One Small Thing #4
He was about to turn off the phone when another text not on the group chain pinged.
Sal: Did he tell you about Jeremiah Miller?
Anthony: Yeah.
Sal: Good. Mom took him to a shrink after that, and all the guy got out of him was “He’s sad.”
Anthony: He was afraid all of you would die, because if Jeremiah could die, his siblings, who were also “good kids,” were fair game.
Sal: Oh my God, I’m such a loser.
Anthony: I’m not doing this to yell at you. I just want him to be seen.
Sal: Good. Just, when you get the chance, let him know we’d like to see him too.
Anthony: I get that. I will.
Sal: You’re a good kid. Welcome to the family. If you have any other huge gut-ripping announcements about my little brother, maybe wait a day or two to share. I’m going to need a lot of antidepressants after this.
Anthony: I can’t believe he hid how smart he was. I wonder what his test scores say.
Sal: Let me ask Dad. I’ll get back to you on that.
Anthony: Thanks, Sal. You’re not a loser. Reg adores you.
Sal: Reg and Chance are the best of us. Don’t tell them I said that. I try not to let it go to their heads. Peace out.
Anthony: Peace out.
Anthony let the phone drop to his side and stared up at the sky for a moment. The haze that had been encroaching around sunset had burned off, and since they were a little ways out of the small, touristy town proper, the stars overhead were razor sharp and bright.
Starlight, starbright, all the stars I see tonight, let me have the wish I wish tonight…
I wish that Reg would see how glorious he is and know that I see that when I look at him. I don’t love him because he’s the “quiet” Royal—I love him because he’s the best Royal.
Of course, his siblings were pretty amazing—they set an almost impossibly high bar. It wasn’t Reg’s fault he’d cleared that bar as a baby and had just kept running the course ever since.
As he was letting himself back into the cottage, he heard a roaring, like from a badly maintained truck or SUV. The sound startled him, and he slipped inside the darkened room quickly, pausing to peer through the peephole to see if the vehicle making that noise would pass close by.
It skidded off the narrow highway into the gravel parking lot in front of the cottages, and Anthony turned toward Reg and saw him sitting up in bed, staring at Anthony with big eyes.
Anthony held his fingers to his lips and peered through the peephole again, noting that the map light inside the battered Chevy Tahoe was on, and two guys—dressed in body armor that made their silhouettes bulky—had paused to pore over the map.
Anthony’s heart stopped.
They saw through the encryption. We’re dead. They tracked my stupid text chain. I’ve killed us all.
But after two or three million years—two or three minutes in real time—the light went off, and the Tahoe, dark blue or black, peeled out of the gravel drive heading north.
ICE or Bratva, they were apparently anticipating where their quarry was going, and not triangulating where they already were.
There were only a couple of ways to the Canadian border, and that was a logical conclusion if either group was going to pursue them.
The coastal highway was one, the Central Valley highway was the other.
And while it was true the federal government had almost unlimited funds to track immigrants, that visit to the house had been prompted by an anonymous phone call, and Marcus had proven to be a whole lot of trouble none of the agents had wanted.
The odds were good that SUV had been Ilia’s family, and while still dangerous, they were not as well connected and hopefully easier to elude.
The thought was enough to give Anthony peace to breathe, finally, and to straighten up from his lean against the door.
Still, Anthony was glad he’d turned off the phone and Reg had powered down his encrypted laptop hours ago.
He locked the door and set the deadbolt, and then, for good measure, placed one of the chairs with the back under the doorknob to act as a jam.
The only other way out of the cottage was through the bathroom window, and their vehicle was right under that, so Anthony knew they were as secure as they could get.
“Up at nine,” he said softly. “Hit the bookstore, that little coffee kiosk outside of town, and head for our next stop. We use the buddy system until we hit Coos Bay.”
“It’s a plan,” Reg murmured, scooting over to the very edge of the bed so Anthony would have room.
“Get over here,” Anthony ordered, setting his phone on the charger near the bedstand. “My God, Reg, I need to hold you tonight.”
Reg didn’t protest, and he didn’t demur. He just backed into Anthony’s arms and laced his fingers with Anthony’s when he wrapped them around Reg’s middle.
Anthony breathed in the nape of his neck and shuddered out his fear, and Reg took it and patted his hands like that was what Reg Royal was born to do.
Maybe it was, Anthony thought. Maybe Reg Royal was born to do so many things well, taking care of Anthony was just one thing on the list of awesome.
But he hoped not. After all he’d seen in the last few days, he really hoped he was as special to Reg as Reg was to him.
Otherwise he might learn what real heartbreak was all about.