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Thinking about Cape Cod, Provincetown and his trips out east had always led to thinking about Isabel. Those thoughts just added to the ache in his chest, and tore open whatever scabs had formed over wounds that would never heal.
Now, though, he remembered a day spent out on the water, the giggling squeals of his baby brother who’d only been learning to walk as his mother pointed the silly-looking seals out to all of them. Even Zane, the oldest of them who already started losing interest inlittle kid shit, had been entranced.
It’s called bottling, Travis. They’re relaxing. Harbor seals love two things most of all—eating and sleeping. If you see them bobbing around like that in the water with just their noses poking up, they’re laying back and taking it easy.
Sebastien’s laughter had been cut off as a right whale came up from the water, making the large yacht they’d taken out with friends rock back and forth. Denise Barnes had just laughed and pointed out the whale’s tail as he fluked just a few dozen yards away.
Sunlight reflected on something to the left and he craned his head, grinning as he realized a couple of seals had pulled themselves onto the sandy edge of land across the narrow strip of road in front of the house, not even fifteen yards away.
He was outside on the porch in seconds, tossing only a quick glance around to make sure none of the neighbor kids or their parents were close by.
The air had a bite, even though it was still late summer. He didn’t mind. The threadbare t-shirt and joggers he’d pulled on before collapsing into bed didn’t provide much warmth, but the damp air felt cool and clean against his skin, in his lungs as he dragged in a breath.
One of the seals lifted his head as a loud shout came from down the road, but then lowered it, clearly unimpressed by the humans in the area.
“Me, neither, pal,” Travis muttered. He’d spent so much time in the muck, dealing with the worst mankind had to offer, he wasn’t sure there was much of anything mankindcouldoffer that would undo all the shit he’d seen.
Another shout, this one higher, angry, and maybe a little scared, caught his ears and he scowled but turned his head to look anyway. Several of the seals lumbered into the water, but a couple remained, huffing out what sounded like irritated sighs.
As he reached the edge of the porch, he could only see one person.
But his ears picked up several others—and the lack of ear-destroying guitar.
“ ... a fuckinggirl,” a taunting,meanvoice said.
He locked his jaw, disgust swimming inside as he jogged down the steps and started in the direction of that voice, not even stopping to ask why he was doing it.
Another comment had Travis narrowing his eyes, especially once he saw the speaker—a lanky kid, probably fifteen or sixteen, shoulders already showing signs of broadening, in the gawky stage of puberty that came a few months before the rest of the body started to catch up with the height.
He didn’t like the menace he’d heard in that angry, young male voice. Didn’t like it at all.
“I’mnota girl, shithead.”
Travis glanced at the other kid—slighter than the first teen, more than a head shorter, with a voice full of rage.
“Yeah,shithead!”
Thatcame from one of the kids he’d seen that night a whole gang of them piled out of the van before disappearing into the house. This kid was pint-sized, barely came up to the mouthy punk’s waist, dainty as a fairy, dressed in one of those play costumes kids her age liked. It was poufy and pink and added to the fairy impression. Her mouth was set in a mutinous line as she gave the bully a dark look.
The taller of the three, the punk with the bad attitude, reached out like he was going to shove the little girl. Travis swore, cursing the injury that had him moving slower than he liked.
But the smaller teenager shifted position and in a move that had Travis smiling in approval, he joined his hands together, swiveled his hips and swung, using his double fists like a bat, out and up, striking the asshole right in the chin.
The blow sent the punk stumbling back.
Before the kid could catch his balance, Travis was there.
“Is there a problem?”
The smaller teenager whipped his head around.
Big, doe-brown eyes met his, hardening with a glare.
Travis scanned the kid’s features, replayed the bits of conversation he’d heard and thought he might know what was going on. It didn’t make him like the asshole anymore, either.
Bigots were exhausting, even if they were young bigots.
“Brant used Aaron’s deadname,” the little girl piped up, her bright blue eyes all but dominating the small oval of her face. She tucked her hand into Aaron’s and snuggled closer, beaming up at Travis before looking at the other kid—the little asshole.
