A Different Blue (15 page)

“Are these your mates?” Wilson said stiffly, hoisting his cello further up on his back.

I nodded once, briefly, too humiliated to look at him.

“Get in, Blue,” Mason yelled across Colby. Colby opened the door and beckoned to me. I remained on the sidewalk.

“Those boys are completely sloshed,” Wilson said wearily. “I don't recognize either of them. They aren't in any of my classes.”

“They've graduated. Mason is the same age as you are. Colby's a year younger.” Both had been out of high school for years. Sadly, neither of them had moved beyond the football field where they had both excelled.

“You need to let me drive, Mason. Okay?” I knew if I got aggressive, he would drive away, which was preferable to driving with him at this point, but they really shouldn't have been driving at all.

“Sure, baby. You can sit on my lap. I'll let you steer. I know you like driving a stick!” Mason yelled, all the time glaring at Wilson like he wanted to beat him up.

I started walking. They could crash and burn. Mason yelled for me to stop and spilled out of the truck, staggering after me. The truck stalled. Apparently, Mason hadn't taken it out of gear before he decided to chase me down.

Wilson was on Mason in a flash, and with one swift pop, Mason's head rolled onto his shoulders and he sank into a heap, Wilson struggling to support his weight.

“Holy shit!” Colby was half-way out of the truck, one leg in, one leg on the ground. “What did you do to him, Adam?”

“My bloody name is not Adam!” Wilson growled. “Now come help me get your stupid mate into the . . . blasted . . . pickup, or whatever you call it.” Wilson had apparently had enough. I had no idea what he had done to subdue Mason. But I was grateful.

I ran to his side, helping him half-drag, half-carry Mason to where Colby was frozen in an inebriated stupor. I put down the tailgate, and we managed to roll Mason into the bed of the truck. Unfortunately, even with Mason unconscious in the back, I had to sit squished between Colby and Wilson, who surprisingly knew how to drive a stick shift. Colby ran his arm along the back of my seat, resting his hand on my shoulder possessively. I elbowed him in the side and moved as close to Wilson as I possibly could, straddling the gear shift. Wilson's right arm pressed up against me and he grimaced every time he shifted gears, as if he hated touching me. Tough. I wasn't sitting by Colby.

We drove back to the school, and Colby sat in sulky silence while we got my truck running. Until he decided to be sick, that is, and puked all over the passenger side of Mason's truck. Wilson just gritted his teeth and climbed back into the cab, rolling his window down with angry jerks.

“I'll follow you to Mason's house,” he bit out, as if the whole mess was my fault. I led the way in my truck, keeping Wilson in my rear-view mirror. When we reached Mason's, we hoisted him out of the truck and in through the basement door of his parents' house. There was no way we were getting him up the stairs to his apartment above the garage. He weighed close to 200 pounds, and it was all dead weight. We slung him onto the couch, and his arms flopped theatrically.

“Is he going to be all right?” I watched for his chest to rise.

Wilson slapped Mason's cheeks briskly.

“Mason? Mason? Come on, chap. Your girl is worried that I've killed you.” Mason moaned and shoved at Wilson's hands.

“See? He's brilliant. No harm done.” Wilson marched out of the house. Colby slumped down into the recliner and closed his eyes. The fun was all over. I pulled the basement door shut behind me and ran after Wilson. He lifted his cello out of the back of Mason's truck.

“His keys are on the dash, but I've locked the doors. It will serve him right if he doesn't have another set. I'm hoping it will slow him down if he and his chum decide to rescue anyone else tonight, or, even better, come looking for you.” He glowered at me briefly and transferred his cello into my truck. He climbed in the passenger side, and I slid behind the wheel, angry because he was angry. I peeled out of Mason's driveway, my temper flaring with the squeal of my wheels.

“It's not my fault you locked YOUR keys in YOUR car. That had nothing to do with me.”

“Please, just take me home. I smell like beer and pizza vomit. #16 – Blue has horrible taste in mates.”

“Are all Brits this miserable around midnight, or is it just you? And what did you do back there anyway? You are a school teacher and you play the cello! You are the biggest nerd I know. You are not supposed to know Kung Fu.”

Wilson scowled at me, apparently not appreciating the nerd comment.

“I honestly don't know what I did. It was pure luck. I just popped him in the jaw. He went down.” We were both silent, contemplating the odds. “It felt bloody amazing.”

Startled by his admission, my head snapped around and my eyes found his. I don't know who started laughing first. Maybe it was me, maybe it was him, but within seconds we were wheezing and howling with laughter. I could barely drive, I was laughing so hard. And it felt bloody amazing.

I ended up taking Wilson to his house to retrieve his keys and then running him back to the school to get his car. He lived in a big old monstrosity that he was remodeling. Most of the newer homes in the Vegas area were stucco, and you would be hard pressed to find a handful of homes that were bricked. But in Boulder City there was less rhyme and reason, more old than new, and less community planning.

Some older structures still dominated Buchanan Street, where Wilson's house was located. Wilson's home had been listed with the historical society until lack of funds made it impossible to maintain. Wilson told me it was a heap when he had purchased it a year before. I informed him it still was, smiling to take the sting out of my words. But I could see the appeal.

It was an enormous red brick, done up in a style that seemed more suited to a college campus back East than a neighborhood in a small desert town. Wilson said everything in England was old, and not just seventy years old, like this house, but hundreds and hundreds of years old. He didn't want to live in a home where there wasn't any history, and his home had as much history as you were going to find in a Western town. I should have known.

As we walked up the front steps, I noticed he had placed a small plaque by the door, the kind with gold lettering that usually states the home's address. It said Pemberley. That was all.

“You named your house Pemberley?” The name was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

“It's a bit of a joke,” he sighed. “My sisters thought it would be funny. They had it made and Tiffa surprised me on my birthday. I keep telling myself I'll take it down, but . . .”  His voice faded away and I let it go. I would have to google Pemberley when I had a chance, just to let myself in on the joke.

A great deal of work had been done on the interior. The front doors opened up into a foyer dominated by a wide set of stairs that curved up to the second floor. It was beautiful, but I think it was the dark, heavy wood that won me over. The floors matched the enormous mahogany banister that swept gracefully up to the second level, where it became a thick railing that made a wide circle beneath the vaulted ceiling.

There were two apartments completely finished, one on the second floor and one on the main level. Another was still under construction, due to be finished shortly, according to Wilson. The ground floor apartment was occupied by an old lady whom Wilson seemed rather fond of. I didn't meet her. It was past midnight, after all. Wilson lived in the other. I was curious to see what his digs looked like but hung back, wondering if he would want me to stay out. He
was
my teacher, and almost everything that had happened that night could cost him his job, or at least get him in trouble, though he had been an innocent victim to circumstance.

He seemed relieved that I didn't come inside but left the door open. I could see that the dark wood floors extended into his apartment, which he called his “flat.” The walls were painted a pale green. Two framed prints of African women carrying bowls on their heads hung in the long hallway leading into the rest of the space. Nice. I didn't know what I'd expected. Maybe shelves and shelves of books and a high backed velvet chair where Wilson could smoke a pipe, wearing a red smoking jacket while reading big dusty books.

Wilson exchanged his cello for a second set of keys and a clean shirt and jeans. He hadn't been splattered by vomit, but he insisted he reeked of it. I had never seen him in anything but slacks and dress-shirts. The T-shirt was a snug soft blue, and his jeans were worn, though they looked expensive. He hadn't bought them at Hot Topic. Why is it that you can see money even when it comes wrapped in a T-shirt and jeans?

“Nice pants,” I commented as he approached me at the door.

“H-huh?” Wilson stammered. And then he smiled. “Oh, uh. Thanks. You mean my trousers.”

“Trousers?”

“Yes. Pants are underwear, see. I thought . . . um. Never mind.”

“Underwear? You call underwear pants?”

“Let's go, shall we?” He grimaced, ignoring the question and pulling the door closed behind him. He looked so different, and I tried not stare. He was . . . hot. Ugh! I rolled my eyes at myself and stomped back out to my truck, feeling suddenly morose. I spent the ride back to Wilson's car in quiet contemplation which Wilson did not intrude upon until we reached the school.

Before he climbed out, Wilson gazed at me seriously, grey eyes tired in the paltry dome light triggered by his open door. Then he extended his hand and clasped mine, giving it a brief shake.

“Here's to redemption. See you on Monday, Blue.” And he climbed out of my truck and loped to his Subaru. He unlocked it easily and gave a little wave.

“Here's to redemption,” I repeated to myself, hopeful that such a thing existed.

Chapter Eleven

Beverly's Cafe was located on Arizona Street in the center of Boulder City, a refurbished restaurant in the old part of town, established in the 1930's when Hoover Dam was being built. Boulder City was a master-planned, company town, completely built by the US government to house dam workers after the Great Depression. It still had most of the original structures, along with a neat hotel, not far from Bev's, that had been built in those early days. Boulder City was a strange mix of big city cast-offs and Old West traditions that make most people scratch their heads. It isn't very far from Las Vegas – but gambling is illegal. It holds the appeal of a small-town community that Vegas can't boast.

I had known Beverly, the owner of the cafe, since my days with Jimmy. She had a small gift shop in the cafe that was filled with southwestern art, paintings, pottery, cactuses, and various antiques. She had taken Jimmy's work on commission, and Jimmy had always seemed to like her. Jimmy had kept my existence pretty low-key, but Beverly had been kind to him and kind to me. He had trusted her, and it was one of the places where we let down our guard a little. I had eaten in the big red leather booths many times.

A few years back, when I was old enough to drive and get around on my own, I approached Beverley for a job. She was a woman on the heavy side of pleasantly plump, with red hair and a welcoming way. Her laugh was as big as her bosom, which was pretty impressive, and she was as popular with her customers as her milkshakes and double cheeseburgers with jalepenos were. She hadn't recognized me until I'd told her my name. Then her jaw had dropped and she had come out from behind the cash register and hugged me tightly. It had been the most genuine expression of concern anyone had shown me since . . . since, well . . . ever.

“What ever happened to you two, Blue? Jimmy left me with five carvings, and I sold them all, but he never came back. I had people wanting his work, asking for it. At first I was puzzled, wondering if I'd done something. But I had money for him. Surely he would have come back for his money. And then I got worried. It's been at least five years, hasn't it?”

“Six,” I corrected her.

Beverly hired me that very day, and I had worked for her ever since. She had never said anything about my appearance or my taste in men. If she thought my makeup was a little thick or my uniform a little tight, she also never said. I worked hard, and I was dependable, and she let me be. She even gave me the money from the sale of Jimmy's sculptures six years before.

“That's after I took twenty percent, plus six years worth of interest,” she had said matter-of-factly. “And if you've got any more of his carvings, I'll take 'em.”

It was five hundred dollars. I had used it to buy tools and secure the storage unit behind the apartment. And I had started carving in earnest. No more dabbling as I had done since Jimmy died. I attacked the art with a ferocity I didn't know I was capable of. Some of my carvings were hideous. Some weren't. And I got better. I parted with a couple of Jimmy's carvings, and finished the ones that he hadn't had the chance to complete. I then sold them all with his name – my name too, Echohawk - and when it was all said and done, I had made another $500. With that, and a year's worth of savings, I bought my little pick-up truck. It was very beat up, and it had 100,000 miles on it. But it ran and it gave me the wheels I needed to expand my wood gathering capabilities.