“You’ll like it,” he said when she’d gone. “I think. It’s dark and a little bit bitter.”
“I’m trusting you,” John said with a nod. He gave Nick an impish look. “Putting myself in your hands. Do with me as you will. Totally at your mercy --”
“It’s just
beer
,” Nick said, pretending to be irritable but unable to suppress a grin. “If you don’t like it, you can get something else.”
“It’s
beer
,” John parroted. “Why would I want anything else?” He fiddled with his napkin, the bright red cotton a splash of color against his navy blue shirt. “This is it, tonight, isn’t it?” he asked. “We do this and finish it. Go to see your brother; fly home. It’ll all be over soon, and we’ll be back on the island.”
Nick didn’t see it being that simple; there were dozens of loose ends; his father’s funeral for one, and if there was money hidden somewhere, there’d be legalities involved in even a simple transfer. His thoughts must have shown in his face, because John nodded, looking resigned.
“Soon,” he said quietly, his foot bumping Nick’s under the table. “We’ll just take it one step at a time, aye?”
“God, I want to go home just as much as you do.” Nick was fervent, his chest tight with it. “Probably more.” He looked toward the bar, hoping the waitress would be back with their beer, but there was no sign of her. “Not as much as I want a beer, though,” he added ruefully.
John laughed, the sound rich and easy, turning heads. “When they arrive, I’ll drink to that.”
As if she’d heard them, their waitress appeared a few moments later, a friendly, if professional, smile on her face. “Enjoy,” she murmured, unloading her tray efficiently and tucking it under her arm once it was empty. “Are you ready to order?”
“Um, I think we need a few minutes.” Neither of them had done more than glance at the menus they’d been given, and Nick wanted to be able to figure out what John would actually like. The waitress went off again, and Nick watched anxiously as John tried the beer. “Well? What do you think?”
“I like it,” John decided, taking a less cautious sip. He picked up his menu and studied it. “How hungry are you? We could split some of these nachos, maybe, as a starter?”
“We should probably carbo load.” Nick glanced up in time to catch John’s slightly confused expression. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do before you run a marathon or whatever? Eat a lot of pasta?” He looked at the menu again. “I guess this wouldn’t be the right place, in that case. It’s more like protein overload, with all the meat and beans. Yeah, nachos sound good.” He was hungry enough that everything looked good, really.
“I want a chimichanga,” John said after a moment.
“Why that?” Nick asked.
John grinned. “It sounds interesting.” He repeated the word adding a solemnly thoughtful, if misquoted, “choo-choo” at the end that had Nick choking over a mouthful of beer as he couldn’t help laughing. “But they don’t have meat in them, so maybe I’ll go for a beef burrito. How about you?”
“I was thinking something with shrimp. Maybe fajitas.” Not that there weren’t shrimp available in
John shrugged. “Can’t see why. And Melissa would’ve said, wouldn’t she?” He rolled his eyes when Nick continued to look doubtful. “You don’t eat, then I can’t, not with you watching every bite I put in my mouth, and I’m starving, so if you don’t want me to waste away to nothing, order something, will you?”
“Okay, okay.” Nick grinned and set his menu down as the waitress came back over to take their orders. That taken care of, they made small talk for a little while. He was aware of John trying to steer the conversation toward something a bit more serious more than once, but he just wasn’t ready; he needed some more time to relax. Even admitting that much to himself made him feel guilty, because he
should
be dealing with the situations that surrounded him. And, somehow, John knew when to back off.
It wasn’t until the waitress had delivered their nachos and gone off again that Nick finally felt prepared to talk about something less casual than the beach and the sunshine and the tourists.
“Sorry,” he said, waving a hand. “About…you know. I think Traighshee spoiled me. I forgot what it was like to have to deal with all of this. I…I kind of liked it. Forgetting.”
“I don’t blame you,” John said, his expression sympathetic without dripping pity. “You’ve had to deal with what you can do for years with no breaks; you were due a holiday.”
Nick didn’t feel a bit hungry now, but he knew he needed the calories for later, so he carefully slid a tortilla chip free from the pile and ate it. The sour cream was still cool, and it cut the heat of the salsa perfectly. “That might have been more than a holiday.”
“A sabbatical?” John suggested. “And one you can go back to. I think you’ve sorted out all the local ghosts, and I can’t see there being many new ones. Not on Traighshee. It’s a quiet place, when all’s said and done.” He picked up a fully loaded chip, dripping with salsa, and gave it an appraising look before shrugging and eating it in one mouthful. “Mmm,” he said, swallowing, his tongue dealing efficiently with a single smudge of sour cream at the corner of his mouth. “And there’s always your book.”
“I might have to rethink that.” Nick knew some of the problem -- maybe most of it -- had been his dreams and the fact that he hadn’t wanted to share them with John. But his writing had definitely been a sticking point between them, too, and he wanted to avoid getting back into the rut they’d been in. He’d missed John, and he didn’t want to lose him; not to Andy or anyone else.
“What?” John gave him an incredulous look. “Rethink it? In the name of God, why? From what I could see, you were enjoying yourself, and it was proud of you, I was. Your name on a book’s something worth having.” His indignation subsided and he grabbed another chip. “Besides; you’ve got to do
something
with your time and you’ll never make a fisherman, love.”
That was true enough; despite a fair number of fishing trips, Nick still couldn’t bring himself to touch a fish until it was long dead. The way that they flopped around made him want to run in circles screaming. “Well, I’ll have to change my hours or something, at least. I don’t want things the way they’ve been. It’s not good for either of us.”
“You could try just writing in the morning, maybe, when I’m usually out…” Nick’s face must have given him away, because John’s words trailed off. “It doesn’t work that way, does it?”
It wasn’t a question and Nick couldn’t have given him more than an apologetic shrug by way of reply even if it had been. It wasn’t a matter of watching the clock -- which wasn’t something he had any experience of, anyway; when it was going well, when the words were pouring out of him, there was nothing else he wanted to do
“It’ll be different, though,” John went on, his voice steady. “Part of it was that you were waiting for the other shoe to drop, right? When you first started writing we managed well enough.”
Nick nodded, remembering. “Yeah. You’re right; it was different then. I just got so caught up in everything, though, and I don’t think I knew it was happening. I don’t want things to go bad like that again. And…what if I don’t see it this time, either?”
“You know it’s a danger, now,” John pointed out. “And
I’ll
see it. Count on that. I won’t try and stop you doing it -- I can see the look you have on your face when you’re working, and I’d sooner get between a mother and her newborn -- but I can maybe distract you if I’m feeling lonely.” He picked up his beer and took a drink, the slow swallow and the deliberate arch of his throat enough to make it clear how he’d be trying to get Nick’s attention.
They’d been intimate only a few hours before, and yet the temptation to reach out and run his fingers along John’s throat was strong. Nick looked down, then distracted himself by eating some more. “Just promise me you’ll say something. Make rules, if you need to, about when I have to stop. If we agree to it beforehand, I’ll have to listen.” He needed reassurance, was hoping John would give it to him.
John’s eyebrows, the brown of an autumn leaf, as Nick had told him once, in a rare poetic moment, drew together. “Rules? We’ve never bothered with them before. Can’t we just…I don’t know, play it by ear, maybe? I promise I won’t let that distance grow between us again. God, I couldn’t. It --” He looked across the table, his face screwed up in a grimace. “It was like being frozen. Like being dead. I couldn’t sleep right; I was drinking too much…I’m not blaming you for that; I’m a grown man, but it’s not something I want to go back to. I won’t let it happen. I swear.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t really that simple, but if there was anything Nick was good at, it was putting his trust in John. The man had proven himself time and time again; stepping up to the plate and taking control of situations even when he’d had no idea how to deal with them. “I can deal with playing it by ear, as long as it’s your ear and not mine.” He offered John a rueful smile.
“If that’s what you want,” John said after a moment, his gaze going to the approaching waitress before returning to Nick. “But for a man who faces down ghoulies and ghosties, you’ve a low opinion of your own courage.”
“Well, it’s not like anyone ever offered me a choice.” Nick knew it was likely he would have refused if they had, or at the very least that he would have been tempted to.
The waitress delivered their meals, asked if they needed anything else, and then disappeared promptly when it was clear that she’d interrupted their conversation.
“I think we scared her off,” Nick said, taking another sip of beer.
“She just doesn’t want to ruin her chance of a good tip,” John said with an edge of cynicism that surprised Nick. John was frowning now, staring down at the plate in front of him without picking up his fork -- or knife -- looking disturbed. “It’s going to be bad tonight, isn’t it? Worse than last time, even with that tea stuff. You’ll call him, if he’s there, and it’ll be --” He shook his head and then glanced up. “You never said; did you get any sense that he was there, amongst all the voices? Anything that stood out?”
“It might not be worse. Just different, maybe.” Nick tried to catch up to all the questions John had just asked. “No, I don’t think he was there. Not that I know for sure I’d even recognize him if he had been, but…I just don’t think so.” Another thought occurred to him. “There’s that other --” he lowered his voice, leaned closer to John across the table, “-- ghost. Grant. I still don’t know if he’s going to show up. I probably shouldn’t have told Alicia she could come.” The angry spirit was likely to lash out at anyone around him, and Nick didn’t want to be responsible for her getting hurt.
“Him.” John shivered. “Aye, well, he bothered you, and he had my blood running cold, but he can’t do much to her, can he? She doesn’t strike me as the sort to notice anything beyond her nose, that one.”
“She might not,” Nick agreed. “But he’s strong. Stronger than any spirit I’ve ever come across. I don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“He could hurt her physically, you mean?” John blinked as Nick nodded, taking that on board, before finally picking up his knife and fork and beginning to eat. “She’ll have to stay well back,” he said between mouthfuls. “With that reporter. I’m not leaving you, if that’s the case.”
Nick appreciated the sentiment; he tried to picture the evening ahead of them as he used his own fork to rearrange the vegetables on his plate. “I don’t like the idea of this whole circle thing. I mean, I do, it’s fine, and I need it, but…I’ve always done it the other way. The way I’m used to.”
“I can see that,” John agreed. “It’s not the time you want to be playing around with something new; not with so many of them coming at you.” He grimaced and then said gently, “But I don’t see that you have much choice, love. Last time…it didn’t work. That’s the top and bottom of it. If you’ve been given a shield it makes sense to use it to protect yourself.”
“I know. You’re right.” Nick picked up a tortilla and started to put together a fajita, piling shrimp and vegetables on before rolling it up into a somewhat awkward burrito-shaped thing, then taking a bite. “Mm. This is good. You should try some.”
“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” John said, staring at the door. “Was he supposed to join us here?”
“Who?” Nick turned to look and saw, to his surprise, Greg Duncan talking to the hostess. The man was nodding and smiling, really turning on the charm if the way the blonde hostess was glancing down coyly and tucking her hair behind her ear had anything to say about it, and then he looked right at Nick and started toward them. “I didn’t even tell him where we were going,” Nick said with dismay, quickly, before Greg could get close enough to hear. “I don’t know how he --”
“I knew I’d find you,” Greg said warmly. “You said you were walking, so there were only so many places to end up.”
“We’re not walking now,” John said pointedly. “We’re eating. Together. In peace.” Greg pulled back the chair beside John and sat down, his face showing no sign of annoyance at his tepid welcome. “Or we were,” John finished.
“Oh, I won’t get in your way,” Greg promised, already managing to subtly exclude John, taking advantage of the empty space in front of him and leaning across the table a little, his gaze locked on Nick. “I just thought it’d be a good idea if I was…prepared. You know; for what to expect. Do I need holy water? Garlic? Is that why you’re eating here?”
“I don’t know if holy water would do anything.” Nick had never even considered it. “Garlic wouldn’t -- I don’t think they can smell. Oh, unless you meant it’s supposed to have some magical ability or something.” He looked down at his plate awkwardly, not sure he wanted to admit that they’d gone to see someone in that line of work earlier that day. It just seemed so…hokey.
“I think he’s trying to be funny, Nick.” John’s voice was cool but his mouth was tight with annoyance. “No one’s asking you to tag along, mate. And if this article you’re planning on doing is going to be full of jokes like that, you can bloody well forget about it!”