Page 5 of Fire
“Crusher’s been missing you real bad too. He never shuts up about how good you used to?—”
Jake grabbed the sick fuck by the back of the neck and hauled him out of his chair. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Funny how calm his voice sounded in the last moment before his control snapped.
“Hawthorne!” the pervert said, eyes wide. “Dude, man, relax. We were just having a chat about the good ol’—”
Jake aimed two vicious knee kicks, catching him in the abdomen and groin, then shoved him face-first to the floor. The hunter made a high-pitched squealing noise and curled in on himself, and Jake had to think hard about whether he wanted to kick him in the face or drag him outside and gut him. The cafe’s patrons were staring at him, and he could see one of the waitresses, white-faced, fumble for a telephone. Toby was staring too, but it wasn’t relief in his eyes. There was blank terror, like he didn’t recognize Jake at all.
The guy—Bentham, that was his name—dragged himself to his feet, one arm curled around his abdomen. The hatred in his eyes made Jake reach for his gun while stepping between the fucker and Toby.
But Bentham didn’t make a move, beyond spitting weakly toward Jake’s feet, missing his boots. “Enjoy your slut, Hawthorne. I know a lot of men have. And he begged for it too. Right, Pretty Freak?”
Before Jake could decide what to do (what hewantedwas to kill the son of a bitch, but they were in public, in front of civilian witnesses), the piece of shit dragged himself out the door. Jake took a step after him, the desire for violence briefly overwhelming any other consideration, but a small sound behind him made him turn.
Toby looked like he was a moment away from losing anything he had eaten that day.
In an instant, Jake was back at his side, reaching for his shoulder. “Toby?—”
Toby jerked away, lifting his shaking hands up to the sides of his face. “Don’t,” he whispered, eyes closed and breaths sharp and shallow. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”
Jake swallowed and took a half-step back, lowering his hands.He stared at Toby—hunched in on himself, what was visible of his face a tight mask—and knew he was gone far beyond what Jake could reach with a few words. They needed to leave this place and fast.
“Toby,” he said at last, voice low and hopefully not too rough. “Let’s go, man. Let’s get out of here.”
He didn’t know if Toby could hear him or if he’d have to touch Toby to get him to move—that wouldbe the opposite of helping right now. But after a few awful seconds, Toby stood and turned shakily toward the door, head down, arms folded tightly across himself.
Jake had to shove his books into his backpack and take it with him because Toby hadn’t even glanced at them. Jake kept enough distance that he could catch him if he tried to bolt—hadn’t happened yet, but that was something Jake had been afraid of every time Toby got triggered bad—but stayed far enough away that he wouldn’t be tempted to touch him, even if he stopped suddenly. Toby remained stiff as he stumbled to the Eldorado and stopped by the passenger door.
Jake moved toward the driver’s side automatically, and then he looked at Toby again. He sawhis hands clench on his shirt, how he wasn’t even looking at the smooth black door of their car. Jake swallowed, walked around, and tried not to feel anything when Toby backed away from him.
He opened the door and took a step back. He wished Toby would look at him, but until they could talk, until that horrible look faded from Toby’s face, there was nothing he could do. “Come on, Toby. Let’s go.”
Toby got in without letting go of his shirt.
Jake’s hands hurt gripping the steering wheel too tight as they drove back to the motel, and it took an effortnotto jerk the turns. It was just as hard to keep his words behind his teeth, not to curse himself aloud for ever leaving Toby alone when they were in the same town as the Crossroads Inn.
But swearing wouldn’t do any good. Definitely wouldn’t help Toby. In half an hour they had lost—how many fucking months of progress? How long would it take this time before he could even reach for Toby’s hand without him flinching like he’d been shocked?
Fuck, how long before Tobylookedat him again?
Bentham never should have left that restaurant in anything but a stretcher. Or a body bag. That fucker hadtouchedToby. And what he’d said,enjoy your slut, had sounded like bullshit to Jake, something a sadistic fuck would whisper to get a victim softened up—but Toby’s reaction wasn’t bullshit. Something had triggered him badly.
Jake knew the vague outlines of what had happened to Toby and didn’t want to push in case something broke, but he had the terrible feeling that Toby had already broken.
He didn’t want to even think about peeling back another layer of Toby’s pain, but Toby couldn’t stay in full-on shutdown mode. God, Jake had hoped he’d never see a shutdown like this again. He would do fucking anything if it meant that Toby would look at him again, trust him, wouldn’t flinch from him. If Toby would believe that Jake wouldn’t abandon him at a time like this.
Jake kept silent until they were inside their room, door locked and barred, window shades drawn tightly shut. Toby drifted almost without seeming to notice what he was doing until he stood between the second bed and the bathroom: a silent ghost, the wonderful, slyly funny, caring person Jake loved lost within that pale, hunched-over shell waiting for the next blow.
Though Jake could have gladly gone for something in his system significantly stronger than Barbara’s watered beer, Toby was skittish around alcohol at the best of times, and this was not that. Jake filled a little plastic cup with water and took it to him, careful to hold it by the top, leaving enough of the bottom free so Toby could take it without brushing his hand.
“Drink,” he said, afraid Toby wouldn’t move without a verbal prompt.
Toby took it at once, dropping his head back as he drained the cup, his gaze falling again as he handed the cup back. His eyes never once touched on Jake.
Jake nodded toward the close-set twin beds. “Have a seat, Toby.” He kept his tone quiet—an invitation, not an order.
Toby folded his knees as he sat on the edge of the bed, arms once again hugging his chest and hair hiding his eyes. When he spoke, it was soft and broken, a terrible beaten tone Jake hadn’t heard in over a year. “I’m sorry.”
Jake nearly flinched. Hehatedhearing those words from Toby, and he almost choked on the frustration that threatened to bleed into his voice, his body language. “For what, Toby? It’s not your fault that fucker exists.”It’s mine for bringing you to a hunter town. And mine for letting that bastardstillexist.
