Better (Stark Ink Book 2) (16 page)

The next day, Dalton and Zoey beat Jig to Pop’s house. The older man arrived at the front door holding a covered dish. He grinned at Zoey and Calla. “I think you’re supposed to bring flowers,” he told them. “Or some such thing, but cut flowers seem like a waste. They die awful quick. I figure pie’s better.”

As they all set the table, Adam cleared his throat and looked at Jig. “We’ve got soda or water. We were never big on wine, even before,” he added, looking furtively at Dalton. “And we don’t keep beer in the house.”

Jig nodded. “Soda’s fine.”

Adam set off to fulfill the request.

Jig had won over the girls easily with a graham cracker crust and whipped cream topping. Pop, however, was a much harder nut to crack. As they pulled up their chairs at the table, the old man asked, “So, you’re my son’s sponsor? What is that, exactly? And what makes you qualified?”

Dalton grimaced. “Pop.”

Jig smiled, though. “No, it’s all right. It’s a fair question. I’m the guy who checks in to make sure Dalton’s not overwhelmed by trying to stay sober. And I’m the guy he calls whenever he feels like he
is
overwhelmed. Though, for the record, he’s never called. And, as far as qualifications go, I’m a drunk myself. Plus, I picked up a few other bad habits along the way. So I know my way around getting clean and staying clean. I suppose I should tell you, I’m an ex-con, too.”

A heavy silence hung at the table.

Finally, Pop nodded. “I’ve known a few myself. Guys who got out of the service, didn’t know what to do with themselves. Got into trouble.”

“I’m the opposite,” said Jig. “Got into trouble and
then
started my service. As a sponsor, though. Not in the military.”

Pop grunted. “Wouldn’t have you. Not with that long hair.”

“Pop,” Dalton cried.

Pop shrugged. “Just truth-telling. And anyway, it’s not like he’s out of place,” the old man added, eyeing Adam. “One of my sons has long hair, one of them can’t go through a metal detector in an airport, and none of them followed in my footsteps.”

Jig cocked his head. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m looking around and I’m seeing a few good men.”

Pop followed Jig’s gaze. “True,” he replied.

“Careers are tricky,” Jig declared. “My old man wrote a lot of songs.”

Pop’s eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? Any I’ve heard?”

Jig smiled enigmatically. “As a matter of fact.”

Dalton was surprised as well by this admission, but Jig didn’t name names.

“Thought I’d try my hand at the bass guitar,” Jig said instead. “But song writing wasn’t for me.”

Pop considered this. “Gotta live first to write a song about it.”

“True enough,” Jig agreed. “I did a lot of living. That’s for sure. Though I was too busy doing it with a needle in my arm to write about it.”

“You could now. Now that it’s behind you,” Pop suggested.

Jig looked thoughtful. “I could. But my old man left a large shadow and I’m trying to live in the light, you know what I’m saying?”

“I do. So, are you happy driving a forklift?”

Jig grinned. “Not really, but I’m happy with August”

Pop raised another eyebrow, just one this time. “Maybe your long hair wasn’t the only thing keeping you out of the service.”

Dalton’s jaw dropped. “Pop!”

Jig didn’t seem offended, though. He laughed. “August is my flower, my orchid. I tried my hand at a fern first. I kept it alive for the whole year, but I just didn’t think I was ready.” Jig leaned into the table. “Oh, they say if you can keep a plant alive for a whole year while in recovery, you’re ready to try a real relationship. Anyway, I moved on from the fern to the orchid because I didn’t
feel
ready.”

“But you named it August?” Pop asked.

Jig shrugged. “Seemed to want to be called August. I play a lot of August Jones for it, keeps it perky. So ‘August’ it was.”

“I like August Jones,” Pop declared. “Miriam
really
liked him.”

Jig smiled. “Oh, yeah? Most people have forgotten about him by now. They only care about Sinatra.”

Pop shook his head. “Frank Sinatra spent too much time being Frank Sinatra.”

Jig grinned. “Kindred spirit.”

Pop snorted. “Not with that long hippie hair.”

Dalton groaned. “Pop.”

After dinner the old man disappeared, but returned shortly and caught Jig’s attention. “So, you don’t drink, but have you given up smoking?” He extended his hand to reveal a few hand rolled cigars.

Jig grinned. “I don’t smoke anymore, but I’d never turn down a Cuban.”

Pop grunted. “These are Dominicans, you long-haired commie.”

Dalton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Pop.”

Jig laughed. “I’ll take one anyway, if you’re offering.”

The old man opened the back door and waited for Jig to finish putting on his jacket. Adam shook his head and jerked his thumb at the kitchen. “Not tonight. I’m on KP duty.”

Dalton, Jig, and Pop stepped out onto the deck into the frigid night. As they stood passing around the Zippo, they looked into the lighted windows. Adam had one hand on the dishrag and the other arm around Calla. She was laughing as he kissed her neck.

Pop made a quiet noise of approval. “Don’t blame him. If I had it to do over again, I’d be inside doing the same thing.”

Jig blew out a perfect ring of smoke. “Second that.”

Pop looked at the slightly younger man. “Where’s
your
wife?”

Dalton opened his mouth to tell Pop that he was getting too personal, but Jig sighed. “Smart enough to leave me and never look back.”

Pop rolled his cigar between his fingers while eyeing the glowing tip. “Coulda looked back,” he said quietly. “You turned it around.”

Jig shook his head. “Not quick enough, sorry to say. Not for her.”

“What about your kids?”

Jig glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

Pop shrugged. “You care too much about Dalton not to have at least one of your own.”

Slowly, Jig nodded. “One. A boy. He’s in Chicago last I heard. We don’t talk much.”

“Or ever,” Pop concluded.

“Pop!” Dalton chastised.

The old man looked over at Dalton. “We’re both too old to bullshit. And I want to know what kind of man’s on the other end of the line whenever you feel like you need to pick up the phone.” Pop turned back to Jig and waited for the answer.

“I haven’t seen my kid in a long, long time,” Jig admitted.

“Did you beat him?”

Jig shook his head sharply. “No. Never. Not once. I wasn’t around long enough to hit him. Of course, that meant I wasn’t around long enough to hug him, either.”

Pop was silent a moment before he said, “Kids come back. Not all of them, not all the time. But a lot of them do. Adam did. Dalton did. So did Jonah.”

Jig nodded. “Well, the door’s always open. He knows that. I’m just hoping that one day he’ll walk through it.”

Pop sighed. “Most of the time that’s all you
can
do.”

After another few minutes, Jig stubbed out his stogie and held out his hand to the old man. Despite being a longhaired commie-hippie, Pop took it and shook it firmly.

Dalton didn’t miss the smile on the old man’s face.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Stark.”

“Douglas.”

“Douglas, then.” Jig nodded toward the back door. “I’ll find my way out. Thanks for dinner.”

Dalton and Pop watched him go. Through the back door, they saw Jig talking to Calla, Ava, and Zoey, probably repeating the same sentiment.

“I like him,” Pop finally declared.

“Me, too,” Dalton agreed.

Then, the old man sighed. “I’m sorry, Dalton. I’m sorry I can’t help you through all this. I could try, but I guess maybe it’s better to talk to someone who can relate to what you’re dealing with.”

Dalton nodded. “Probably.”

The back door opened and Zoey stuck her head out. She smiled at them. “There’s still some more pie.”

Dalton grinned back. “Oh, I’ll be in after your pie in a bit.”

Her lips tightened as she glared at him just before ducking back inside.

After the door closed, Pop took a long, thoughtful puff. “So,” he said finally. “Zoey.”

Dalton looked down at his boots, inspecting the laces. It wasn’t a conversation he really wanted to have, but Pop wasn’t going to let it go.

“I’m thinking I missed something there,” the old man said. “Your mom said Zoey left. Then someone else said there was a wedding. I didn’t ask about the details, but I’m sure that’s the way I heard it.”

Dalton sighed. “She did leave and get married to another man. I was drinking pretty hard. She couldn’t take it anymore. She met someone else. The
wrong
someone. She married him. She just wanted to be happy.”

The old man held Dalton in a steely gaze. “Is she
still
married?”

Dalton grimaced as he looked away.

Pop blew out a breath, fog and cigar smoke hanging in the air between them. “Whoo, boy. Not exactly the way the good Lord drew up, is it?”

“It’s not her fault.”

Pop took a puff. “Didn’t say it was. Doubt it’s
your
fault, either. And even if it was, I suppose you’re carrying enough weight on your shoulders already for just one man. Some people are just meant to be together, Dalton. They just keep coming together until they finally stick that way. I met your mother at a dance, two weeks before I was headed out to basic. I told her not to wait for me. I suppose, technically, she didn’t. She dated a few other guys while I was gone, but every time I came back, there she was. There
we
were. The third time I came home, I married her.” He nodded to Zoey through the plate glass. “Is it yours?”

Dalton’s jaw twitched. “I want it to be.”

“Then it is,” Pop declared.

Dalton turned to look at him. “Is it really that easy?”

The old man took a moment to think about it. “It’s easier than you think it will be. Harder, too, though.” Through the window, he glanced at Jonah who was at the sink rinsing off the dishes. “Might be easier for
you
,” he mused. “You’ll get this one from the start, before any fucking bastard can hurt him and put thoughts in his head that you’ll spend a lifetime trying to scrub out.”

“Jonah’s doing better,” Dalton pointed out.

Pop grunted his agreement. “I suppose he is. Don’t like that shit in his face, though,” he said, meaning Jonah’s pierced ears and eyebrow. He sighed heavily, “Could be worse, I guess. And if that’s what I have to deal with to finally have my boy, then that’s how it goes.”

They were both silent for a long while, watching the group assembled in the house. Neither one of them wanted to give voice to the fact that it had taken so long for Jonah to come around that Pop was now starting to slip away. In the end, they wouldn’t have much time. “You won’t let me hurt him,” Pop said finally. “Say anything nasty to him, nothing like that.”

“Jonah knows you love him,” Dalton assured him.

“I know he does, but words stick in your craw just like any other goddamn thing. They stay with you longer, I think.” Pop reached down and brushed off his pants. “Mind your words around your kid, Dalton. Not just your hands.”

Dalton leaned back in his chair. “That’s the easiest part.”

The old man raised an eyebrow at him. “Depends on how much like you the kid turns out to be.”

Dalton barked out a laugh.

Pop grinned. “I swallowed some choice nuggets with all of you over the years.”

Dalton nodded. “I bet you did. Like when Adam stole your bike.”

The old man’s hand paused, cigar half-raised. “He stole my Harley?”

Dalton shifted in his seat. “Oops. Guess Mom didn’t tell you about that.”

Pop glanced toward the house.

“It’s Christmas,” Dalton reminded him.

“Uh huh.”

The red tip of Pop’s Dominican glowed in the dark. It probably matched the old man’s rising anger.

To deflect it, Dalton turned the conversation back. “Zoey’s husband wants to use him to bargain with. The kid, not Adam,” he added.

Pop took another long draw. “I got it the first time.” He leaned forward and tapped his ash on the frozen grass. “Kids aren’t poker chips, Dalton. You don’t ante ‘em up, angling for something better.”

Dalton sniffed. “I know it.” He tilted his head back and looked up at the night sky. Clear, black, littered with stars. “I want to kill him.”

It came out in a whisper, light as the smoke in the frigid air.

Pop looked at him for a long moment. “I’ve been where you are, for worse reasons.”

Dalton didn’t reply.

“They say killing doesn’t solve anything, doesn’t make anything better. In some cases… they would be wrong.”

Dalton went perfectly still, staring at his old man.

Pop held his gaze. “In this case, in
your
case, though, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

Dalton’s jaw tightened. “Even if he hit her?”

Pop grimaced. “That’s a damn shame. A damn shame. But there’s a difference between wrong and evil, son. God’ll forgive you for one, but let Him deal with the other.”

In the long silence that followed, Dalton’s phone chirped. He took it out and checked the screen.

“What’s that?” Pop asked, stubbing out his stogie.

Dalton took a long, deep breath, letting it chill his lungs. “Hopefully, my Hail Mary.”

Pop nodded. “Well, there you go. Whatever you need, son, your Mom will provide it for you.” He stood up, turning back to Dalton. “Just remember,
I
gave you that .38, boy. Don’t you go using it out of turn.”

Dalton stubbed out his cigar. “I won’t. I promise, Pop.” He slid open the back door and stepped inside the house. Zoey was on the couch. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned down. “We have to go,” he said quietly.

She turned to look up at him.

“I got a call. I have to meet someone.”

Zoey pressed her lips together and nodded. She didn’t ask for details, probably because of their circumstances. Ava and Jonah were just a few feet away, arguing good-naturedly over a game of Halo.

Outside, Dalton helped her into the truck and drove them home. He waited for her to head into the bathroom to take a shower before he moved silently into the bedroom. Her keys were on the dresser. He slid her house key off the ring and replaced them. It would be morning before she needed them for anything. Standing in the middle of the room, Dalton took a long moment to consider all his options. He’d made a promise and he intended to keep it. Even so, he pulled open the top drawer. The .38 was heavy and solid in his palm. He double-checked that it was loaded then he slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket.