City of Blood [boyxboy]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

As all good things are inevitably cut short and ruined by people peering over your digital shoulder, my moment of total serenity under the gaze of James Marshall shatters when my phone's ping-ping-ping turns into a the full chatter of a phone call ringtone. 

I wince. "Alright if I step out for a moment?" 

As though I'm already on the phone, he waves his hands out to dismiss my concern and shoo me toward the door, mouthing no no, go ahead, not a problem. I scurry from my seat as fast I can and bring the phone to my ear, not checking the name before I pick up with a weak "hello?" and barge through the door. 

The street outside has quieted. The sun droops softly on the sidewalk and soaks the trees in honey.

"Why are you in the south?"

I wince again. "Hello, Father. I am with a classmate." 

"You have classmates coming from the south? Shouldn't they be in the next school zone over?"

"I'm uncertain exactly where he lives. We're working in a cafe."

"And there are no cafes in Scarsdale?"

"He is familiar with this one. He requested we come here."

"Your car is at home."

"He picked me up." Sweat is beading at the nape of my neck.

"He drives? So location isn't an issue?"

Why is he putting so much pressure on this? "He likes this cafe. He offered to pick me up because he finished working on an older car he wanted to show me."

"Ah, a fan of the Camaro," he says, finally relenting with an obviously relaxed intone now. "Young men are nothing if not driven to nonsensicals by their passions. I am glad you are networking! But remember vigilance. They make good friends, not good role models."

"Yes sir. Did you need anything else from me?" Please let this conversation end —

"Oh yes - schedule an appointment with your doctor. Sometime soon. Your trainers want frequent updates on your health."

I catch myself frowning at the ground. "Certainly."

"You'll be of age soon that I won't be permitted to access your medical records. Be sure to ask for copies of everything to send to us when that time comes." 

"Yes sir." 

"You'll be home soon, you imagine?" 

His casual tone has taken up residence in his throat again. I unclench my shoulders. "Soon enough, I expect. I apologize for running off." 

"You're a good boy, Garth," he chuckles. "I trust you to come home in your own time. I'll tell your mother to portion dinner for you if you're not back by then." 

The line drops. My stomach churns.

Something feels deeply, terribly wrong with the universe if my father is allowing me to stay out without his express permission. My instinct immediately is to race home as soon as possible and grovel at his feet for forgiveness, clean the house from top to bottom and schedule three doctor's appointments back to back — but something stops me. Maybe the pure confusion of it all. He sounded... relaxed. Utterly unbothered by me staying out. Father isn't a man of passive aggression, right? Surely I can pick up on when he's upset, right?

I'd rather not find out the hard way that he was upset. 

There's a raking pain in my chest. I look back, but the sun glares just a little too hard against the glass. I can't see James inside.