Walking Wounded Page 3

  “Luke. Get the hell up.”

  “Roger that.”

  Hal heads for the kitchen – is that an actual spring in his step? – and Luke manages to get upright and shuffle to the bathroom in the dark, feeling for the doorjambs as he enters. He can’t remember when he’s woken up his early. He’s been awake at four-thirty-three before, sure, but on the other end of it, because he’d never gone to bed. He’s a writer; he gets up no earlier than ten, pours coffee into himself and smokes cigarettes at regular intervals, until it’s time to swap to vodka shots.

  The lights blind him when he finds the switch. “Bleh,” he mutters down at his bare feet, squinting and fumbling to get to the shower.

  The hot water helps, but he still feels hungover and reeling: achy, detached, nauseas. He closes his eyes and tips his face up to the spray, lets it sting his eyelids, his lips, his cheeks.

  Not for the first time, he regrets taking this assignment. It’s a fast tug in his gut, like he might be sick, a pang that has something to do with the piece he’s expected to write, and a lot to do with Hal’s shower and the sandalwood soap.

  Wrapped in a towel, feet carefully dried on the mat, he treks back to the living room for his suitcase and clothes, shaving kit, hair paste. The apartment smells of strong coffee brewing, something fancier than the motor oil his maker spits out at home. Back in the bathroom, he shaves in record time, brushes his teeth, finds Hal’s hair dryer under the counter and uses it and two fingers of paste to get his hair as close to right as is ever possible. He dresses, and then gives himself a once-over in the mirror. Not the mindless checking for shaving nicks, but a real scrutiny, trying to imagine what the Maddoxes will think of him.

  It took him twenty of his twenty-nine years to get this tall, a measly five-eight on a good day, wearing shoes. He still hasn’t filled out all the way if he ever will. There is a certain thinness about him that certain girls, and plenty of boys find alluring. Lithe, some would call it, with shoulders that are wide enough and hips that are narrow, the bones sharp even under his jeans. His eyes are large, large enough to tell they’re a strange greenish blue, even behind the lenses of his black-framed glasses. Dark hair, really thick, and he styles it back away from his face. He’s never known what to think of the way his mouth is a little full, and a little red; he’s always wondered if it’s the thing that gives him away.

  Today he’s wearing a white Henley and skinny jeans that haven’t broken in enough to feel comfortable. He steps into his Vans without socks and thinks his usual package will have to do. He didn’t pack a suit because he doesn’t own one. And the jacket he hung up on Hal’s coatrack last night is a brown leather bomber number he got at a thrift store.

  Will they think he’s younger than he is? Older? A hipster? Disrespectful in his presentation? They’ll think he’s a joke, won’t they? They’ll think he’s a total disgrace and judge Hal the worse for it, because they’re friends, and because Hal recommended him.

  He curses at himself and shuts off the light. Whatever.

  Hal meets him in the living room with two travel mugs that smell like fresh lattes.

  “Here.” He hands one to Luke. “A dash of cinnamon, right?”

  Luke feels a smile tugging at his anxiety. “Yeah. Thanks for remembering.”

  “Of course.” And if Hal looks pleased, he hides it in his mug, and the moment passes.

  ~*~

  “What did you tell them about me?” Luke asks when they’re driving. The headlights slice through the predawn blackness with surgical precision. Fall leaves tumble off the sidewalk and into their path, rushing beneath the tires and disappearing.

  It’s the same as last night, Hal’s profile ghostly in the dash lights. Luke thinks his mouth twitches. “The truth”

  “Which is what, according to you?”

  Definitely a mouth twitch. A grin or a frown, who knows. “That you’re a talented writer who’d rather write novels and poems than magazine articles. And that you don’t bullshit, so they can trust you to be honest with them.”

  How well Hal knows him. Even after The Incident and the three years.

  “I’ve settled into the article thing,” Luke says. “It’s rewarding.”

  “Liar,” Hal says with a snort. “Don’t make me a liar about you not being a liar, alright?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” His coffee is perfect and he drinks it a little too quick, burning his tongue. “Tell me about Will.”

  “About him? Or about the assault?”

  “Both I guess.”

  Hal lets out a deep breath. “I’d rather you wait and talk to Will about it.”

  “Yeah, no. I don’t know shit about this story I’m supposed to be writing, except that you pulled me into it. So.” He sends a dark look across the center console that Hal probably can’t see. “Start talking.”

  Hal sighs. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Um…how about something that might give me a goddamn hint what I’m about to walk into?” he suggests.

  Hal’s face compresses in a way that makes Luke think he probably frightens the hell out of anyone wanting to threaten Senator Maddox. “Will doesn’t like anyone to make assumptions about him,” he says. “He would rather tell you what he’s like, straight to your face.”

  “Yeah, except, I’m trying to ask my best friend for a little help, here.”

  Hal’s head snaps around quick. “I’m not…” He presses his lips together, sighs, looks back at the road. “I’m not trying to make it harder for you.”

  Luke doesn’t admit how relieved he is to hear those words, instead of the ones he expected: I’m not your best friend.

  “Aw, how sweet of you.”

  “I’m serious, Luke,” Hal insists. “I’m not a writer, right?”

  “Right,” Luke says with a snort.

  Hal frowns at the road ahead of them. “You’re the writer,” he says, firmly, “and you told me once you didn’t like to walk into a story with any preconceived ideas. Outside opinions.” A pointed glance, there and gone again. “So I’m trying not to cloud your judgement.”

  Because ever since childhood, Hal could convince Luke to do anything, even the things he loathed.

  Luke swallows a sudden lump in his throat. “Oh. Well…I appreciate that.”

  Hal makes a disbelieving sound. “Just talk to him. He’ll like you.”

  Luke feels like an asshole, suddenly. “Is he even going to be awake now?”

  “Yeah. He always is.”

  And Hal would know, because he must know everything there is to know about this family by now.

  A strange pang. Jealousy? No. More like regret. Almost loss.

  ~*~

  The Maddox family lives in a handsome townhouse with a shiny black-painted door flanked by urns potted with yellow mums. A fall wreath hangs above the knocker and a bright red umbrella rests against the iron railing.

  Hal parks at the curb and when he kills the engine, the air inside the Jeep rings with too much silence. Dread. The kind that sits acidic on the back of the tongue, and Luke wonders if he might need to puke in one of those mum pots before they ring the bell.

  Hal claps him on the shoulder once, hard, it almost hurts, and says, “You’ll be fine. Just be you.”

  “Ha,” Luke says, because when has he ever been able to be anyone but him? More importantly, when was that ever enough for anyone?

  It takes an obscene amount of time to disengage his seatbelt and climb out of the Jeep. The sidewalk feels too far away and he almost stumbles. Almost. Hal comes around to his side and together they start up the stairs. Luke ghosts his fingers up the iron railing on his right. He starts to reach for Hal’s sleeve with his left, realizes he’s being entirely stupid and childish about all this, and shoves the hand in his pocket, making it to the top step with his pulse pounding in his throat.

  Hal gives him one last look, a quick smile meant to be reassuring. Then he presses the bell.

  It’s only a moment before footsteps can
be heard on the other side of the barrier, and the muffled voice of a woman. Luke imagines someone approaching, tossing a comment, a laugh over her shoulder. The little missus, must be, and his writer’s mind supplies a fuller picture: stiff cotton dress, pearls, heels, cashmere cardigan, hair in a godawful chignon, of all things. She’s plump and wearing a garish shade of makeup, and in his head is some sci-fi rendering of June Cleaver, for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He envisions false, saccharine smiles, cheek pinches, and layers of judgement too deep to be believed, too well-veiled to be deciphered. She will hate him, of course.

  But then the door opens, and his assumptions shatter.

  The woman standing on the welcome mat looks mid- to late forties, highlighted dark hair loose around her shoulders, face smooth save for laugh lines, a smatter of crow’s feet, and a little scar on her chin that her light layer of makeup doesn’t quite cover. Her eyes absolutely sparkle, dark brown and full of life. It’s a face that projects no falsity, no judgement, no emotion aside from true gladness.

  “Morning, Hal,” she greets, and she has a Southern drawl. Really Southern. Luke thinks of Savannah, Georgia’s antebellum porches and Spanish moss trailing in the salt-scented breeze. Her kind eyes flash over to Luke, and her smile widens a little, if that’s possible. “You must be Luke. Hi.” She shoves a hand toward him: no nail polish, no jewelry, save a rattling gold charm bracelet. She has freckles on her knuckles, like she spends time outdoors. “Sandy Maddox,” she introduces herself, as Luke takes her hand and finds her grip strong and dry. “I’m so glad I get to meet the famous writer best friend Hal won’t stop talking about.” She shoots a stage wink at Hal, releases Luke’s hand and turns away from them, waving over her shoulder. “Well, come on in, coffee’s on.”

  Luke notices she isn’t wearing the June Cleaver getup he’d imagined, but yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and black Nikes with hot pink soles. She is trim, fit, and either fresh from a workout or about to start one.

  “Luke, have you had breakfast?” she calls as she shrinks farther down the plank-floored hallway.

  “Um…no…ma’am,” he says, and joins Hal in hurrying after her.

  The hall leads into a kitchen that will be sunny later in the day, when the sun is actually up, two walls of white-framed windows offering a view of a walled back garden illuminated with landscape lights. The kitchen is split in half: one side for a large sturdy table ringed by chairs, a TV mounted up in the corner and angled toward it. A banquette borders the area, loaded with cushions and pillows, a perfect spot for someone who wanted to steal a moment reading in the window.

  The other half is the workspace: industrial-grade appliances softened by warm granite and cream cabinets. A bar at the end of the giant prep island sits beneath a row of pendant lights. The stools gleam faintly beneath their glow, matte black metal.

  The sort of massive hub-of-the-house kitchen that serves a dozen purposes and pumps blood through the rest of the home.

  Sandy Maddox stands at the six-burner stove set in the island and steam billows up from a loaded skillet.

  Luke smells bacon and his stomach full of coffee rumbles.

  “Have you had breakfast?” she repeats, shaking her head. “Listen to me. It’s five in the morning, no sane person has had breakfast.” She grins. “Come, sit. I’ve got dark roast, and there’s pancakes and oatmeal on the way. Sound okay?”

  “Sounds great,” Luke says, honestly. And though he feels like an intruder, and like it’s too forward somehow, he takes the stool across from her that she indicates with her fork, because he thinks if he doesn’t it will disappoint her.

  He sits and glances over at Hal, brows lifting in silent question.

  “Sandy’s nice enough to save me a plate for later,” Hal explains, and he looks as bashful and respectful as a schoolboy again. It’s adorable.

  “Well, I have to save one for that maniac,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with a butter knife, and in walks Senator Maddox.

  Luke knows the stats on the man: fifty-five, youngest of four children, Marine Corp vet, a social rebel, and staunch fiscal conservative. But stats are colorless and rote. Nothing vital or alive or persuasive in a stat.

  Whereas the man who strides into the kitchen radiates youth, and health, and his rugged face is tan, lined from sun, and laughter. His UnderArmor workout gear highlights a flat stomach, and trim hips. This is no pudgy, alcoholic political slug, but a living, breathing man, with a wife who cooks breakfast at five a.m. and a personal security guard who goes running with him.

  A simple truth, but one that slaps Luke across the face.

  He realizes then that he expected to hate Maddox on the spot, but he just can’t. Not even once the man opens his mouth.

  Huh.

  “Morning,” Maddox tells Hal, and slaps him companionably on the shoulder, the way Luke has felt unable to since landing.

  “Morning,” Hal returns.

  Maddox steps up behind his wife, kisses the top of her head, squeezes her waist in his large tan hands. Then he shoots a smile across the bar at Luke. “And you’re Luke, right?” He breaks away from Sandy to lean across and shake hands. He’s strong, and Luke feels the restraint in the grip, like Maddox is trying not to crush him. “Matt Maddox.” His grin flashes in a loose, easy way, like a man who smiles often. “Don’t even think of calling me Matthew.”

  “Yes, sir.” Luke smiles too. It feels stiff and hesitant, but it’s there, that smile.

  Maddox turns to Hal. “Lemme grab my shoes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take sweatshirts,” Sandy advises. “It’s cold out there.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” senator and security guard say as one.

  Sandy smirks and Luke reads it as my boys.

  How much he’s missed out on, these three years. A whole chapter of Hal’s life.

  Too soon, the front door is closing, and he’s alone with Sandy Maddox. He’s terrified.

  Sandy Maddox, though, doesn’t seem to like awkward silences. “That friend of yours.” Her Southern accent intensifies. Sweet tea, paddle fans, Sunday hams. “He’s something, isn’t he?” She shoots a glance across the bar as she flips pancakes.

  “Uh…” His pulse thumps and his tongue goes dry. Shit. Does she know? How could she know already? Is it in neon across his forehead? “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  She laughs and flips the pancake. “What’s that they say about being too close to someone to see how bright they shine?”

  “I’ve…never heard that.” God, he sounds like an idiot and a half.

  “Must just be something Mama always said.” The pancake comes out of the skillet and she’s already pouring another with her other hand. “Short stack or Hal-sized?”

  “Short’s fine. Do I dare ask how big the Hal-sized one is?”

  She hovers her hand off the counter by about a foot and Luke grins. It steals across his face before he can dwell on his nervousness any further.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “He eats more than Matt, and that’s saying something.”

  “Hmm.”

  The pancake is ready to flip; she does so with grace and fires a look at him. “So what about you, Luke? We’ve really gotten to know Hal, and he’s talked you up big time.” She smiles. “But what’s your story? I always like it straight from the source.”

  “Story? I’m not sure there is one, to be honest.” He shrugs. “Just…you know, me.”

  “I have a cousin who’s a writer. That’s exactly the kind of answer she’d give me.”

  He lifts his brows in silent question, not sure he wants to know the answer.

  “It’s always about stories with writers – just not their own. Somehow, writers are never the heroes of their own life stories, just shadows off to the side, recording everything.”

  The air leaves his lungs in a quiet rush.

  Sandy sets a plate in front of him, heaped with fluffy cakes. A fork. A bottle of real maple syr
up. “How am I doing so far?”

  He clears his throat and picks up his fork. “Dead-on, actually.”

  She nods. “So.” She gives him a small smile. “Same question. Hal says you’re a poet who wants to write novels.”

  Her eyes are bright, motherly, understanding, and he looks down at his plate. “That’s pretty much it, actually. Nerdy kid. Liked to read.”

  “How did you end up working at your magazine. Candid, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah…er, yes, ma’am.” He feels a blush rising in his cheeks. “Um, yes, that’s it. Candid.” Why does he sound like a fucking moron?! He shrugs again, stupidly. “I needed a job, and turns out, a BA isn’t exactly the kind of degree that gets you into high-paying office jobs. So I answered a listing for the mag and worked there through grad school.” Another shrug, because he can’t imagine sounding less impressive than he does now.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It pays me enough to have my own place.” No matter how shitty that apartment is. “And it’s writing. So. Yes. I do.”

  She tsks. “I’m sure you do.”

  He cuts into the pancakes and they hit his tongue like sugar-drenched clouds. Okay, that’s not the add-water-and-shake kind.

  “I read your short story,” she says. “The one about the childhood friends. ‘Again.’”

  Luke chokes on his pancakes. He forces the half-chewed bite down his throat and reaches for his coffee, slopping some over the rim, damn it. “How – how – how did you…” He gulps in air, and then coffee, wheezing. “F-find it?”

  She wipes up the spilled coffee with a placid expression that is somehow knowing. This woman is dangerous, he thinks. Lethal, maybe. “I looked you up of course, after Hal told us about you. I wanted to see your work, and I didn’t figure there were too many Lucas Kellers in Brooklyn who worked for pop culture mags and penned literary fiction in their spare time.”

  “You downloaded that issue of Spark?” he asks, knot forming in his gut. He pushes his plate away on impulse, as he recalls that story, every single dark secret pressed between its cramped lines of text. He wrote it only months after The Incident, and he was hurting, and sullen, and scrambling through the dark clutter of his angered thoughts for some scrap of meaning.