Fan the Flames (15 page)

Rory tried to imagine raising four children by herself and shuddered. Poor kids would be doomed. “How does he do it?”

“No clue.” Ian shook his head. “I couldn't even keep a goldfish alive.”

“I do okay with the chickens and Jack,” she said. “Kids, though…”

There must've been a trace of horror in her tone, because he eyed her with the beginning of a smirk. “You don't like them?”

“Kids are fine.” Even to her own ears, Rory heard the insincerity in her voice. “They're just…”

“What?” Ian sounded like he was about to laugh.

“I don't know. Sticky.”

“They're sticky.”

“Yeah. And there's usually some kind of bodily fluid seeping out of them.”

“That's disgusting. What kind of kids have you been hanging around?”

“I haven't really been hanging around any of them. I've just noticed the snot and drool and other stuff from a distance.” A large distance, if she noticed them first.

Ian was full-out grinning now. “Rory, are you scared of tiny, innocent children?”

“No.” As soon as it was out of her mouth, she knew she'd spoken too quickly to be believed. “Of course not. Who'd be afraid of kids and their stickiness and multitude of germs and their Children-of-the-Corn stares? Not me.” Her scoffing noise was weak, very weak.

“Uh-huh.” He had a look of satisfaction on his face. “Now I know
two
things that scare the fearless Rory.”

“I'm not fearless.” She spent most of her time being fear
ful
. “And what's the second thing?”

“Windows.”

“Ugh. I do hate your windows. Why do you have to have so many? And so big? And so see-through?”

Ian stared at her. “I'm not sure how to answer that.”

Very ready to end the entire conversation, Rory suggested, “Should we go see Julius?”

* * *

As the Bronco approached Liverton, Rory thought of the Riders, and her stomach tightened.

“Will anyone else be there? Besides Julius, I mean.” Although she tried to keep her voice casual, Ian's sharp glance told her that she hadn't been completely successful.

“Could be.” After a pause, the telltale muscle in his cheek twitched, and he looked at her again. “You worried about seeing Billy?”

“No.” She made a face when the word came out rushed. “Not really. A little, maybe. Judging from his recent threat, he's not too happy with us.” That was an understatement. She wished they'd brought Jack along, rather than leaving him at Ian's. “After all, I did kill Rave and get his son arrested.”

With a shake of his head, Ian pulled the Bronco up in front of a barn-red, single-story house. “You didn't get him arrested. The dumbass managed to do that all by himself.”

Rory was relieved that, other than Ian's SUV, the immediate vicinity was empty of vehicles. Unless someone had walked over to see him, Julius was alone. “I don't think Billy sees it that way.”

“Fu—forget Billy.” He set the parking brake with restrained violence. “If he wants to blame you for what Rave and Zup did, then he'll have to deal with me.”

Her hand stilled on the door handle as she turned to look at his grim profile. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” The muscle in his cheek was flexing like crazy, telling her that it was definitely not nothing. When she didn't say anything, he looked at her, and his face relaxed a fraction. “I need to talk to Billy about it.”

It wasn't really an answer, but she knew it was all she was going to get right then. Opening the door, she stepped out of the Bronco, landing ankle-deep in snow. Looking at the driveway, she saw that it had been overtaken by drifts that climbed halfway up the closed garage door. The walkway and porch were covered, too.

“If Julius has a shovel or a blower, I can clear this for him,” she offered.

“No need.” Ian got out of the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him. “Julius isn't going anywhere.”

“Why not?” she asked, high stepping through the mounds of snow that rippled in crusty waves, hiding where the yard began and the pavement ended.

“Because,” he said testily, taking her arm to help her through the snow, “I have his car keys.”

She glanced at his hand, a little startled. No one had ever helped her like this before. It was odd, although not unpleasant. In fact, it was kind of nice.

“I'm not giving them back until he drags his ass out of the bottle.” Ian must've taken her silence as criticism, since he sounded defensive and his fingers tightened around her arm.

“Good idea.”

“He doesn't—” Her words must've registered. He cut off whatever he'd started to say. When he spoke again, his tone was calmer, less tense. “Thanks.”

“Those couple of times he was at my shop,” she said, sliding her boot across each porch step to kick some of the snow out of the way, “he drove himself.”

“Sh—uh, shoot.” The muscle in his cheek was ticking again. “Was he in a blue Ford pickup?”

“No. Silver Oldsmobile sedan.”

His hand on the doorknob, he paused to look at her. “Good memory.”

“Thanks. I watched him leave the second time he was at the shop.”

“Still, not many people would've remembered what he was driving.”

She shrugged. “That was part of my training—noticing my surroundings and remembering details.”

“Training?”

“Can we go inside?” she asked, not wanting to discuss it. In fact, she was kicking herself for letting that slip. “I'm freezing.”

“It's not that cold. What training?”

“It
is
that cold.” Rory knew her expression was bordering on belligerent, but she didn't care. The guy was like a dog with a bone when it came to discussing topics she really didn't want to discuss.

“Fine.” He shoved open the door and stepped back to let her go inside first. “But we're talking about this later.”

“No. We're not.” Despite the lack of vehicles outside Julius's house, Rory stepped forward cautiously, relieved by the empty entry.

“Hey, Julius,” Ian called as he followed behind her. “It's me. Rory came along too.”

There was no response, and Ian frowned. After toeing off his boots, he quickly moved down the short hallway and passed through an arched opening. Rory removed her boots and followed. The entryway opened to a living room, where Julius was slouched in a worn recliner.

Even in just the few short weeks since she'd seen him, Julius appeared to have aged. Gray stubble covered his sunken cheeks, and the hair surrounding his good-sized bald spot looked greasy. He was a big guy, but he didn't look it at the moment. In fact, his robe-clad body looked almost shrunken. Although he was facing the television, it wasn't turned on. The worst was his expression, distant and dull.

“Julius,” Ian said, approaching the older man. Except for the slightest glance at his stepson, Julius didn't react.

“Hey, Julius,” Rory said, but he didn't respond at all to her greeting.

“When was the last time you showered?” Ian stopped next to the recliner.

“Fuck off,” Julius grunted.

Ignoring the slurred words, Ian leaned down to gently grasp Julius's arm. “Come on, old man,” he said, the words filled with affection. “You need to get cleaned up before the flies start to circle.”

Julius struggled slightly, but his body soon sagged as he relented, and he allowed Ian to help him to his feet. As he stood, something hit the wooden floor with a thud. All three of them looked down at Julius's feet, where a bottle of vodka had fallen. It was almost empty, the dregs spreading along the side of the bottle rather than spilling onto the floor.

“Julius.” Ian tilted back his head and closed his eyes. He looked suddenly and completely exhausted. “Who's bringing you this shit?”

“None of your fucking business,” Julius snarled. “I'm an adult. I can have a drink if I want one.”

“You—” Biting off with visible effort whatever he was going to say, Ian pressed his lips together, his cheek muscles practically vibrating with tension. After a long moment, he blew out a breath. “Shower. You need to shower.”

All the pugnaciousness slipped out of the older man, and he wilted in Ian's grip. Julius allowed Ian to escort him out of the room. Once she was alone, Rory let her own breath escape. Needing to do something, she picked up the bottle and went searching for the kitchen.

It was easy enough to find, just a room over from the living area. She dumped the small amount of remaining liquor down the sink and rinsed the bottle. The kitchen garbage was overflowing, so she lifted out the bag and tied the top, hearing glass bottles clanking against each other. Obviously, Julius was not much of a recycler.

A door on the other side of the kitchen led to the garage, she discovered. In there, she saw the blue pickup currently on lockdown, as well as a large plastic trash bin. As she turned around after depositing the trash into the container, a glinting reflection on one of the plywood shelves caught her attention.

Behind the paint cans, she found three full bottles—vodka and two different kinds of whiskey. Rory bit the inside of her cheek. It seemed wrong to take them, like she didn't have the right to interfere. Then the look on Ian's face when the empty bottle had dropped to the floor flashed through her mind. With renewed purpose, she pulled the bottles off the shelf.

When she reentered the kitchen, Ian was there, opening cupboards and shoving aside the contents.

“I found three bottles in the garage,” she said. “Not that he couldn't have more.” When Ian took a step toward the door, she stopped him. “Already got rid of it.”

“Where?”

“Trash can. Under the garbage bags.”

He stood for a moment, staring at her. His arms were limp at his sides, and he looked…lost. It was so un-Ian-like that she couldn't stop herself from crossing the few feet that separated them. Tentatively, she circled her arms around his middle and gave a squeeze. It felt extremely awkward at first, with her stiff and him unresponsive, and Rory regretted the impulse.

Before she could pull away from him to stammer apologies, his arm locked around her, yanking her into his chest. He held her for a long time, pressing his forehead against her hair so it felt as if he surrounded her completely. Like his hand on her arm earlier, it was odd, but not unpleasant. She relaxed into his warmth, and his grip tightened.

Definitely not unpleasant.

He shuddered as he exhaled, his breath hot against the top of her head. “Jesus, Ror. What am I going to do with him?”

“Rehab? There's a place in Connor Springs.”

“He won't go. If I drive him there, he'll just leave.”

“Not to be all clichéd, but you can't force him to quit.” She squeezed him, as if to temper the harshness of her words. “He has to do it himself. And he has to
want
to do it.”

“I know.” The despair in his voice developed an edge of anger. “I
know
that. It doesn't stop me from wanting to punch him in the face until he sees what he's doing to himself.”

A bubble of laughter rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back, since there was a good chance it would emerge as a sob instead. “I get that.”

“Yeah?” He pulled back far enough to make eye contact. Rory wished he hadn't. It was easier to talk about private things when she didn't have to look at him.

“Yeah. I want to punch people in the face all the time.” When he didn't smile at that—looking disappointed instead—she swallowed and dredged up her courage. “My parents were crazy.”

The disappointment was immediately gone from his expression, replaced by a sharp look of interest and empathy.

“They weren't that bad at first, at least from what I remember as a kid. They wanted to be self-sufficient, to be ready in case of a disaster. I get that.” She gave him a wry look. “You've seen my supply room.”

“The underground Costco? Yeah.” His smile was crooked, but real, and she relaxed a little. It was easier to share her messed-up childhood stories if they were actually making him feel better. That way, she didn't feel so much like she was vomiting her issues all over him.

“My mom would even make an occasional grocery store visit for peaches—I told you about that.”

The other side of his smile lifted to match the first. “I saw you there, remember? When you first developed your obsession with processed sugar.”

Her laugh surprised her. She couldn't believe she could expose the raw mess of her insides and still be able to find humor in it. “Right. So, anyway, they became more and more…militant about everything. Paranoid, too. Everyone was an enemy. Instead of just preparing for a possible what-if situation, they started seeing catastrophes around every corner. They began running drills all the time.”

“Training?” His arms had relaxed, but he still held her loosely, his hands resting warmly on her lower back. The heat was comforting.

“Training. As in, yanked out of bed at two in the morning to practice running from zombies.”

“Zombies?” His eyebrows shot up. “You had zombie drills?”

She scowled at him without any real anger. “Didn't I mention that my parents were crazy?”

“Well, there's crazy, and then there's zombie crazy.”

Her glare dissolved when she couldn't hold back an amused snort. “Quit making me laugh when I'm telling you all the traumas of my childhood.”

“Did you ever think about leaving?”

“Sure.” One hand had oh-so-casually dropped to her waistband, and the tips of his fingers slipped under the bottom hem of her shirt. The brush of skin against skin raised her voice to a high pitch. Clearing her throat, she tried to ignore the contact, even though it was all she could focus on. For her, being touched was a rare occurrence. Ian's fingers warmed her back in a way she could easily start to crave. “Um, all the time. It would've scared them so badly, though, me being out in the evil, dangerous world. I couldn't do it to them. Everything—the bunker, the drills, the isolation—was to protect me.”