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He had stopped walking. Kennedy stopped too, looking at him in inquiry.
“I think I’ll take a walk,” Jason said. “Maybe get a drink somewhere.”
He could see Kennedy didn’t like that. He seemed undecided about what to do.
“Of course,” he said finally, and Jason didn’t think he imagined the reluctance. “I’ll be in touch.”
Jason nodded politely and headed for the front doors.
Kennedy was still standing in the lobby as Jason stepped out into the night.
Chapter Nineteen
A brisk walk in the chilly, damp night air helped.
A little.
Kennedy had once accused Jason of having a tendency toward dramatics.
No. “A flair for the dramatic.” That’s what he’d said. You’re curious, imaginative, and have a flair for the dramatic. You like to talk, you’re a born smartass, and you get bored following a script.
Was he going to spend the rest of his life remembering every damn thing Sam Kennedy had said to him?
Anyway, flair for the dramatic aside, he thought his emotional reaction to Kennedy’s revelation was understandable. Knowledge didn’t change anything, but at least he knew now what he had been up against. Nothing he did or didn’t do would have changed the outcome. Kennedy had known in Massachusetts that he didn’t want to get involved, and the fact that he’d gone against his own instincts was even flattering in a weird way.
Nor was it about lust. For eight months they’d simply talked. Long distance, for Christ’s sake. Kennedy genuinely liked Jason. So there was another balm for Jason’s ego. And everything he’d done since discovering Jason was in trouble reinforced the depth of his feelings for Jason, from bulldozing over the local cops to helping Jason dispose of evidence—er, not-evidence.
He was trying to be a good friend. Trying not to hurt Jason. He was trying, in his own fucked-up, obsessive, driven-by-demons way, to do the right thing.
On one level Jason could appreciate all of that. He really could. Did.
On another level…it just hurt.
Unbearably.
Why—how—had he let himself start caring so much? He’d known from the very first, from day one, certainly from that first night together in Boston, that getting involved with Sam Kennedy was a no go.
All these months. He’d kept assuring himself it was all under control, that he wasn’t taking it that seriously. Who the hell was he kidding? Himself, apparently. And only himself. The truth was he’d been in way too deep from the beginning. Since Kingsfield. Since the night Sam had come to his hotel room after they’d said their goodbyes.
Before they’d ever left the village of Kingsfield, Jason was falling for Sam Kennedy.
Falling in love.
And nothing that had happened during the last eight months had changed that—although it sure as hell should have.
If he was mad at anyone, it was himself. For being such a fool. For going against his own better judgment. For choosing to fall in love with Sam Kennedy of all people.
Oh, hell yeah he wanted to meet this art teacher pal of Charlie’s. Bring it on. Bring him on. Hell, have him jump out of the fucking birthday cake. If Jason had listened to his family and friends—hell, if he’d listened to George Potts—he’d have been busy dating normal people and that would have formed a natural defensive barrier against sad, fucked-up, freeze-dried Sam Kennedy, who wasn’t just married to his job, he was married to his tragically dead lover. Who the hell could compete with that? Who would want to?
Especially when no one was asking him to.
The pub was called The Mermaid’s Tale.
It sort of reminded Jason of Kingsfield’s Blue Mermaid, with its dark, smoky taproom (though no one had smoked in there for decades) and jukebox playing golden oldies to a cast of regulars that seemed to include Gorton’s Fisherman, Captain Crook, Cap’n Crunch and Charlie the Tuna. Kitschy fishing nets with sea shells covered the low ceiling, and a large oil painting of a very naked mermaid took up most of the wall behind the bar.
That mermaid fascinated Jason. She wore nothing but fish scales and a sly smile, and was impressively, anatomically correct down to the shading of her blue-green caudal fin.
He had walked himself to a standstill. Not physically. Emotionally. He was cold and tired and completely disheartened. He would have a beer and then walk back to the Buccaneer’s Cove. Hopefully by then he’d be tired enough to sleep.
