Page 134 of Bobby Green
BOBBY MANNEDthe grill at the company picnic, grateful that the heat had broken. Behind him his mom set potato salad, watermelon, buns, and condiments on the picnic table, pulling them out of a giant ice chest she’d rented for the occasion.
It had been Dex’s idea to pay Bobby’s mom to help cater—he’d given her a budget and a week to gather supplies. Bobby had helped, telling her that a lot of the models were health conscious and there should be lots of fruit-and-veggie trays and soy dogs and whole-grain buns. He’d helped with the shopping, the prep, the transportation—hell, pretty much the whole thing, since Hazy Daze had written him off with the misdemeanor assault conviction.
He’d like to say he was doing it all for his mom, because she’d been fucking awesome in the last month. She’d put up his bail and even given Dex’s lawyer a small fee, all they could afford. She’d visited and called, and when he got out, she’d been there to pick him up.
The first thing he’d done was go get tested at Johnnies—not because he’d had prison sex, he was quick to assure Dex, but because he wanted to prove he hadn’t.
He had a fading bruise under his eye and a broken nose to prove he’d defended himself a couple of times—and walked away when the defending was done.
Jail had been awful. Not the small concrete cell of the movies—or even his detention tank—but a big open area, divided into smaller quads. You found your bed, you minded your business, you didn’t talk to anybody, you threw a punch back when someone threw at you.
But Bobby walked away knowing one thing.
He controlled his temper. His temper didn’t control him. Never fucking again.
If he could walk away from someone who wanted to bend him over in the laundry room, after doing no more than laying the fucker out flat, he could walk away from a cop, from an enemy, from a friend out of line.
That red haze in front of his eyes never had to scare him again, because he had it by the balls.
It was a hard lesson—but then, it was one he’d needed, apparently, and not one he was ever going to need again.
And his mom never asked about the incident. She never reprimanded him. Never told him she was disappointed.
She didn’t even object to Johnnies anymore. Apparently the prospect of three years in jail versus the two weeks he’d served had converted her quick.
So Bobby should have been doing the work for the picnic forher—but he wasn’t.
He was doing it for a glimpse, a spare word, a chance to talk to Reg.
Most of the guys were on his side—not that he thought of it as a side. Most of the guys told him that Reg just needed space. He asked what Reg was doing with his time, and they’d told him that he went home. The end.
Bobby wondered if he was just listening to the silence, wondering what his life could be without his sister there.
It was why he hadn’t pressed.
Because Reg’s sister had been his world. His entire life had been twined up in keeping Veronica fed, clothed, and on her regimen. Having that taken away? Must have been bewildering, and while Bobby never thought Reg was stupid, he also knew Reg wasn’tquick. It was going to take a while.
Patience.
Their courtship had been slow. They’d danced around each other for months. They’d figured things out, one fumbling step at a time.
If Bobby wanted Reg back, he was going to have to give him room—just enough—so Reg knew Bobby trusted him to make a decision, make a good one, without pressure.
This was important. Bobby didn’t want to fuck it up.
But God, he was hungry to see Reg.
“Reggie!” Bobby jerked his head around at the sound of his mom’s voice. She’d thrown her arms around Reg with no hesitation, and Bobby swallowed at his tentative return of the hug. “It’s so good to see you,” Isabelle said, holding his hands and smiling at him. “I’ve been so worried.” Bobby watched as she touched the still-healing bruised part of his temple with gentle fingers. “Bobby couldn’t think of anything else but you.”
Reg gave her a brief smile and turned away. “It sort of sucked,” he said gruffly.
God, he’d lost weight. Bobby knew he’d been working out. Trey or Lance met him every morning, both of them a little less thin but a little happier as time went on. But neither of them had been feedingReg, and it showed. His hair had grown out, curly and a little vulnerable to the side of his widow’s peak. The circles under his eyes were practically blue in the bright sunshine, and that kind, irrepressible smile was dim, on auxiliary power now.
He must have sensed Bobby’s scrutiny, because he glanced up. For a terrible, wonderful moment, they stared at each other, soul to soul, and Bobby could see the sun for the first time in weeks. Reg’s fingers went up to his own cheek to mirror the healing cut under Bobby’s eye—a reminder of his worst fight—and then fluttered down. A look of profound sorrow crossed his face, so deep, so painful that Bobby had to fight for breath.
Then he turned away and spoke into the silence that seemed to have encompassed the entire picnic.
“Uh, anyone seen, uh, Dex?”
