Fault Lines Box Set

Chapter 1Rory had been driving for a long time. Too long. Long enough that he was going to have to stop and fill up the tank again. Which pissed him off even more than he already was. Not only was he going to have to try and find the gas station in this godforsaken countryside—as his cell phone was long dead and, did he bring his charger? No, of course he didn’t, that would have required forethought and planning—but he was also going to have to stand out in the rain, for the second time that evening. It also meant that he’d already blown through the last tank of gas with nothing to show for it but worn tires and a slightly lighter wallet. The windshield wipers swiped at the rain in an endless battle for clarity against distorted vision and wobbly perception. Yet as dreary as the night beyond the window was, Rory had no intentions of heading home. Not yet. Maybe never. Because if he had to listen to Gabe go on for even one single second longer about the goddamn dent in the goddamn car, his head was going to explode. There were times when it got too hard to shut out Gabe’s incessant nagging, especially those times when it was the nine hundredth thing that day that Gabe had found to b***h about. Besides, what right did Gabe have to go off about it anyway? The car belonged to him, not Gabe. Rory had bought it, and Rory had paid for it. Just like he’d paid for eighty percent of the things they owned—including the house that he was currently not able to enjoy because Gabe was in there acting like a Big f*****g Man. Rory tried to shake off the rant gathering inside his head. He took a deep breath. He pulled together his negative thoughts and told them they were banished behind the paywall of consciousness. When his internal monologue was starting to sound like the very rant he’d left behind, it was time for some thought-control. It wasn’t Gabe’s fault that their income levels weren’t even. A little appreciation would be nice, though. A little gratitude. Anything, really, other than the distinct pleasure of listening to a forty-five-minute speech about how he wasn’t grateful for anything Gabe did. About how he had no respect for property—and how Gabe gave and gave and gave and all he ever did was take. If Rory had thought for a moment that he could best the man, Rory would have considered drilling Gabe in the jaw. “And that’s enough of that,” Rory whispered, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as if it was the car putting the thoughts into his mind and it needed to be punished. But gently, of course. God forbid he cause any more damage. He shook his head. “I said, ‘be gone,’ thought devil. Get thee back from whence thou came.” If he dwelled on it, which he did—far too often and in too much depth—Rory wasn’t surprised by the ways things were turning out. Not really. It had been Gabe’s outrageous demeanor and irreverent attitude that drew Rory’s attention in the first place. At one time, that ignorant mouth of Gabe’s had been funny. Gabe’s insolent outlook had seemed bold and strong and exciting. The way Gabe considered himself to be on the same level as everyone—superiors, authority figures, especially people that were better off than he was—had been so different to anything Rory had known growing up, that Gabe had seemed like an anarchist superhero. Being with Gabe had made Rory feel whole, as if Gabe had given Rory back that slice of personality that school, religion, and parents had strangled out of him. Gabe had made Rory believe they could take on the world. At one time. Rory shook his head again, harder this time, and sighed dramatically as he turned onto Main Street, toward the gas station. The tiny canal town seemed blanketed in silence. People slept, they watched their TV sets, they f****d. Not him, though. Sleep was a luxury for the peaceful minded. Instead, he was about to go out into the rain and get soaked to the skin, just so he could keep driving and sulking. It wasn’t until Rory was already out of the car, shivering stoically in the wet night, brow bent into a frown of distaste and hand poised to grasp the handle, that he realized the lights on the pump were out. He looked up at the little building that boasted gasoline, dew worms, and lottery tickets, and clicked his tongue in annoyance. Really? At nine o’clock? How could an establishment that sold gasoline—the only place within literal miles, in fact—be closed already? With a growl more feral than the situation called for, Rory got back into the car and slammed the door behind him. Great. Just f*****g great. He had enough gas to get home fine, but that meant the end of driving for the night. He’d expected to ride out the hours, sneaking in well after Gabe had gone to bed, and now what? Now he had to go back? He stared through his windshield in defeat while Main Street sparkled through the glass. Buildings, roadway, and sidewalks twisted and streaked through the onslaught of rain. He tried to imagine Fred Astaire gleefully dancing. He conjured up mental images of happy little toads in bright yellow raincoats. And none of it worked to elevate his mood. His lip remained curled. He had no doubt that his gaze was as dark as the starless sky above him. Good God, but he hated this dead little town. Sunridge, population 5,428. And they all went to bed at eight P.M., apparently. The only light Rory could see, save for the streetlights and occasional flicker from the apartments above the darkened shops, was a convenience store down the road and a tavern. The tavern sat on the corner where Main Street intersected with the only other major road in town. He’d seen it before—slightly seedy, worn-out wooden siding and ancient stained-glass windows, handwritten signs and a bulletin board with community events on it—and never once been inspired to go in. Tonight, though, the lights called to him, offering warmth, people, food. The word, though merely thought, made Rory’s stomach grumble. Dinner hadn’t yet been a consideration when Gabe had started the argument. While the convenience store would offer sustenance, the tavern would offer something better than three-day-old egg salad or air-hardened donuts. It would have hot food. And it would have alcohol. Lots of it. It would be just as easy to pull off a couple of hours pondering the scratched surface of a bar as it would be driving. Rory pulled back out onto the road and found a spot directly in front of the building. Parking was not at a premium on the sleepy street, but even without a full house, the neon signs still beckoned through the front window and the place looked relatively functional. Sid’s Tavern, as the sign so casually boasted, would do the job. He expected country music, so he was mildly surprised to be met with the muted sounds of classic rock. A football game played soundlessly on a screen above the bar, a jukebox piped the music, and he only got a single scowl when he walked in. It was, however, accompanied by an approach. “Evening.” A heavy set, watery-eyed man flicked the toothpick in his mouth and nodded at Rory. “You got some ID on you?” Rory frowned. Yes, he looked young, he’d give the cranky cowboy that, but he didn’t look young enough to be asked for ID. He knew what the man was really asking: you from around here? He fished out his license, as it was easier than arguing, and handed it to the wanna-be-bouncer, doing his best not to appear too annoyed and at the same time, internally reciting the mantra he thought every time he had to hand over identification—please, please don’t know me. Not that he imagined this good-old-boy would. He wasn’t really the type most often seen in Rory’s group of fans. Still, that was the last thing in the world Rory needed at that moment. All he was interested in was anonymity and peace. “You buy the old Marshall place?” The man’s question didn’t register right away because Rory had been scanning the room. It was a habit of his that was part instinct, part lesson learned. Know your space, know where the exits are, and know who’s around you. Years of living in the city had taught Rory more than he needed to know about people. More than that, though, Rory saw stories in everybody he saw and more often than not those people and those stories ended up tucked between the pages of something along the way. One never knew where one’s next hero might come from. In this setting, an older woman sat at the end of the bar, her plump buttocks enfolding the stool on which she perched as she attended pleasantly to the drunk beside her. The drunk, perhaps her date, watched the game on the television with a sloppy yet still somehow impatient expression. A young couple sat in a booth at the back of the room with their hands locked, gazes only for one another. A bartender wiped glasses exactly as one might expect a bartender to do in such an establishment, his meticulous care a little overdone in the venue. Two tall men discussed the game of pool laid out on the felt in front of them and Rory took a longer look to assess the pair…no, definitely straight. Definitely. “Hey, buddy. You still with me?” Rory forced his mind back to the man and the man’s fistful of his ID. “Yeah.” Rory confirmed, keeping his words slow and his tone deadpan, just like good ol’ wanna-be’s. “The old Marshall place on Burke. Nice spot. Glad we moved. Love the country.” What was a lie between friends, after all? The man nodded. “Yup. Nice place. Good spot there. Dry and sturdy. You and your wife’ll be happier than a tornado in a trailer park.” A familiar prickle ran up Rory’s spine at the audacity of the man’s assumption—that backwoods mentality that said we automatically meant he and she. But now was not the place to soapbox, not with nowhere else to go, and it was definitely not the time. Not with those two dudes keeping a steady eye on the two of them as they held their sturdy-looking pool cues ever so expertly in their strong, rugged fingers. Rory smiled coldly and brushed by. “Yep, I suppose we will.” “Hey, you—Rory!” He jumped at his name and turned back. “Don’t forget your license.” Rory palmed the card and picked a spot at the bar as far away as possible from the rest of the patrons. He considered ordering a shot of rye, frowned at the choices lined up in front of the mirror, and then debated on the thickly dusted bottle of cognac. Sure, alcohol and age, but dust mites? Spiders? He winced and ordered a beer. He took a second glance around the bar, using the mirror behind the liquor bottles, and that was when he noticed the pretty black-haired kid tucked into a small table beside the jukebox. He had his chair propped back against the wall, one leg bent with his foot on the seat, the other against the leg of the table for balance, defying gravity and suggesting that slippery floors could go ahead and make his day. He appeared to be asleep, eyes closed, not moving, but as if the kid heard Rory’s assumption and wanted to clarify, he suddenly shot straight up, dropping the front legs of the chair to the floor with a bang, and stood. He slipped around the jukebox in a move so fluid it could have been a dance step and grinned at the approaching pool player. At the same time, the kid dropped another series of coins into the machine before the other customer could get there. The kid was obviously not in the mood for country. The bartender followed Rory’s line of sight and scowled at the boy punching in his selections. “Sorry ‘bout the tunes, friend.” Rory chuckled. “Me? No, no worries. I don’t mind rock.” Rory watched the bartender stare down at the kid, who was turned away from both of them and seemed to not even feel the daggers being glared into his back. “I take it you do?” The bartender shrugged, dragging the towel off his shoulder to wipe the surface of the bar. His gaze never left the young man’s back. Rory would have loved to indulge in the same liberty. It was a nice back—slim but square, with small but shapely muscles inside a shirt as tight as a second skin. Dark hair hung to the middle of the kid’s spine, and it swayed like a length of silk every time the kid moved. Rory did his best not to acknowledge the ass that looked like it belonged in a Levi’s promo, or the long legs beneath it. Youth came with its blessings, most certainly. He just didn’t need the entire bar to know that he considered such an ass to be a blessing.