Truth & Tenderness (7 page)

“Mimi and the kids are so excited,” Terry said, leading him into the apartment with an arm slung around his shoulder. “We’re having pizza because Jamey insisted it was your favorite.”

A shriek alerted him to his presence being detected, and from around the corner came a black-haired little boy in nothing but a Superman T-shirt, matching underwear, and a cape.

“Uncle Jim!”

D
ESPITE
NOT
producing Uncle Griffin out of his duffel bag, Jim was still an exalted guest in the Oh home. Jamey, bright and chattering, took his rightful place on Jim’s lap. They shared a plate (emblazoned with a colorful dinosaur playing basketball) for their pizza, and Jamey had a Spiderman sippy cup he offered as well, but Jim demurred in favor of his beer. Little Kelly watched from her high chair, eyeing Jim with some suspicion as she ate tiny squares of pizza.

“So the movie’s almost done?” Terry asked, focusing on Jim and wiping Kelly’s greasy hands without skipping a beat.

“I haven’t heard a release date yet, but yeah. It’s in, uh, postproduction now.” Jim shifted Jamey on his lap, the little boy’s warmth and weight distracting him. This was how their life could be—children at a table set with plastic and hard-to-destroy silverware. Early because of bedtimes and stories and songs and baths and tantrums.

Then Jamey slid his gnawed at crusts onto Jim’s side of the plate and leaned back, relaxing into Jim’s body like Jim had transformed into a favorite old chair.

“There’ll be a Los Angeles premiere, right?” Mimi returned to the table with a few bottles of water, her face alight with excitement.

“Yes—and I’ve been threatened… I mean promised that you’ll all have passes.” Jim smiled, curving his arm a bit tighter around Jamey.

“Oh my gosh, so exciting.” Mimi clapped. “And now on to the more important date—when are you guys getting married?”

Jim poked around at the pile of bitten leftovers on his plate. Should he actually eat a slobbered-on crust just to avoid the question? “Soon. We just want this movie out and done with so we have time to concentrate.”

“Of course, makes sense,” Terry said. Then he looked at Jim and laughed.

“What?”

“I’m amazed he stayed awake this long. Wouldn’t take a nap when he found out you were coming,” said Mimi, starting to get up again. “I’ll just….”

“No, I got it. My godson, my eating partner. Still, uh, the same room, right?”

Mimi and Terry shared a look as Jim stood up carefully, one hand under Jamey’s butt until he could move him into a more comfortable position.

“Yeah. Second door past the bathroom.” Terry gestured just to make sure.

Jim nodded, then headed across the living room to the hallway. He could hear the whispered Korean behind him and knew he’d be walking out to some questions.

Little Kelly didn’t have her brother’s nap avoidance problems. At nine she was still awake, chirping and drooling in all her glory as she crawled around the living room floor.

Jim couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

Jamey he could handle—he talked, he said what he wanted, he could handle feeding himself and using the bathroom successfully at least 50 percent of the time. He could say he was happy or sad or angry or cold.

When Sadie was a baby—and watching Kelly now—Jim felt a fear growing in him. How could you protect them when they were that small? And if they got to the next stage, how easy was that? What terrible things could happen to Jamey, even with him being verbal? Problem was, Jim knew. Jim had talked to weeping parents and seen the tiniest body bags used for the smallest victims. He’d seen firsthand the evil that lurked in the world.

How could he possibly agree to bring children into his and Griffin’s life, knowing what he knew?

“How’s the new department?” Jim asked as Mimi took Kelly to get her ready for bed.

“Better. It isn’t always a fun day, but you have a chance to walk away with a still breathing person more often than not.” Terry had completed the classes and been moved to Crisis Intervention a year and a half after Jim retired from Homicide.

“Good.” Jim slid down a little farther on the couch, exhaustion creeping in. He was glad to be sleeping on the Ohs’ sofa tonight because the idea of driving and finding a hotel was just too much.

“You okay?”

Jim sighed. Behind Terry, who was reclining on the love seat, Jim could see the lights and night sky of Seattle. Sometimes he missed home—and then here he was, with his close friends, and all he could think about was the house in New York with Griffin. “Got a lot going on. Some… work with the security firm is a bit of a strain.”

Terry frowned, sitting up slowly. “Wow, were you always this bad a liar?”

“I don’t want to talk about it?” Jim tried.

Terry all but laughed in his face. “You have five minutes before Mimi gets back. Pick your poison—her or me?”

Jim talked quickly.

“J
IM
,
YOU
can’t,” Terry whispered.

“I know.”

“If anyone finds out….”

“I know.”

“You have to shut this down. You can’t be seen as trying to track Tracey Ingersoll.”

“She might be in danger.”

“Don’t pretend that’s the reason you’re trying to find her.”

T
ERRY
DIDN
’
T
say anything after their clandestine chat. Jim lay awake on the sofa, staring at the white ceiling and the shadows playing across it from the lights outside. On his phone waited ten messages and pictures from Griffin, who’d decided to paint the den while Jim was away. He looked at the shot of Griffin, smiling and mussed with green paint on his nose, mugging for the camera, for an hour before his phone battery started to die.

G
RIFFIN
STOOD
in the dining room, taking deep, calming breaths. Everything looked and smelled perfect: table set with fine linens and cut crystal, candles, and pale roses, china that rarely saw the light of day from his dad’s house. Jim was coming home from his trip, and they were going to celebrate.

They were going to talk.

His heart raced a little as he walked into the kitchen. Georgia, bless her heart, had outdone her culinary self with a three-course meal of Jim’s favorite foods from their Hawaii stay. Two courses of pork and a chocolate cake—basically, Jim Nirvana. There was no doubt what this was—a bribe, a peace offering, a moment to butter Jim up before they laid it on the line.

Griffin had one question to ask, and it was the one that everyone told him was crazy. The one question Daisy and Evan and his father heard and patted his hand, shaking their heads with smiles on their lips.

“He loves you so much. He doesn’t regret getting engaged.”

They had logical reasons, all of them. Soothed his fears and petted away his anxiety—until he left lunch or their house or the coffee shop on Main Street and it all came rushing back.

In a perfect world, Griffin got Jim and a wedding ring and two kids and happily ever after. That was the dream. But in the end, the truth was, he’d take Jim and call it a day. A good day.

A perfect day.

J
IM
KEPT
his voice low as he talked on the phone. The driver from the car service seemed wholly uninterested in the conversation, but Jim’s healthy sense of paranoia had skated over to something a little more serious.

“Thank you for calling me,” he murmured.

Tracey Baldwin Ingersoll sniffled on the other end of the line. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“I want to help you,” Jim cajoled. “Just talk—see if there’s something I can do so you’re not so scared.”

She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Jim’s heartbeat ratcheted up.

“You’re trying to put him in jail. Still,” she said finally.

Jim counted in his head, kept his breathing steady. “Yes. I am,” he said, taking a chance with honesty. “But that’s secondary to you feeling safe and able to live your life.”

Another pause, another pregnant moment of tension that burned Jim’s throat and chest. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll meet you.”

He didn’t pump his fist or react other than closing his eyes. Oh God. So close. “You pick the place and time. Anything you want.”

“I’ll call you back in a few days,” she said softly. “I just need to figure out a safe place.”

“Of course. Call me anytime,” Jim said soothingly. “Anytime.”

She ended the call without saying another word.

Jim stared out the window as the New York state countryside whooshed by, and tried to breathe through the rapid beat of his heart.

D
ODGING
OUT
of the shower, Griffin rummaged through his dresser until he found an older white button-down—relegated to “knock around” status due to its less than crisp look but soft to the touch and with the laid-back sexy he was going for. A pair of khakis completed the outfit, and barefoot, Griffin hurried downstairs.

The car service said five, and it was quarter ’til.

He ran back to the kitchen, double-checked the food warming in the oven. Beer, chilled glasses, enough ice if they decided to do after-dinner drinks. Whipped cream for sexual purposes because Jim hated it on cake.

Loved it on Griffin.

“Maybe I should put a tarp down in the living room,” he muttered, walking quickly back to the dining room.

Then the living room. Fire in the fireplace, extra blankets laid on the ottoman, lube and condoms very much out in the open on the coffee table.

This was no subtle seduction.

S
TARING
WITHOUT
really looking, it took Jim a few minutes to realize they were nearly to the house. He shook his head slowly, sifting the Tripp thoughts back into the locked box and bringing the love of his life to the forefront. Home, Griffin, real life, business with Matt, weekends up at the Drake house in Albany or movies or retiling the guest bathroom. This was life he loved, the one he was protecting.

Jim slipped the phone out of his pocket and sent off a quick text to Matt.

Back. Don’t bother me until Monday.

A few minutes went by, but his phone buzzed.

You old dog. Don’t throw your back out.

And then a winky face a few seconds later.

The driver pulled the car up to the mailbox just past the front walkway. Jim saw Griffin through the giant picture window, watched him pace back and forth for a second before realizing the car was there.

Griffin waved, then darted out of sight.

Jim had the car door open before Griffin could do the same to the house.

“Hi!” Griffin called from the open doorway, framed like an ad for something wholesome and sexy and inviting. It would say,
How could you not stay here forever and love this person, because he’s one of a kind.

The driver opened the trunk and Jim forgot he was the kind of guy who carried his own bag because all he could focus on was getting to the front door.

“Best thing I’ve seen in a while,” he said with a grin.

Griffin rolled his eyes, but Jim could see how much the compliment pleased him. “You better not be talking about the shrubs,” he teased.

Jim walked the last three feet and met him on the top steps, unable to stop smiling. “I can literally only see one thing right now,” he whispered, caught in Griffin’s gaze. “And that’s you.”

“Oh God, that’s so cheesy,” Griffin laughed, but he wound his arms around Jim’s neck, and the solidness of him—the sheer pleasure of feeling like he was home in that second—made Jim shiver.

“Hi,” he whispered, brushing his mouth against the skin he could reach at Griffin’s open collar.

“Hi.” Griffin made a little sound of pleasure but shifted away just enough to avoid Jim’s mouth. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder.

That was when Jim remembered the driver.

“Tip him a lot of money so he leaves faster,” Griffin whispered in his ear. Jim smirked as they untangled, and then he turned around.

“Thanks,” Jim said, friendly, like the bored-looking man hadn’t just watched a cheesy commercial happen on the porch. He handed him a twenty, which didn’t evoke a reaction either.

Jim grabbed his duffel, then watched as the guy pivoted away to trudge back to the car.

“He seems nice,” Griffin said and then pulled Jim into the house.

T
HE
DOOR
slammed behind them and Griffin didn’t say another word—he just grabbed Jim by the shirtfront and pulled their bodies close, slotting them together with the muscle memory of two people who’d loved only each other so long it was DNA-deep habit.

“I have dinner ready, I have new sheets on the bed, and there are condoms on the coffee table—you tell me what you want first, baby,” he murmured, locked in to Jim’s everything.