The Halo Effect (Cupid Chronicles) Page 3

  He probably thinks I’m loony toons now.

  “I really need to apologize to the man,” she whispered aloud, guilt niggling her.

  He was usually at his house when she got home from work in the evenings. Or at least his truck was. On instinct, she pulled into the grocery store parking lot. There was one way to make good with a man. Well, okay, one that could be purchased at the Kroger bakery.

  Twenty minutes later, armed with a fresh dozen chocolate chip cookies and a smile, she made her way up to the reclusive, yet hot, neighbor’s door and knocked. She glanced around and noticed he kept the place neat, if a bit “bachelor-ish,” with not a living thing in sight other than the grass in the yard and a tiny spider up in a corner web. Not even a welcome mat.

  She knocked again, a little louder. Still no answer. She pivoted as the air brakes of Tristan’s school bus hissed in the distance. She wanted to be home to meet him. She scrambled, wondering what to do with the stupid cookies. She set them down and fished through her pockets. She came up with the receipt from the store for the cookies, her Diet Coke, the chicken she’d bought for dinner, and a box of Tampax.

  “Whatever,” she said with a sigh.

  She pulled the Sharpie still stuck her pocket from school and scribbled a quick apology for her behavior on the back of the receipt, as well as a thank you for his attempt at rescuing a damsel-in-distress. Hopefully he would appreciate her sense of humor and forgive her.

  She tucked the note in the corner of the box and left the cookies on the doorstep, hoping he’d find them before the ants did, and ran home. Oh well, she’d tried.

  She stood in the driveway and waited, glancing around at her small yard, proud of her thriving grass, even though she’d just moved in, and her fresh bed of cotton-candy-colored phlox. She was even getting to know some of the neighbors—for better or worse. Mrs. Arnold’s yappy little dog? Definitely worse. Hottie next door? The jury was still out.

  Someone’s hickory smoke barbeque scented the cooling Texas evening air. A bird cawed, making her turn to seek it out, having to shield her eyes from the sun. That’s when she finally spotted him. Tristan ambled down the street at his own meandering pace with his iPod earbuds firmly in place as usual. She watched as he approached the mysterious next-door neighbor’s house. Something there seemed to bring him out of his pubescent reverie. He snapped to attention, his eyes focused in on something intently. His steps slowed as he began to pass the garage. From her vantage point she couldn’t see what had her son so enthralled, but the curiosity was killing her.

  A sudden roar rumbled out of the neighbor’s garage and settled into the low vibration of a powerful motor. Tristan’s head jerked around faster than his body. He stumbled and fell, landing on the cement just as the man flew from the garage on a big, black motorcycle like something out of a dark mysterious dream.

  In slow motion, Braelyn started to run toward them, a cry forming on her lips. It was all moving too fast. Her child was about to be run over and there wasn’t a thing she could do. Helpless, she waved her arms frantically as she ran on legs that had turned to jelly.

  Unable to see what was happening behind a row of shrubs, fear clawed brutally up her throat as the threats she’d been running from caught up with her in no time flat. A thousand miles might as well have been one if she couldn’t protect her son.

  Oh, God! Please don’t let him be hurt!

  As she neared, he was lying motionless, crumpled on his side. Her heart thumped painfully and hot tears sprung to her eyes.

  Finally, she could see him fully. He propped himself up on one elbow slowly and turned to stare up through wide, shocked eyes at the man who had jumped off his now side-lying motorcycle. The engine was still running with an idle drone.

  Braelyn rushed up as the man lifted Tristan to his feet and they exchanged a few mumbled words.

  “You nearly killed him!” she screamed as terror threatened to skin her alive. She ripped her son from his grip and scanned him for injury. “Are you all right, baby?” She hated that fear was making her voice tremble.

  Tristan didn’t say a word. His shell-shocked gaze never left the man towering above them. Finally, he looked at her. She could see the mortification now written all over his face as her fear abated. He was fine. More than fine. He was his normal, teenage, don’t-touch-me self. He leaned over and picked up his backpack before loping off to the house with a shaky gait.

  She looked down at the ground, then over to the neighbor’s bike. Obviously he’d seen Tristan in time to avoid hitting him. She’d embarrassed herself. Again.

  He sauntered over and picked up the motorcycle like it weighed nothing and straddled it.

  She approached him, her legs still a bit wobbly. “I’m . . .”

  He eyed her with those black eyes. She swallowed and tried again. “I’m . . .”

  He waved her off. “Sorry. I didn’t see the kid.”

  She nodded as he gave what might’ve been a half-half smile, making her heart go a little wobbly.

  She couldn’t speak. Mortification had left her speechless.

  He didn’t seem to care. “I’ve gotta go.” He gunned the engine and drove away before she could finish another thought.

  She stood there mesmerized as he zipped down the street like a man on a mission. Then she took a moment to compose herself before walking home.

  Tristan eyed her warily as she stepped onto the porch. He must’ve been waiting to see what his punishment was after today. Embarrassed or not, he knew better than to lock himself in his room before she’d spoken to him about his behavior.

  “Hey.” In other words: Am I in trouble?

  She took in his split lip and the bruises around his eye. She brushed the hair back from his forehead. For once, he didn’t shy away from her touch. Man, with his dark hair and deep, soulful eyes, he resembled his father more and more every day and it was like a pinprick to the heart every time she acknowledged it.

  “Hey.”

  He continued to study her face, waiting to see what else she’d say. “So . . .?”

  “So, we’ll talk about it later. Come with me to the nursing home tonight? It’s bingo night,” she said to lighten the mood.

  She volunteered every week, sometimes more, at Angelic Shores assisting the activities director because she had an affinity for the elderly. But more than that, it helped her feel close to her grandmother again, the only person who had ever really understood her. And working there eased the ache of her passing just a little. She tried to coax her son to participate once in a while to expose him to the importance of volunteerism.

  He rolled his eyes. “Do I have to?”

  She tilted her head. “Well, considering someone’s been suspended for three days and has nothing better to do with his time, I don’t see why not.”

  He sighed heavily. “Fine. But I’m not doing bingo. Mrs. Roth always pinches my cheeks. I’m gonna hang out with the men if I go.”

  “Okay. Go get cleaned up.” She watched him slink to his room. “Change your shirt!” she called after him.

  She went to her bedroom to clean up as well and thought about the crazy path her life had taken to end up here—to a ramshackle house needing much more than the plumber she could barely afford, her son needing the father who no longer wanted him, and—most importantly—the primal instinct to care for her own in the face of threats. Nobody, especially no man, was going to threaten her livelihood, her self-worth or her body. But, above all other things, she vowed that never again would anyone threaten her son. She’d die first.

  She shucked her work clothes in favor of worn jeans and her favorite raspberry-colored blouse. She sat on her unmade bed to slide on her sandals and was overrun with doubts.

  Had she made the right decision to move over a thousand miles away from the only home Tristan h
ad ever known? Was “a fresh start” in Texas worth it? His current behavior was certainly speaking volumes.

  She closed her eyes to a wave of tears then took a breath and moved to the mirror to freshen her wilted makeup and reaffirm her resolve. She’d done the right thing. She had.

  Whether he understood it or not, she would protect him at all costs.

  Chapter 4

  Old people smelled funny. Tristan wrinkled his nose against the mix of Ben Gay ointment, baby powder, prune juice, and urine—all overpowered by the haze of general oldness. It was freakin’ sad if you asked him. Why his mom liked to come here was beyond him. She said it reminded her of her grandma—the only person who’d ever made her feel “safe,” whatever that meant.

  He caught the ‘Mom’ face she shot him and tucked his iPod away into his pocket. Maybe old Mr. Myers would be up and lucid today. The dude was cool for an old man. He had some pretty tight war stories. Still, he’d rather be home working on his bike. If he could just scrape up some cash, he’d get that baby running. Maybe. He really needed some help.

  He flopped down into a chair in the lobby as far away from the mass of wheelchairs as he could get and watched his mom move around the room saying her hellos. She really loved these old folks. He rolled his eyes and let his mind wander to his dream bike. Like the one the dude next door had. Now that was a sweet ride! It didn’t even matter that he’d almost creamed him with it tonight. That almost made it cooler. At least until his mom came over and ruined it with all her fussing. Maybe that guy would give him some pointers on his motor. But, as quick as that thought sprung to mind, he dismissed it, recalling how the big man had pinned him when he thought he was breaking in the house. No way he’d ask him for help. He could hardly ever tell when the guy was home, anyway.

  Tristan shifted in his seat, already getting bored, and his thoughts turned to his father. Today Joey Nelson had called him a filthy bastard son of a whore. He’d just been mouthing off, but Tristan felt the sting clear down to the pit of his stomach. So he’d hauled off and sucker punched the punk in the nose. Sure, he’d thrown the first hit, but as far as he was concerned, Joey had started it with his big mouth. But, problem was, Tristan felt deep down that those words just might be true.

  He glanced up at his mother. Not about her. Never about her. He would never think of her as a whore. Of course not. But his father, that was a whole other matter. He was pretty sure a man could be a whore, too.

  “You gonna sit over here all night?”

  He glanced up into his mom’s smiling eyes. Maybe if he acted reasonably agreeable tonight and helped her clean up they’d get out at a decent time and she wouldn’t ask him to come back for a while. He could only hope.

  She held out a hand. “Come on. I won’t make you help with bingo, but you can’t sit in the corner the whole time. At least go visit with Mr. Myers and his cronies or help with the nighttime snacks.” Her eyes all but begged him.

  He made a show of thinking it through and gave a great sigh. “Fine.” He rose slowly, purposely avoiding her hand. He brushed past her and headed toward the dining area, where he knew Mr. Myers would be sitting with his customary black coffee and angel food cake.

  Sure enough, there he was. He was alone tonight. Tristan pulled up a chair and sat across from the man in the wheelchair. “Hey, Mr. Myers.”

  He studied the man’s wrinkled face, his eyelids now sagged with age, his nose with a few red zigzagging blood vessels on either side. This was the first time Tristan noticed he had teeny white ear hairs. But at least no overpowering old-person smell.

  Slowly, Mr. Myers peered up with pale blue eyes that showed the white rings of age. It seemed to take him a moment to place who he was with before a smile crinkled the lines of his face. “Well, hello, sonny.” He put down his fork and reached across the table to envelop Tristan’s hand with his cool, wrinkled, liver-spotted one.

  Tristan couldn’t help but smile. “How have you been doing? They been treating you nice around here?” He tilted his head conspiratorially toward the front lobby area and the nurses hustling about in their worn blue scrubs.

  Mr. Myers laughed. “Always, sonny. Always. The ladies love me around here, don’t you know?”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  Tristan’s eyes darted to the cake and he realized he was starving. Mr. Myers noticed. “Why don’t you go get yourself a slice of cake, son? There’s plenty left.” He pointed to the counter.

  Tristan only hesitated a moment before darting away for a piece. He sat back down and made quick work of it in four large bites. He looked up to find Mr. Myers watching him intently with his eerie white-blue eyes.

  “What happened to your face, boy? You get into a fight at school?”

  Tristan cringed. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Myers nodded. “Had me a skirmish or two in my day. What happened?”

  He placed his fork down on his empty plate. “Joey Nelson called me a bastard son of a whore.”

  Tristan bounced his leg up and down underneath the table in rapid succession as he suddenly realized he cared what this man thought of him. Would he find any validity in what Joey Nelson said? He’d been so twisted with confusion and anger since his mother moved them to Texas, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself half the time. He knew she was trying to protect him from his father’s general shitheadedness—maybe even something else. But he wasn’t a baby anymore. He knew the truth. And pounding in Joey’s face had been the best he’d felt in weeks.

  Mr. Myers sipped his coffee then sat his cup down carefully. Tristan studied a stain on the old man’s mint green, threadbare sweater, wondering idly if his mom would maybe buy him a new one for Christmas.

  “So, you hit the boy when he called you those names?”

  He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “And your mother is the pretty lady who comes every week to help with the activities and read to us and such?”

  “Yes.” He could barely meet his gaze. “Sir.”

  “And may I ask about your father, young man?”

  Tristan felt his face grow hot. He glanced down and toyed with a string on his jeans. “He’s not around. He don’t want me no more.” He looked up, fighting the bitter tears in his eyes at the thought of being replaced by a bimbo and a new baby. “Sir.”

  “Then I say good for you, sonny. I hope you blacked both his eyes.” Mr. Myers sipped his coffee with a loud slurp. “Now. Have I told you about the time in ’43 when my buddy and I were under heavy fire from the Japs and we had to rely on our wits and our handguns to save our asses until the Infantry arrived?”

  True relief that someone seemed to understand poured through him. Tristan leaned forward in his seat, eager to hear Mr. Myers’s story. “No. Tell me.”

  For the next half hour, he found himself immersed in the sights and smells of the WWII battlefield. He could almost hear the cries of the wounded and taste the remnants of the gunpowder in the air.

  “You should write these stories down, Mr. Myers,” he said in hushed awe, relaxing his clenched fists as the story came to its harrowing conclusion. “They’re awesome!”

  Mr. Myers cackled out a dry laugh. “Now, boy. Why write them down when I can tell them to a young‘un like you? You’ll remember ‘em, won’t you?” His eyes twinkled with merriment, but also with something more.

  Tristan sat a bit straighter. “Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”

  They both looked up as Tristan’s mother approached with a broad smile. “Hello, gentleman.” She leaned down and brushed a friendly kiss to Mr. Myers’s wrinkly cheek. “Are you two behaving yourselves?”

  Mr. Myers winked. “Well, I don’t know about him, but I never could behave myself around a pretty young lady.”

  Tristan watched his mom laugh and joke with the man as she pulled up a seat. Bingo must be over bec
ause the wheelchair crowd was descending upon the dining room for refreshments, bringing with them the distinctive smells he hated. He turned so he could be on guard. Oh, shit. Mrs. Roth was coming his way with her claw-like pinchy hands that always left marks on his cheeks. He looked beseechingly to his mom, but she was deep in conversation with Mr. Myers about the new shower facilities in the nursing home and some new activities volunteer that started today. Dude. Really?!

  Mrs. Roth rolled up, her wheelchair bumping the table. “Hello!” She grinned at him and he noticed her fire-engine-red lipstick was not exactly on her lips. He stifled a laugh.

  “Hello, Mrs. Roth.” He managed a tight-lipped smile. Then he realized that she carried not only the eau de old person, she also needed a diaper change. Or undergarment change. Whatever. Ewwww.

  “Aren’t you just the handsomest young man?” she chirped, oblivious to her stank. Then she did it. She lifted her hand—dirty, sharp nails and all—to his face and reached for his cheek.

  Tristan’s mom jumped from her seat and grabbed Mrs. Roth’s wheelchair handles, drawing her back. “Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Roth? Then isn’t it just about time to go back to your room for Wheel of Fortune?” She didn’t give the woman a chance to answer before wheeling her away. She shot Tristan a knowing smile over her shoulder as they wheeled off.

  He could’ve kissed her. Really. Of course, he would never actually do it.

  He glanced over as a short whirlwind of a girl came skipping into the dining room, seeming to float on air. He had to stop and take a second look. He’d never seen anything like her in his life.