Page 21 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“There’re not a lot of things I do right, it turns out. I mean, not a lot of things I do that aregood. But that’s one of them. And you shouldn’t try to take it from me.”
Kit turned around and saw Holland, one leg crossed over the other, his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin in his hand.
“I see,” Kit said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. He took a jar of ground coffee off a shelf and put a spoonful in the pot. As he worked, he occasionally looked over his shoulder at Holland, partly to make sure he hadn’t fallen off the chair,and partly because his face was open and vulnerable in a way Kit hadn’t yet seen it. “I ought to have guessed.”
“I’m six feet tall and twelve stone,” Holland said. “That’s a lot bigger than most women.”
“That’s true,” Kit said.
“I don’t want to be frightening.”
“I promise that Betty wasn’t frightened of you.”
“That isn’t the point!” Holland said, his voice nearly a shout. “The point is that I know who I am and what I am, and you shouldn’t make me do a thing that I know is wrong.” He closed his eyes and wrapped his hands tightly around the arms of the chair, and Kit guessed that inside Holland’s wine-soaked brain, the room was spinning. “I do know it’s wrong.”
“Of course you do,” Kit said, rummaging through the jars and baskets he kept behind the counter for some solid food he could get into the man. Finally, he turned up a couple of stale biscuits. He spooned some sugar into the coffee cup and put it on a saucer, then placed a couple of biscuits beside it. “Here,” he said, handing saucer and cup to Holland. “Don’t drop it.”
“Never dropped a cup in my life,” Holland said. “Breeding.”
“One of the reasons I asked you to spar with Betty was that I wanted you to understand that in order to rob your father, you’re going to have to do things you don’t like.”
“I already know that. I knew that the first time I came to you. Did you think that soliciting criminals is something I enjoy? I mean, I did enjoy it, you’re very handsome, and there’s—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely at Kit. Kit crossed his arms over his bare chest, desperately wishing he had thought to put on a shirt before coming downstairs. “All very pleasant to look at, bravo, but the reason I had to come to you in the first place was appalling. I don’t want to steal from my father. I don’t want my father to be a villain. I didn’t ask for any of this. And one day when I have time to think, I’m going to be terribly angry about being forced to deal with all this.”
Kit didn’t ask what “all this” consisted of, just as he wasn’t ever going to ask what was in that book. Whatever Holland and his father were up to, Kit didn’t want to know the details. He needed to keep this entire affair at arm’s length in order to keep his promise to Betty and not get caught up in a job that could easily get personal.
“I’ve never seen your hair down,” Kit said, the words leaving his mouth before he could think better of it. “Either it’s pulled back in a queue or it’s hidden by your wig.”
“I threw my wig in the river. At least I think it was the river. I got lost on the way here. And of course you haven’t seen my hair loose. What am I, a barbarian?”
“You’re definitely not a barbarian,” Kit said, not bothering to suppress a smile.
“Don’t ask me to spar with Betty.”
“Drink some of that coffee. The other reason I wanted you to start with Betty is that I’m not sure I can spar with my leg as it is.”
“I could see it threw your balance off,” Holland said, surprising Kit. “In any event, I’d rather get hurt than hurt anyone else.” He primly wiped biscuit crumbs from his mouth with a handkerchief.
“Would you, now.”
“Part of it is strategy,” Holland said. “If a decent man hurts you, he feels in your debt. If a cruel man hurts you, he thinks he’s your superior, which makes him underestimate you.” He spoke as if reciting a lesson learned by heart.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“You wouldn’t have. You’re honest. Honesty is incompatible with strategy.” Again, his words had the cadence of a schoolroom lesson.
“Honest?” Kit laughed. “Did you forget who I am and what I did?”
“Certainly not. There’s nothing dishonest about taking things that don’t belong to you. You told me so yourself. It may be wrong, and it may be cruel, but it isn’t necessarily dishonest. Someone who sneaks into your house may be dishonest. But you took things in broad daylight while telling people precisely what you were about to do.”
Kit felt there was something fundamentally flawed about this analysis but couldn’t quite figure out what. “Are you sobering up or do you talk like that even when you’re drunk?”
“Oh, I talk like this all the time, can’t help it,” Holland said, gesturing expansively with his coffee cup but somehow not spilling a drop. His gaze dropped to Kit’s bare chest, as it had several times already, not with the exaggerated leer he had deployed on previous occasions, which seemed designed to embarrass Kit more than anything else, but with a sort of interest that seemed accidental and unstudied, and which embarrassed Kit all the more. “I do talk too much, as you’ve pointed out, Mr.Webb.”
“I never said you talk too much,” Kit said, taking another biscuit out of the jar and offering it to Holland. “Just that you do talk a lot.” He watched Holland chew the biscuit, a crumb clinging above his lip where he usually affixed his beauty patch. Kit had to force himself to look away. “Everybody calls me Kit.”
“Is that your way of telling me to do the same? Are we to use given names? How very cozy of us. Then you ought to call mePercy.” He yawned, covering his mouth in a gesture that managed to be graceful despite his drunkenness. “People are so tiresome about names. Mine keeps changing.” He yawned, delicately covering his mouth with his hand. “It’s boring.”
“You’re about to fall asleep. I don’t know how I’m going to get you home.”
