He simply scooped her up in his arms.
I'm knocking off for the day.
Fine.
Holt stood, his thumbs in his pockets, a look of unholy glee in his eyes.
See you tomorrow.
Nathaniel, you can't
Shut up, Meg.
He dumped her in the car. She craned her neck, and wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed to see Baxter heaving himself back onto the pier.
He needed quiet to pull himself back from violence. He detested the temper that lurked inside him, that made him want to raise his fists and pummel. He could rationalize it, under the circumstances, but it always left him sick inside to know what he was capable of if pushed.
There was no doubt in his mind that he would have come very close to murder if Megan hadn't stopped him.
He'd trained himself to use words and wit to resolve a fight. It usually worked. When it didn't, well, it didn't. But he continued, years after the last blow he'd taken from his father, to remember, and regret.
She was shivering by the time he parked the car in his driveway. It didn't occur to him until that moment that he'd forgotten Dog. Holt would see to him, Nathaniel figured, and plucked Megan from her seat.
I don't—
Just be quiet.
He carried her in, past the bird, who squawked greetings, and up the stairs. Megan was ready to babble in shock by the time he dumped her in a chair in the bedroom. Without a word, he turned away to rummage through his dresser drawers.
Get out of those wet clothes,
he ordered, tossing her a sweatshirt and sweatpants.
I'm going to go down and make you some tea.
Nathaniel—
Just do it!
he shouted, gritting his teeth.
Just do it,
he repeated quietly, and shut
the door.
He didn't slam it; nor, when he was down in the kitchen, did he put his fist through a wall. He thought about it. But instead, he put on the kettle, got out the brandy. After a moment's consideration, he took a pull of the fiery liquid, straight from the bottle.
It didn't calm him very much, but it took the e.g. off his sense of self-disgust.
When he heard Bird whistle and invite Megan to come to the Casbah, he set her spiked tea on the table.
She was pale, he noted, and her eyes were too big. So were the sweats. He nearly smiled at the picture she made, hesitating in the doorway, with the shirt drooping off her shoulders and the pants bagging at her ankles.
Sit down and have something to drink. You'll feel better.
I'm all right, really.
But she sat, and lifted the mug in both hands, because they tended to shake. The first sip had her sucking in her breath.
I thought this was tea.
It is. I just gave it a little help.
He sat across from her, waited until she sipped again.
Did he hurt you?
She stared down at the table. The wood was polished so brightly she could see her own face in it.
Yes.
She said it calmly. She thought she was calm, until Nathaniel put his hand over hers.
Her breath hitched once, twice, and then she put her head on the table and wept.
So much washed out with the tears the hopes she'd once had, the dreams, the betrayal and the disillusionment, the fears and the bitterness. He didn't try to stop her, only waited it out.
I'm sorry.
She let her cheek rest against the table a moment, comforted by the cool, smooth feel of the wood on her skin and Nathaniel's hand on her hair.
It all
seemed to happen so fast, and I wasn't prepared.
She straightened, started to wipe
the tears away, when a new fear glazed her eyes.
Kevin. Oh, God,ifBax—
Holt will take care of Kevin. Dumont won't get near him.
You're right.