Eight confirmed dead, five critical who probably wouldn’t make it, dozens more injured and in the hospital, over three dozen treated and released, six persons still missing and, at this point, presumed dead in the explosion and resulting fire, twenty-five residences destroyed, another thirty severely damaged and red-tagged, meaning displaced residents, fourteen businesses destroyed, eighteen heavily damaged, another dozen with varying degrees of damage.
Building inspectors had been summoned once it was safe to go in to evaluate structures in the blast radius. Of course an asshole reporter from Orlando had to ask a series of belligerent questions that seemed like he was just looking for an even more salacious story than he already had, including demanding to know why an electrical substation and a propane business were located in such close proximity to each other.
They’d been separated by over two hundred feet and several other properties, but that was how far the blast had tossed flaming debris.
Fortunately, one of the higher ups from county fire rescue had fielded that query and reminded the reporter that the substation had been there at least twenty-five years, the propane business decades longer, and if it hadn’t been for the street racers both would still be there.
At least it wouldn’t be Noah’s ass chewed out later on for the snark, but he could tell from the weary expressions on all the county people’s faces that they’d had just about enough of that particular reporter’s bullshit.
When his alarm went off at the usual time the next morning, he groaned and slapped at it, wishing he could call in.
But he couldn’t.
As he dragged himself out of bed, started the coffee maker, and headed for the shower, he tried to sort through his mind what he needed to focus on that morning. His usual Monday morning routine was out the window, as were the items he’d left waiting on Friday evening when he’d departed his office.
Even though he’d been working all day yesterday, he’d need to be there today for the event’s post-mortem that would no doubt take place, answering questions, catching people up, and generally filling in. He’d have to try to take a different day off somewhere during the week, maybe Wednesday, maybe—
Fuck.
Full consciousness finally smacked into his brain as he thought about Jackson.
Hell, he hadn’t even turned on his personal cell phone yesterday.
Ooooh, crap.
If his mother saw any of the coverage and spotted him on TV, either speaking to the media or in the background of press conference shots, she likely called his phone and would demand to know why he was in town when he said he’d be out of town.
Son of a bitch.
He shaved in the shower, working by feel and catching anything he missed after getting out. Then he retrieved his personal cell and held his breath as it powered up.
No messages, no texts.
Whew!
He leaned against the kitchen counter and struggled against the overwhelming guilt that also welled up at that relief.
Weren’t most people happy to talk to their families?
But worse, as he logged into FetLife on his phone, he realized he couldn’t remember what Jackson said his username was. The avatar had been so small on Jackson’s phone’s screen Noah couldn’t really make it out well, either.
Oh, no.
Fear filled him. What if he never found Jackson again? What if he never again felt that…perfection?
Except…he couldn’t deal with that right now. Not any of it. He needed to get moving and get to work, and the only guarantee he had was that it was likely to be a stressful, shitty-ass day.
And it’d already just gotten worse.
Chapter Six
Tuesday morning, Noah’s work day started with a phone call from his mother on his personal cell, reminding him of dinner that Thursday.
Which he hadn’t needed reminding of, but he couldn’t get out of, either. He’d blown off the past several, and had promised her he’d be there for the next one.
Not that he needed to be there. They talked over and around him just fine.
But giving in every once in a while made her happy and kept her off his ass, so…worth it.
Meanwhile, he spent his week wondering what Jackson was doing, if he hated him yet, and spending hours every evening on FetLife, trying to locate him.
Noah’s father’s truck sat parked in front of his parents’ trailer when he pulled into their front yard Thursday evening. This part of rural Arcadia felt a world away from his quiet little apartment complex just blocks from where he worked in downtown Sarasota. A few years ago his neighborhood been a little rundown, but as gentrification efforts and developers moved in, the area had spruced up, including his complex.
But here in this section of Arcadia, entropy and decay seemed the norm, albeit plodding along at a slower pace, willingly irreversible and inevitable. Their trailer had mysteriously survived, practically unscathed, through the ravages of Hurricane Charley and Irma and others, even as neighbors lost everything and several large, ancient oaks in their front yard still lived, albeit tipped partially out of the ground, their roots partially exposed.
Hanging on by some mysterious force.
His mother claimed it was all due to the power of prayer and her unshakable faith in her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Everything good that ever happened was thanks to prayer and God. Anything bad was the Devil’s fault. Or, if it happened to someone else, it was the Lord trying to teach them a lesson to pray harder because they’d obviously failed in some way.
She was usually able to list a litany of reasons how they’d failed.
The living room window-shaker droned and dripped condensation onto the rosemary plant below it, meaning someone was home. His father was a stickler for turning them off if they weren’t home, pinching every penny until it begged for death.
Noah stepped onto the front porch, wiped his shoes on the doormat that proudly proclaimed JESUS LIVES HERE! in fading letters, and knocked on the glass top of the screen door.
Ruth might barrel in without knocking, but he wouldn’t.
If anything, it was a silent rebellion couched in polite manners.
This wasn’t his home. If his deeper truths were revealed to its occupants, he’d never again be welcomed across the threshold, either.
He felt rather than heard someone make their way across the double-wide, then the inner door opened a moment later. His father opened the screen door for him. “Why y’all need to knock? Just come on in. I had to get up.”
“Sorry, Dad. Didn’t want to be rude.” Same thing he said every time. He set the Publix fruit salad and Hawaiian dinner rolls on the kitchen island, his regular contribution to the meal.
“Your momma’s on her way home now. She had to go in to the church this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“She’s on the board or something. One of the Sunday school teachers got fired.”
“I didn’t think they paid them.”
“They don’t. But they needed to figure out a replacement.”
“What happened?”
“I guess the woman who taught the fifth graders, the preacher’s wife saw her out on a date with a guy, going into that biker bar just south of town.”
“That place is by itself, isn’t it? How’d anyone see them unless they were there, too?”
“Guess she saw them at dinner and followed them. Nosy old biddy, anyway. He rides a motorcycle and she got on with him. Eh, the girl, not the preacher’s wife.”
A shiver rippled through him. Yeah, Sarasota was still reasonably close to Arcadia, but at least it wasn’t close enough to make casual spying easy.
They would have gotten an eyeful of him last Saturday night at the Toucan.
Sorrow rolled through him. It’d been a hellish week at work so far, and he’d spent every spare second at home since Monday night trying to locate Jackson on FetLife.
But he still couldn’t remember the man’s username.
r /> What he could remember was that during their discussion, before the talking ended, was Jackson telling Noah that he wouldn’t chase, wouldn’t play games.
And Noah had told Jackson he’d get in touch with him, right before racing out the door.
Dammit.
It was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and had, several times already.
Right now, he couldn’t afford tears. Definitely not in front of his parents.
Fortunately, his mother’s indignant arrival spared him further introspection. She’d no sooner hit the door than she was grousing.
“There you are, Immanuel. Your sister is on her way.” She dumped grocery bags on the counter, including a hot chicken meal from Publix. “I swear you’d think those people never heard of the Ten Commandments before.”
She was still griping as she headed down the hall toward their bedroom, presumably to change.
He started setting out the food. To everyone else, he was Noah, his middle name, which he preferred.
Only his mother insisted on calling him Immanuel—which, frankly, he hated with a passion—because she said she’d named him that as an honor to the Lord, so by god, that’s what she’d call him.
Noah was bad enough, but there’d been several of them in his grade in school, so he hadn’t felt like a complete alien.
“Hi, Mom,” he called after her, knowing she wasn’t even listening to him.
That was safest.
He got the plates out and set the table. His younger sister, Ruth, and her husband, Peter, lived a couple of miles away. They were both thirty-nine. Peter worked for a local cattle ranch, and Ruth was on her latest in a string of waitressing jobs she’d held after she’d flunked out of community college when she was nineteen.
He actually liked his brother-in-law, as long as he kept his mouth shut. Usually he acted slightly taciturn, until politics were mentioned.
Then he spouted the latest Alex Jones conspiracy theory and quickly hijacked whatever conversation they’d been having to declare everything being the fault of lizard-men aliens.
Which Noah’s mother insisted were actually angels, and proof of the Lord’s power.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Noah kept his mouth shut—or full of food—kept his head down, kept his thoughts to himself, and kept a close eye on the time with the fib that he had to be up for work an hour earlier than he really did, allowing him to escape that much sooner. It took him over an hour to drive to Arcadia on a good day, longer if he hit traffic.
He loved his family, and they were the only family he had.
Didn’t mean he wanted to torture himself in the bad way any longer than necessary.
That was the bad kind of masochism, and it sure wasn’t one of his kinks.
“What are you doing Sunday afternoon, Immanuel?” his mom asked as he was mid-chew.
Shit.
He swallowed and took a sip of tea. “I promised a friend I’d help them move.”
He’d had that one ready for a while.
“You can’t help them a different day?”
“They have the truck rented and everything. It’s been planned for weeks. Why?”
“Well, can’t they get someone else?”
“Mom, I promised them. You wouldn’t want me to break my word, would you?”
Low blow, but it always worked. Except…now she looked huffy.
He didn’t have to wait long for the explanation. “Loretta Calhoun’s daughter will be down from Tampa on Sunday. It’d be nice if you could come over and meet her.”
“Sorry. We’re supposed to start at noon and it’ll probably take us until past ten at night, maybe later. Two-story house.”
“Oh.”
He felt zero guilt over the lie. If there really was a god—and Noah had his personal doubts—then God knew what his mother was like and would likely forgive him trying to get out of it with as little grief as possible.
Wasn’t like he kicked a puppy or licked all the donuts in the box at a staff meeting or something.
His mom still looked perturbed. “She’s single. I told Loretta I’d have you come over.”
“Sorry, Mom. I wish you would have asked me first. I’m pretty booked up for the next several months. Ren fest’s coming, and—”
“What is?”
“Ren fest. You know, the Sarasota Renaissance Festival? I’m on a committee that manages it and it keeps me busy this time of year.”
Another lie, but she didn’t care about his job, for the most part, so she’d never know the difference.
“You really should get married again,” she said. “People are going to start to wonder what’s wrong with you, instead of what a tramp Meg was for leaving and not being a good wife and supporting you.”
Ooooh, the perfect out.
He hadn’t flounced in three years, so he wasn’t milking the act. He stood and grabbed his plate. Fortunately, he was mostly done.
“Not having this discussion, Mom.” He headed for the garbage can, to scrape his plate.
“But it’s been ten years!”
“Leave the boy alone, Ruby,” his father said. “He doesn’t want to talk about Meg tonight. Why you always gotta put your nose in his life?”
“I want him to be happy, that’s why. So excuse me for caring!”
He rinsed off his plate, trying to make as much passive-aggressive noise as he could, because that kind of display always put her off, and it was the only time his father would tolerate it from him.
“It wasn’t your heart that got broke, Mom, so I don’t expect you to understand.” He put his things in the dishwasher. “I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” He headed for the door without a look back.
“Immanuel Noah Mayes, you get back—”
“Now, leave him alone, Ruby. You did it again—” The door swung shut on his father’s words.
Noah tried and failed to keep the grin off his face as he headed for his car, relief washing through him like sweet, summer rain.
Survived another one.
Even managed to get out earlier than he’d planned.
But his victory faded as he left Arcadia and headed back toward Sarasota.
Jackson.
Why didn’t I just get his cell number? Or leave mine?
It seemed so damned…stupid to be that blatantly paranoid now.
Or maybe all those years of little lies to keep his parents off his back—on top of the guilt he still felt over having to put Meg through a divorce—had finally come back to bite him in the ass.
Maybe this is what I really deserve, to be alone.
Above him, a waning moon shone in a cloudless sky, the stars shining down. Maybe there was a higher power judging him.
Or maybe there wasn’t anything more to it than the judgment of the moon and starts—meaning not a damn iota.
Still, it hurt to know he’d met perfection and let it slip away because of his own actions.
If he was ever lucky enough to get another chance, he wouldn’t let it slip away.
Chapter Seven
“Jackson?”
He looked up at his name being spoken from his classroom doorway. “Huh? Sorry.”
Ellen Cabry, one of the student deans, stood in his doorway. “Dude, why are you still here? It’s Friday night. Go out and do something.”
“What time it is?”
“Nearly six.”
“Holy cow, I didn’t realize how late it was.” He sat back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m trying to make sure I don’t have any loose ends for Tuesday. And getting ahead of grading papers.”
“Everyone says you’ve done a fantastic job on the committee. Even the attorney says it cannot fail to—”
“No, no no!” He covered his ears with his hands. “Do not jinx us!”
She laughed. “You’re too much, Jackson. Go home, huh? I know you have keys to the place, but you need to take some time for yourself. When was the last time you took a weekend off, and I mean out of
town?”
“I get summers off.”
“No, you don’t, liar. You’re the department head and you’re here teaching summer school. I handle the personnel records, dummy.” She smiled.
She could get away with teasing him like that, because she was in her early sixties and was like an adopted mom to him. He’d had dinner at her house with her and her family countless times over the years.
“It’s Friday,” she repeated. “Go home.”
“I will. I only have five more papers to grade.”
“You realize you can do that at home, right? Kicking back on your sofa with a beer or something? That’s why we computerized everything, to make it easier on the teachers, so you’re not tied to a damn desk.”
“I want it done and out of my hair.”
“Suit yourself, kiddo. Try to take a few breaths and remember to stop and smell the roses. Oh…”
She glanced down the hallway in both directions before stepping inside. “We’re taking up a collection for flowers for Linda Smith’s son’s funeral. If you want to chip in, e-mail Susan at the front desk and tell her how much you want to donate and she’ll send you one of those payment request things.”
“Wait, Linda Smith, the cafeteria manager?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to her son?”
“Didn’t you hear? He was in that bakery. He was critically injured. Finally died this morning, poor guy. They took him off life support. Head injuries.”
“What bakery?”
Ellen looked at him like he’d just sprouted a third eyeball. “Don’t you watch the news?”
“No.”
“The explosion Sunday morning? The propane plant blew up when a car hit it? Took out power to a bunch of people, destroyed the bakery, really? You didn’t hear it? Hell, people heard the explosion damn near all the way south to Nokomis and north up past Ellenton.”
He blinked, stray scraps of news nuggets he’d heard all week but hadn’t focused on dropping into context now. He’d been too deep into his own shit—including wondering why Noah hadn’t contacted him—to pay attention.
“I was up in Tampa Saturday night with a…friend. I didn’t come home until late Sunday morning.”