CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN #2
‘Around Julian’s age. He’s in private school right now. Expensive, but good. Few more years then I’m out.’
‘You have siblings?’
Danya shrugs. ‘Who knows? What about you? Family?’
‘Not really.’
‘But you love the little one.’
Lachlan scrubs his face. ‘I do.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Jules? He hates me.’
‘You train him hard.’
‘He can take it.’
‘You must love him to train him like that,’ Danya says knowingly, once again he just gets it, though this time it’s annoying. ‘It is well known, you know. No secret. You love them both.’
Lachlan rolls his eyes. ‘Uh huh.’
‘Boy has big fucking crush, though.’
‘Danya?’
‘Hm?’
‘Shut the fuck up, please,’ Lachlan says, no heat, no anger.
Danya chuckles and throws a sponge at Lachlan. ‘Messy.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Is messy how he looks at you when you are looking elsewhere.’
‘He’s a child.’
Danya grabs a towel. ‘They are all children to us because we never were.’
Lachlan thinks about that all fucking night.
?
Lachlan Tanner turns twenty-six on May ninth.
The rainy season is ebbing, and the grounds are once again Mimi’s favourite place to be, even if it’s not quite warm enough to use the pools yet.
The day is pleasant, unexpectedly lovely, in fact. Lachlan was dreading it.
He hasn’t had a nice birthday since he was younger than Mimi.
Blaire kept it a small affair as he asked, made it mostly about Mimi and Vasily, or “Silly” as Mimi calls him, who made the cake himself.
Vasily’s talent for baking is becoming well known in the East Wing, and it buys a lot of goodwill with Mimi.
When cookies are the best currency and you can make them better than anyone, that really goes a long way.
No gifts, only games which are the best way to spend time, everyone knows that, and when Lachlan blew out his candles, he didn’t make a wish, he let Mimi have it instead. You don’t need wishes when you have a plan.
Jules was typically distant throughout.
Lachlan notices that sometimes his gaze drops to the knife he gifted Lachlan for Christmas, so Lachlan takes care to show he uses it.
Otherwise, things between them are fairly static. Tolerable dislike on Jules’ end countered with respect and measured freedom on Lachlan’s. Compared to how things were in the first year, he’ll take it and run.
Lachlan eats cake, plays hide-and-seek in the grounds, hugs Blaire who whispers to him that she was happy he was born, and then he’s back on shift.
The endless job that is securing the Estate requires non-stop adaptive attention, mind-numbing repetitive checks and constant refreshing of focus so no dust may ever settle where sharp watchfulness is required.
It’s a Saturday, which is typically the night he lets Jules slip out for a few hours and tonight starts out no different.
Always around eleven at night, Jules sneaks away and is picked up a mile or so down the road by the friends he made from the frat party, the ones he stayed in touch with via the phone Lachlan gave him.
Typically, Lachlan waits at least two hours before going to bring him home.
Tonight, the full moon joins him on his journey, as he drives to the location of the bracelet. Jules always transfers his threads to Mimi without heartbeat disruption and Lachlan really has to ask him how he does that one day.
Jules is at a house party.
Lachlan has picked him up from near here before. A fairly affluent area, upper middle class. Once he arrives, he parks up in the SUV, watching the time, subtly checking in with Danya who covers for him like always.
Typically, Jules is out on time.
He’ll usually smell like sex, sweat and alcohol, and the car journey home will be quiet, and Lachlan will have mixed feelings, but knows letting Jules have this small slice of freedom means the world to him so it’s worth setting aside his own feelings and concerns.
Tonight is different, though.
Jules is late.
The minutes tick by.
Lachlan scans the surrounding areas.
Sometimes Jules gets creative, runs through yards, comes out different ways because he knows to avoid major cameras. Facial recognition is getting too good these days and it’s not worth Alistair finding out.
But there’s no sign of Jules running through the yards, nor is he coming out from either direction. His tracker is moving only lightly, not travelling.
Lachlan generously waits two minutes more and then he heads inside the house.
A big, expensive colonial that’s simply heaving with teenagers and early twenty-somethings.
Booming music, sugary alcohol, girls in short skirts, everyone yelling about shots.
Lachlan stands out from the start but ignores the looks he gets as he moves determinedly through a sea of bodies, scanning for one person only.
No sign of Jules downstairs, plus Lachlan has sensors on the SUV and nothing’s flagged, so he didn’t miss Jules on the way in.
‘Whose brother is that?’ a girl asks.
Lachlan ignores it, heads upstairs. He really doesn’t want to be upstairs, knows very well what happens up here.
He calls out, ‘Jules,’ in a short, sharp bark, waiting for a response, but now it’s serious, so he starts opening doors and scanning like a machine, ignoring everything he sees that isn’t what he’s searching for. ‘Jules!’
‘Are you looking for the rich kid?’ a girl asks, stumbling out of the bathroom. Lachlan nods. ‘He’s in the summer house, I think.’
‘Thanks.’
Lachlan goes back down faster than before. He heads outside, ignores the smell of weed, what noises he can hear from two girls in the shadows. He’s only looking for Jules, only cares about Jules. Way down the end of the yard, there’s a small, wooden summer house close to the currently covered pool.
The closer he gets the faster he walks.
He opens the door. It’s dark inside but for a few candles.
Jules is here. He knows it before he even sees him.
Lachlan strides into the bedroom. Jules is there, but something’s wrong. The boy has a split lip, a red cheek and he’s slightly breathless in a not good way. Several things are knocked over. The bed is rumpled.
Jules’ shirt is missing buttons.
Lachlan instantly slips into Focus Mode.
Cold, calm, practical.
On the floor some would-be rapist piece of shit is writhing in pain. Lachlan is going to put three bullets in him and not think twice, but for now, his priority is Jules.
‘Hey,’ he greets softly, tone warm. ‘There you are.’
Jules stares down at the older boy on the floor.
‘Jules.’ Lachlan gets no response. ‘Sweetheart.’
Jules looks at him, blinks hard.
He’s in shock.
Lachlan gives a friendly smile. ‘There we go, hey.’ He puts himself between Jules and the moron who won’t see tomorrow. Jules is shaking all over. Lachlan slips his jacket off to drape around his shoulders. ‘I was looking for you.’
‘He…’ Jules utters, breath tight and jagged.
‘I know,’ Lachlan tells him, assessing. The split lip is from a backhanded slap. The boy’s fraternity ring must have caught it. Three bullets might be too kind. ‘But you fought him off, didn’t you?’
Jules’ face is wet with tears, but otherwise expressionless.
He’s disassociating. A part of Lachlan wants to let him but knows it’s better if he can feel his way back to humanity to navigate this properly.
‘Nailed him in the balls, huh?’
‘Th-throat punch too.’
‘Ah, so that’s why I can’t hear him whining,’ Lachlan says appreciatively.
‘He got mad.’
‘That’s all over now. Jules, can I take your pulse?’
Jules shakes himself a little. ‘Huh?’
‘I want to take your pulse, but you can say no, OK?’
Jules is watching Lachlan’s mouth make the words, blinks several times as if seeking clarity to no avail. ‘What?’
‘I’d like to take your pulse,’ he repeats patiently, knows well the debilitation of shock. ‘That’d be my fingers on your wrist. Is that OK?’
‘Oh. Um. Y-yeah. That’s fine.’
‘Thank you.’ Jules’ pulse is racing. ‘Can I feel your forehead?’
‘Yeah.’
Jules doesn’t flinch but the backs of Lachlan’s fingers stir surprise all the same even though he was warned. The boy is in a flop sweat, boiling hot, probably feels ice cold. ‘So what’s the deal with tarot cards, then?’
Jules frowns deeply. ‘…what?’
‘You never told me what it is you like about them.’
‘I… what?’
‘You like tarot cards.’
‘OK?’
‘What do you like about ‘em?’
‘They’re. I’m.’ He looks away. ‘I’m gonna throw up.’
Lachlan guides him into the bathroom, knows all about navigating Jules when he needs to hurl, and it’s better he get it all out.
Lachlan keeps a soothing hand on his back, makes circles at the base while assessing for other injuries, but the small scratches he sees are minor and, shock aside, he’s fairly intact.
‘You did so well,’ Lachlan tells him, lets pride and care shine through in a way he never typically allows. ‘I mean it.’
Jules wipes his mouth with a shaking hand. Lachlan hands him a damp washcloth which does a better job.
‘I wanted to kill him.’
‘I’ll do it for you.’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ Lachlan says calmly. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’
‘Don’t kill him.’
‘Sweetheart, I’m obviously gonna kill him.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
Lachlan hands him more wadded toilet paper. ‘Why not?’
‘B-because he’s a normal fucking person and it’ll get, like, the attention of the cops or whatever!
He’ll be missed and you’ll be in trouble,’ Jules says, fretful and panicked, skin blotchy as he blows his nose.
Lachlan smooths his sweat-damp hair back, lightly caresses the side of his face that’s not inflamed by the blow. ‘I don’t want you to be—’
‘He’s gonna die for what he did to you,’ Lachlan says without the slightest room for adjustment. ‘Now, can you see OK?’
‘Bodyguard, you will not kill him.’
‘Any blurry lines? Wiggles? What about colours?’
‘Lachlan!’
The bodyguard cups his face, gaze roaming. ‘What is it, baby?’
‘You…’ Jules blinks several times. ‘I don’t want that.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to leave.’
‘Of course.’ Lachlan casts around. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘No. Just. Get me out of here and stay with me, OK?’
‘Whatever you say. Should I carry you?’
‘I’ll lean on you.’
‘It’ll be faster if I—’