Loose Cannon Page 9

  “Your hair looks nice today,” he said, nearly pushing her into a smile.

  “If you’re smart, you won’t antagonize me.”

  He winced, which she correctly interpreted as I’m screwed, and she laughed.

  “I’m a resource, Church.” This was the version of Chelsey he actually did like. The Chelsey that knew he was imperfect and cared enough to help anyway. “I want you to stay out, and that means you have to let me help you. Do not try to go it alone and end up shooting yourself in the foot in the process. Yes?”

  “Yes. I’m sleeping on the couch because he would’ve had to clear out a room and I’m trying not to be a burden. All right?”

  “All right. Last thing. Anybody from your old life or any of your programs coming around? You can’t hang out with anyone on parole. We want prosocial influences here.”

  “Tobias Benton.”

  She typed Tobias’s name into her computer, waited a moment, then waved a hand. “He’s fine. Anyone else?”

  He considered lying, then decided that it’d be worse if she found out later. “Ghost.”

  She immediately shook her head.

  “I see you know him.” Church’s heart sank. “He’s not on parole right now. He met his conditions.”

  “He’s not my client, but he’s spent half of his adolescence in this office. I know what he did to that boy in Woodbury, and I know that he’s had weapons on him twice when he was arrested for—”

  “That thing with the guy, that was self-defense,” Church interrupted. “The guy was there because he, uh, he liked to touch people, you know? He was a predator.”

  “Ghost had a knife—”

  “That’s not true,” Church said. Only because Ghost hadn’t been able to get to a blade, Church knew, but still. “He wasn’t charged for that.”

  “He’s got a record—”

  “Who doesn’t? It’s a juvenile record anyway, and he got it sealed—”

  “He’s a serious threat to your continued freedom—”

  “He keeps me on the straight and narrow,” Church interrupted again. So much for not arguing with her. “He helps me figure out what to do each week.”

  “And you trust his judgment, do you?”

  “Ever since I met him in Woodbury,” Church replied. “Look, he knows how to live right, you know that, or he wouldn’t keep being released. He’s the one who showed me how to work the program at Woodbury. You remember I started to do better? That was all him.”

  “That was you, actually—”

  “He keeps me calm. He reminds me how to say stuff when I’m mad so I don’t end up hitting. He doesn’t hit, Chelsey, you know that.”

  “He doesn’t have to hit.” She gave him an exasperated look. “He carries knives, Church.”

  “For self-defense!” he said loudly.

  “It doesn’t matter that he knows what he should be doing if he chooses not to do it. He doesn’t care about his future.”

  “He cares about mine, though!” Aware that he was on the verge of losing his temper, he forced himself to take deep breaths. He reminded himself that yelling made it worse, because no matter how much sense he made, he’d come across irrational—something Ghost had pointed out, ironically.

  She sat back in her chair, giving him time to calm down. Finally, she said, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I don’t have many friends,” Church said more quietly. “Just him and Tobias and—and Miller. They keep me sane, Chelsey. I swear, he is not going to drag me down with him if he falls apart.”

  Her mouth formed funny shapes while she considered. “If you’re in his presence when he gets arrested, I’m going to put my executioner hat on.”

  “Agreed.” All the tension in his spine evaporated and he sagged back into his chair.

  “Fine.” Her voice was hard. He’d used up all of her patience. “Here’s what you do. Hang on to that job. Hang on to that couch. Pay your fees. Watch yourself with Ghost—I mean it. We will meet every single week, and if you miss an appointment with me without calling, I will be the worst thing that ever happened to you. You break any one of these commandments willfully, Church, and this time you will go to prison. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not get your record sealed and do not ever fill out a job application again without checking the box marked felon. Do you understand?”

  His stomach hurt. He nodded anyway.

  “Good. Here’s the address of the lab. Go pee in a cup.”

  * * *

  After the meeting and his drug test, he headed to the bakery.

  Eventually Church would be responsible for opening Moe’s in the mornings, which meant being there at six thirty (ugh), and getting up at five thirty to catch the bus (more ugh), but since he was in training, he’d been coming in at nine thirty, after the breakfast rush ended and Matvey had more time. It was closer to ten when he got there because of his meeting with Chelsey, but Matvey hadn’t batted an eye when Church cleared it with him.

  “I’ve had family on parole, man, I know how it goes,” Matvey had said.

  Training started with the logistics. Church had to get a food handler’s card to prove that he knew not to serve food after dropping it on the floor, so Matvey sat him down at an ancient computer in the back to watch online videos about hand-washing.

  Later, Matvey gave him a paper copy of the menu to memorize at home and showed him how to work the coffee machine. Over the next hour, Church made a dozen lattes and mochas—probably not very well, but most of the customers were gray, tired people who didn’t seem to have the energy to complain, so he got away with it.

  After coffee came bread, which would be a major part of his job. While most of the morning baking—bagels and specialty breads like banana nut and cinnamon spice—was done before the shop opened by a lady named Sam, in the afternoons and evenings they mostly served sandwiches. If they started to run low, Church would have to bake more bread for the dinner crowd. Matvey walked him through the process, showing him where they stored the refrigerated dough and explaining how to use the big ovens in the back. He emphasized that Church should use the timers on each rack so customers couldn’t distract him into letting a batch rise or bake for too long.

  By the time his lunch break rolled around, he was already exhausted. He was sitting in one of the booths and drinking iced tea when the front door opened, the bell jingling. The second the customer walked in, Church thought thug. He knew the difference between a guy who thought he was tough and a guy who would break your face without blinking, and this dude was definitely the latter. He moved like someone who had a lot of experience with throwing down, someone who’d won far more than he’d lost.

  He was in his midthirties, with dark hair and a wide face. His eyes were quick-moving, taking in everything around him. His nose had been broken, probably more than once, his lips were deeply creased like earthworms, and as Matvey came out of the back, those lips stretched into a grin.

  Matvey tore around the counter and launched himself at the older guy. They hugged and clapped each other on the back.

  “You didn’t tell us you were getting out.” Matvey sniffled, hitting the big guy on the arm before tugging him in for another round of hugs and painful-sounding slaps.

  “Told Mama,” the new guy said. “But we weren’t sure I’d get parole, so we didn’t want to tell the rest of you. Get your hopes up, you know?”

  Matvey pulled back, his face red and his eyes wet. “God, I missed you.”

  “Don’t cry like a little bitch, now,” the older guy said. It sounded affectionate, but Matvey still turned away to wipe his eyes.

  When his cheeks were dry, he nodded to the place at large. “So what do you think? Nice place, huh?”

  The guy looked around, nodding. “It’s good, Motya. It’s go
od.”

  “Wanted something of my own.” Matvey’s gaze ran proudly around the room. “Wanted something I didn’t have to lie about, you know. Legal. Mama said I can.”

  The older guy didn’t respond to that. He stared at the booths and counters like he’d never seen a sandwich shop before. When he saw Church, he stared like he’d never seen a guy in an apron drinking iced tea before either.

  Matvey noticed where the guy’s attention had landed and grinned. “Hey, look, Church! My big brother Vasily’s home! Yeah? Say hi!”

  Church got to his feet as the guy—Vasily Krayev, apparently—shook his head. “You should know to watch your mouth by now, Motya.”

  Matvey flushed. Church cast his mind back, wondering what Matvey could’ve said to prompt that kind of reaction and got...oh. The thing was, Church wouldn’t have paid any mind to Matvey’s confession about not wanting illegal work if Vasily hadn’t responded the way he had. But the size of Matvey’s statement seemed to get bigger the longer Vasily stared at him until Church couldn’t help but wonder what it was Vasily was so concerned about hiding.

  “He’s a neighborhood guy,” Matvey told his brother, the wary words running together. “A quiet guy, aren’t you, Church? Doesn’t talk about things.”

  “Nothing to talk about.” Church wasn’t sure if he should offer to shake hands or not, but he dipped his chin in a polite nod all the same. Offending his boss’s brother seemed like a stupid idea.

  “He’s no problem,” Matvey said. “He works here, wants good things for the shop. He’s no problem.”

  “No problem at all,” Church confirmed.

  Vasily stared at him until his skin started to crawl.

  “Was Mama at your parole hearing?” Matvey asked, tugging on Vasily’s sleeve until the older man’s attention finally shifted back to his brother.

  Vasily nodded and replied, but Church wasn’t listening anymore. He sat down, taking another sip of his drink, trying to ignore the leaden weight growing in his gut.

  What was it Ghost had said? The real trouble was serving time for assaulting a cop?

  Church stared at the tabletop, letting Matvey’s chatter wash over him.

  He was pretty sure that Real Trouble was right here in front of him.

  Chapter Seven

  Miller returned home from the store around six, and for the first time, he didn’t feel a sense of relief walking through the door. As long as he’d lived here, this had been his sanctuary, the one place where he didn’t have to monitor everything he said and did. He always felt relieved to be home.

  But today, the tension lingered.

  Resigned, he put his keys on the counter. He was taking his boots off when Church came in from the bathroom, clearly fresh from a shower. He wore jeans that rode low on his hips, revealing a leanly muscled bare chest beaded with water. Church opened his mouth, maybe on the verge of saying hello, and then froze at whatever he saw in Miller’s face. Miller had no idea what that could be. He only knew that he eventually managed to focus on the carpet. His voice was strained when he said, “Well, this is awkward. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer having a bedroom?”

  Church’s whole body flinched in his peripheral vision, and he started digging through his trash bag of belongings with short jerks of his hands. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

  Miller stuffed his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t fidget and wished he were anywhere else. He didn’t know what to say. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine.” Church stood up, a T-shirt in one hand, and made a frustrated noise deep in his throat. “Actually, it’s not fine. You say you’re okay with me being here, but then you say shit like that. What am I supposed to do with that, Miller?”

  “I don’t know why you’re mad. I offered you a bedroom so you wouldn’t have to worry about me seeing you all—like this.”

  “It’s not like my cock’s hanging out,” Church snapped, and Miller’s face grew hot. “I used to run around in less than this when I was here as a kid, and it sure as shit never bothered you before, but what, now you’re worried I’m gonna—”

  Church had run around in less than this as a teenager, Miller remembered suddenly, tuning Church out as his stomach rolled over. The kid would show up reeking, and Miller would shove him into the shower and start a load of Church’s clothes in the washer because they were filthy after days on the streets doing whatever he’d done back then. When Church had gotten out of the shower, he’d loll around in a towel for a few hours at a time until the dryer was done. But he’d been a kid, and they were guys, and it wasn’t like they didn’t each know what the other one had. They’d done the locker-room thing and never looked or mentioned it, and it hadn’t been a big deal.

  Actually, Miller hadn’t noticed. It hadn’t registered that there was someone in his house wearing only a towel. But now, years later, the sight of an adult Church bare-chested had made something inside him...short out, and he’d said something hurtful.

  “You’re right,” Miller said, interrupting whatever Church had been going on about, and he sounded half-choked. No wonder Church had taken it that way. Miller had sort of meant it that way, and he hadn’t even realized. God, he was an asshole. “It didn’t used to bother me, but now that I know you’re...”

  “For fuck’s sake. It’s not because I’m gay.” Church tugged the T-shirt over his head, yanking on the fabric like he’d prefer to tear it up. “You’ve known that for ages. I find it hard to believe you could’ve forgotten, seeing as you bought me a fucking cake when I came out to you, you dipshit. You never cared that I was gay until that night when I—”

  “We don’t have to talk about that,” Miller said quickly. “Really, it’s fine.”

  “Shut up!” Church yelled. “And just talk to me!”

  They both frowned as they considered what he’d said. Church let out a wordless sound of frustration and started pacing, kicking at the couch once before he stopped, put his hands on his hips and tried to breathe. After a moment, he said, “Look, they taught me in Woodbury that I have to say shit before I get mad, and they were right, because I—I hit when I get mad, Miller, so I can’t get mad. But I haven’t been saying shit and now I am mad, and that’s not okay. I have to talk, and that means if I’m gonna stay here, you have to let me. You have to let me say shit to you!”

  He was yelling again by the end of his speech, but he didn’t need the emphasis. Miller understood. He understood so well that a hot wave of shame rose within him. He couldn’t believe how selfish he’d been.

  At times like these, Miller felt as fragile as a house of sticks with a windstorm on the horizon. He’d spent decades trying to be sturdier, always keeping in mind the lessons from his father and uncles and cousins, remembering their easy roughhousing, the amusement they garnered at the verbal sparring that almost always devolved into insults, the way they never seemed to feel the tension in the air after someone said something unkind. But it had never felt like games to him. It felt like war.

  He knew that a man was defined by how he acted and that there was a certain appearance of strength that he needed to maintain, but he never knew if he was getting it right. More often he was like an actor onstage performing lines written by someone else, or a magician running a complicated illusion. Sometimes he felt like an outright liar.

  It was easier to never say anything at all.

  It hadn’t occurred to him that Church would need to.

  “I’m sorry,” Miller said. He aimed for reasonable and mature, but it came out stiff and strained. “Say whatever you want. I’m listening.”

  Church huffed a bitter laugh, and when he spoke, he sounded calmer. Still unhappy, but less like he wanted to put his fist through a wall. “That night wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who fucked up.”

  Miller shook his head, because that wasn’t true at
all, but Church kept going. “I know there’s no way I can apologize enough for what I did, then or afterward—”

  “You had every right to be angry. It wasn’t a screwup—”

  “Every right? I hit you. Twice. That’s the definition of a fuckup—”

  “After what I said—”

  “—there’s no excuse—”

  “The things I said, though—” It was cowardly, but Miller dropped his eyes. God, he was pathetic today. “Anyone would’ve—”

  “That doesn’t make it okay. I mean, yeah, I had the right to be pissed off about what you said, but I handled it wrong. Besides, I was out of line even before I hit you, just by getting in your bed. I had no right to touch you like that—”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “I’m sorry!” Church shouted, and his voice reverberated through the room, setting Miller’s ears ringing. Church took a deep breath, his shoulders lifting and falling under his T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” Church said again, more quietly. “I’m very sorry I hit you. And it won’t happen again. No matter how shit you are at listening.”

  Miller flushed. He had talked a lot considering he was supposed to be hearing Church out. “I forgave you that same night.”

  Church’s gaze softened.

  Miller should have left it there. It would be easier to leave it there, and it felt normal enough to leave it there. In all his life he’d never talked like this to another man—not about the things that trembled on his tongue when he wasn’t thinking.

  But if they were going to have it out, they might as well do it right, and it wasn’t like Church was the only one who had an apology to deliver. So Miller swallowed hard and said, “About what I said that night.”

  “That was because you felt threatened,” Church said, more evenly than Miller had ever heard him say anything. “I believe that you don’t think that way about me.”