Jeep swung into West's driveway, bouncing along the stones
to pull to a stop outside the squat farmhouse. Peter was already leaping down
from it as he almost hesitated. A man standing over by the barn, cleaning
his hands on an oily rag was watching him, and Peter guessed it was West's
father.
Peter pushed back his ball cap and jogged across the drive to
meet him. "Is West home?" he asked earnestly, the insistent look
in his eyes trying to communicate how desperate he was just to... to do what?
He didn't have time for doubts, he squashed the question.
Jonathon Harding pointed towards the house, watching as the
strange young man with the wild eyes crossed the yard again and knocked tentatively
on the back door.
* * *
West was in his room, sitting in his chair listening to some
music and trying not to think about his injured ribs. He was recuperating
well; it would still be a few weeks till he was up and about fully, but at
least he'd be back at school on Monday.
He blinked at the unfamiliar knock at his door. His mother's
knock was a light tap, and his father's was more of a rapping. This was a
hesitant knock, and West stood up, to slide open the doors.
A wet, blond kid in a ball cap and a leather jacket two sizes
too big for him had his arms around West in no time flat. It was the kind
of surprise that sent West stumbling backwards, and wimpering as he felt his
tender ribs arc pain through him.
He staggered and nearly fell, the pain darkening his vision,
as he felt faint, reaching out to hold onto the only support he could find--the
guy holding him, and a pair of flashing blue eyes looking up at him in stark
terror.
"Peter?" West grimaced, nodding down. "Ribs?"
"I'm sorry," Peter let go in a hurry, stepping back
and hitting the door frame, worry in his eyes as he gaped at West. "I
didn't mean to, I'm sorry..." he sounded like the was begging for forgiveness
and West held up a finger as he tried to stand upright despite the pain and
the dizziness it brought with it.
"It's okay," he managed, taking a deep breath he stood
up straight. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I..." Peter glanced back to where West's parents
were standing in the hall behind him watching him in confusion, and Peter
balked, "I..."
West shook his head, smiling at the small guy who was stammering
away in front of him dripping on the carpet. "Get in here," he said,
tugging on Peter's hand and drawing him into the room, glancing apologetically
at his parents as he slid the door closed, turning back...
Peter grabbed him by either cheek and kissed him. The bill of
the ball cap prodded him on the forehead. It was a quick kiss, the kind of
rushed uncertain kind that was more fearful than passionate, a desperate need
to communicate a rush of emotions he was feeling.
West looked into Peter's desperate eyes, trying to see past
the emotions to what was going on in Peter's head. But there was only the
fear there, terror at what he was feeling, at what he was doing...
"I'm sorry..." Peter began.
West leaned down and kissed Peter silencing his fumbling apology,
pulling back to yank the annoying ball cap askew to get a better angle to
kiss him, and Peter relaxed, a mild sigh escaping as he opened his mouth,
the desperate need easing as he curled against West, a light grunt from West
indicating that he shouldn't squeeze too hard.
Peter pulled back a second to catch his breath, "I...I...l-lo..."
He couldn't say it, the words terrified the hell out of him, and he stared
at West hoping that he could say them without saying them.
"Ya think?" West said with his typical cocky smile.
"You're still an asshole," Peter protested.
West drew a hand to push an errant strand of blond hair away
from Peter's blue eyes, tucking it back under the cap, "And you hate
me, I know, I know." He grinned.
Peter pushed West lightly, "Bastard."
