Chapter 15 #2
He drops his drink in the cup holder, and in less than a minute, we're back on the winding roads.
I don't know how much time he has spent running around these mountains, but he handles the twists and hairpin curves with ease.
So well that I have to shift my gaze out the window to avoid getting caught staring at his hand on the steering wheel.
Twenty minutes of silence later, he turns into some sort of national park. I wish I had seen the name, but I was too distracted trying to be distracted to notice.
Before long, we're pulling up to an overlook that makes much of the mountain easy to see, and it's a gorgeous sight. I wait as he backs into a spot, surprised there isn't a horde of people up here ruining the silence with chatter and the click of camera shutters.
I open my door first, stretching with my arms over my head. The beds we have aren't exactly made for comfort, and the lack of sleep is, in my opinion, one of the worst things about this type of work.
The only thing that would make this view better is if the sun were setting and the sky were dancing with half a dozen colors.
The clank of the tailgate being lowered echoes around me, and when I look back, I'm a little shocked that Zeus has opted to sit off to one side instead of taking up residence right in the middle.
I grab my drink out of the truck and take it for the invitation that it is, hefting myself up to sit on the other side.
Unsurprisingly, more silence swirls around us, only interrupted occasionally by the scurry of an animal in the underbrush or the caw of a bird flying overhead.
The peacefulness is so encompassing that it's almost possible to forget that evil exists in the world, but my sister's grave and the scars left behind on Zeus's body are tangible proof that bad people exist. It would be foolish of us to think otherwise.
"I won't use drugs," he says out of nowhere, his voice gruff and startling.
I scoff. "You're worried about drug use, and I'm more afraid that they're going to expect me to mess around with women."
I feel more than see his attention shift completely in my direction.
"Still afraid of women?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"I'm gay, asshole. I've never been afraid of women."
The freedom of being outside and able to fully be myself right now is a fresher feeling than the mountain air in my lungs.
"Bet you wouldn't know what to do with one," he says, smiling wider when I turn my eyes in his direction.
The man is stunningly handsome, and that smile is something I never saw much when we were teens.
The insane thing is how natural it looks on him, making me wonder how much he has changed since I last saw him.
Regret for the time and distance swim inside of me, even though those choices were fully his.
"I've had plenty of experience with women," I say, a laugh bubbling out of my throat when my words shock him so much that he almost chokes on a sip of his energy drink.
"You're joking."
I shake my head, leaning back with my hands planted a few inches behind me.
"Nope."
"Care to explain?"
There's just something about being the center of his attention that makes me want to drag this out so it can last as long as possible.
"I take my job very seriously. If I had to choose between something so basic and expected of me as a member of one of these groups, like messing around with a female or the danger that comes with being out and proud while working, I'm going to choose the woman every single time."
"I've heard stories," he says, his eyes leaving my face, his tone turning somber. "About just how homophobic they are."
I feel like I've ruined the mood, but he should go in knowing just how bad things can get instead of hoping and praying for the best. I've never worked a case where I wasn't a witness to violence, and not stepping in and burning the case is one of the things that has always burdened me with regret and kept me up at night.
It's not an easy task, looking at the big picture when injustices are right in front of your face, and you're helpless to do anything about it other than try distraction methods that rarely seem to work.
"Not just homophobic, although that seems like one of their top things to get riled up about.
They hate most people of color, and surprisingly, most of them hate women.
They see females as tools, something they can use as they see fit.
The insane part of that is most of the women who associate with these guys have been abused and brainwashed into believing they're only as good as the usefulness they provide, so they'll bend over backward for things that are just basic human rights. "
"Bunch of winners," he mutters, pulling in a deep breath and releasing it on a long sigh.
"We're not working to shut them down because they're Nobel Prize contenders."
I expect a rebuttal, but he simply lifts his drink to his mouth, taking a long sip as he stares out over the view.
Familiar silence takes over once again, but there's such a peacefulness out here that I don't feel an urge to gap the distance with small talk.
It startles me when he speaks, and when my mind catches up with his words, I wish I hadn't taken him up on his invitation for a drive.
"How did he die?"
I know exactly who he's asking about, and it's my turn to pull in a deep breath and sigh.
I know I'm going to tell the man the truth, but I know doing so runs the risk of him either getting upset and wandering off to be eaten by a bear while he battles his emotions on his own, or he jumps in the truck and leaves me stranded to be eaten by the bear.
Either direction it goes is going to suck for one of us.
"Heart attack," I say after a long pause, eyes locked on the side of his face as if it'll help me predict the way my evening is going to go. "At the country club."
He nods as if this were a scenario he imagined after he got the news the other night.
"Extravagant funeral, just as you'd expect," I continue. "At least that's what Dad told me. I didn't go."
"Because you didn't want to see me if I were there?" he asks, his tone distant as if he's not actually considering what he's saying but rather letting his thoughts drift out unchecked.
"I fully expected you to be there," I argue.
Knowing he didn't even know is the most insane thing ever. I knew there was distance between him and his adoptive parents, but it's almost like his mom forgot he even existed when her husband died.
"I was working," I explain. "Well, I was deep in the middle of the investigation that brought ninety percent of my team down in Oregon. I couldn't swing a trip to Connecticut and back at the time."
"I'm pretty sure Sheila and Edwin Jenkins forgot about me the second I decided to swing a hammer instead of going to law school," he mutters, shaking his head gently.
The familiar way he's reacting to this news makes my heart ache for him.
He's hurting, and it's the same hurt he felt when we were teens.
It's easy for me to sit here and think that he should get over it already, in the nicest way possible, of course, but some pain cuts so deep the wounds never have a chance of healing.
I pull in a deep breath, trying to decide the best way to help him. But instead of telling him to get in the truck and let me suck his cock, something that would've worked over a decade ago, I simply shift my hand on the tailgate and cover his with mine.
Surprisingly, Zeus keeps his hand in place for a few seconds. The only thing that saves my heart from more pain, where this man is concerned, is that when he does pull his hand away, it's a slow slide rather than a quick jerk.
He turns his head, giving me a soft look I translate as gratitude rather than disgust.
Oh, the small favors I'm awarded in life.