Fractured Guard
If Gareth had wanted to envisage failure, the image of Nico and Daniel in the back seat huddling as close as the seat belts allowed would have made the top of his list. Right alongside Jack’s face when Gareth had told him of his discussion with Daniel and his suggestion to take the two to Aidan’s for the night.
That failure burned like acid in his gut. He was a strategist, a problem-solver, a thinker. He was supposed to be observant, damn it! So how had he missed this threat to his family? And why were all his senses on high alert now the crisis was over?
He stopped at the crossroads to give way to traffic flowing in the other direction, almost flinching when he found himself caught between a van on his right and a young man with a squeegee and bucket on his left.
He had the engine revving at amber and shot across the junction as soon as the lights changed.
The young man with the squeegee didn’t try to keep up, and the van only followed him as far as the middle of the junction, where it waited to turn right.
Gareth wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel. This was getting ridiculous. Daniel and Nico had stayed with Aidan before. There was no need to make more of it than that.
He started an observation exercise, noting anything happening around him as he drove.
It helped him to shut down pointless musing and focus on the present, but even as he noted potential hazards, signs, pedestrians, animals, and the actions of other road users, unease and frustration bubbled in the back of his mind.
If he kept going at this rate, he’d give himself a migraine in short order, and migraines were Jack’s domain, not his.
A wave of profound compassion for Jack swept through him. If this was what his lover’s mind was like, it was surprising he hadn’t turned to drink or violence.
Gareth stomped on that thought. Violence was far too enticing a prospect at that moment. If he had Pavel Mitrovic and his friend in front of him again, he’d do more than incapacitate and restrain. He’d use the knife he’d contemplated dropping to far better purpose.
“Gareth. Are you okay?”
Gareth stopped fantasising and breathed. Had Nico caught sight of his face in the mirror? But then, why was there no alarm or fear in his voice?
“Yes, I’m okay,” he said, aiming for calm. “I’m not happy with this whole situation, obviously.” He didn’t elaborate, and Nico subsided.
A short while later, he pulled into Aidan’s drive and supervised the unloading, as if either teen had brought more than just their small overnight bag.
He fussed—he knew it—making sure they had their phones and chargers, their headphones, and e-readers as if Aidan couldn’t supply all these things if required.
And through it all, Aidan stood in the open door watching him.
“You’re coming in?” he asked when the boys had hugged Gareth and disappeared up the stairs to settle in their room.
“Don’t think I will,” Gareth said roughly.
“You look like a thunderstorm about to slip its moorings. You should talk to me.”
“That’s exactly why I shouldn’t.” Gareth found the tiniest of smiles. “I appreciate what you’re doing, and I value you as a friend.”
“And friends can give each other a black eye now and then without hard feelings.”
Gareth shuddered, the itch of violence stronger now. Aidan had an exercise room in the back, he knew, and working out his frustration in a bout of sparring was a sensible suggestion. But sparring wasn’t what Gareth needed.
“Thanks, but no. I’d better head back.”
Conrad’s expression grew thunderous. “Don’t you dare get into it with Horwood,” he admonished. “That man fights dirty.”
Gareth didn’t even grace that with an answer.
Clubs weren’t his natural habitat. Gareth had felt ancient in the crowd queuing for entrance to Purple Line, and once inside had found the beer warm, the music deafening, and the bass thumping hard enough to rearrange his internal organs.
How Jack put up with the riot was a mystery to him.
He thought longingly of dinner and a play at the Orange Tree before he mentally kicked himself.
He wasn’t here for R a negligible discomfort compared to the sharp ache shooting from his jaw to his temple.
Jack knelt on the kitchen floor with his head in the freezer, investigating dinner options while he crunched a lemon-and-tonic flavoured ice cube.
He’d found them by chance while hunting up a fresh bag of coffee beans, and the moment he’d read the label on the container, a taste test had been inevitable.
Jack approved of the bitterness of the tonic mingling with the bright notes of the lemon.
A flavour for sunny days and holiday vibes, and Jack pictured himself, reclining on a sun lounger, a bottle of gin in easy reach, watching Gareth supervise the grill.
The weather was perfect for a lazy dinner outside, only… none of them were feeling lazy.
Knowing how much visible signs of violence unbalanced the boys, Jack had made restoring the back hallway his priority. He’d scrubbed the flagstones and walls, patched the damaged plaster, and sanded the frame of the backdoor where the intruders had used a chisel to crack the lock.
Why they’d attacked the lock when they’d had eight panes of glass to choose from, Jack would never know, since they’d then smashed the glass anyway. Still, puzzling over Pavel Mitrovic’s stupidity was easier than worrying about Daniel and Nico or to feel hurt by their choice to stay with Aidan.
The passage of time didn’t erase the taste of fear.
Jack knew that one for a fact. Jack had run when Rio found him in his basement.
Rio would never have turned him out, but Jack had been too afraid to take that chance, and he still remembered the cold clutch on his gut and the metallic taste of it on his tongue.
Daniel and Nico were afraid right now. They’d realised their haven wasn’t as safe as they’d believed, and a realisation that big took time to sink in. Aidan—big, burly, and a barrister—gave the two boys that feeling of safety, and that was all Jack would let matter.
Gareth wouldn’t see it that way. Not right away. He’d feel as if he’d failed the boys… and Jack wanted to nip that guilt trip in the bud. If he pleaded jetlag—which required no effort on his part—and asked for a specific dinner, Gareth would feel needed. And once he’d calmed down, they could talk.
Jack dug for ingredients, humming along to Marley’s “Exodus”, and it took him a moment or three to realise his phone was ringing.
“Rio,” he greeted once he’d extricated himself and answered the call. “How’s it going?”
“Ah’m fine,” Rio drawled, “but you may wanna come and rescue your other half.”
“Is he hurt?”
“No’ to speak of. A bruised knuckle or two.”
Jack knew what that meant, even if it made no sense. “Where is he?”
“My house.”
“Right.” Jack pushed aside all thoughts of dinner. “I’ll be over directly.” He ended the call and left the kitchen to find his leathers. The taste of tonic and lemon was still on his lips, but his evening plans were fading while he wondered where and how Gareth had ended up in a fight.