Page 32 of Sweet T

“I considered that,” Tucker said. “But I want to keep an eye on him. Head injury, you know?”

“That so? I thought it may have to do with the way you were looking at him last night.”

Tucker’s face flushed, warmed even more by the sun. He couldn’t argue with her. It was futile, considering their thought patterns were almost always in sync. “I know him a little better now,” Tucker said.

I bathed him.

“Thought you’d get to meet him over lunch,” he continued. “I fixed you a plate.”

“I’m sure it won’t go to waste. Anyway, you should get to know him even more. Just in case he’s–I don’t know–a serial killer?”

“You don’t believe that for a minute.”

“No. But he is running from something, toward something, or both. That’s a fact. You need to make sure it’s nothing nefarious.”

“What’s that?”

“Means up to no good.”

“He probably has some skeletons in his closet. But don’t we all?”

“The only thing in my closet is dress dummies haunting me. All day, they say–Shelly... come make us new clothes. We’re so cold.”

“You’re not right.”

“Says the man harboring a young, handsome Hannibal Lecter.”

“I’m not just harboring him. He’s going to work for us. After he heals a bit.”

Shelly paused a third time. “Well,” she said. “Wasn’t expecting that. Guess I’ll get to meet him after all.”

“Not today. Maybe Monday.”

“Sounds good. You can tell me more tonight. I’ll see you at four.”

“Count on it.”

“Oh, and T,” Shelly began, pausing a fourth and final time.

Tucker waited, then said, “Yes...?”

“Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. He may be built, but he’s half my size.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She didn’t need to clarify. They were both already thinking it.

* * *

Tucker was cutting the third sandwich in half and dividing it between the two plates when Evan emerged from the bathroom wearing the red swimsuit and nothing else. His hair was gelled, combed neatly and parted on the side. Tucker caught a whiff from one of his body sprays, a musky spice scent. Despite the cuts and bruises, Evan looked much better. In fact, the injuries enhanced his ensemble, transforming him from the vulnerable boy Tucker had witnessed crying in the bathtub before, to something more out of a fantasy–like some combat sport celebrity, entering the ring for a fight, combed and clean but wearing past blemishes like accessories.

“Better?” Tucker asked, concentrating on the task at hand to avoid ogling.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Tucker glanced at Evan again. He remembered those trunks from long ago. Pedro wore them when Tucker was little. Both Evan and Pedro were similar in size, build, even. But Pedro had no tattoos and Evan was much more hirsute.

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