The Fixes (21 page)
Authors: Owen Matthews
Jordan reverses down the street, away from the smoke and the storefront and the bathing suit carnage. Executes a quick three-point turn so the Tesla is facing west, toward Marine Drive and Jordan's dad's mansion. Haley twists in her seat to watch the Côte d'Azur disappear in the distance, just a thick cloud of gray smoke against the black sky. She can hear the sirens now. Jordan's driving too slow.
Faster
, she thinks.
Drive this freaking car faster
.
But of course Jordan has this all thought out, and if he drives like a maniac, they'll probably get pulled over. So Jordan drives normal, just four kids on their way home from something totally innocent.
(Just don't ask why they're wearing all black.)
Jordan drives away from the town center. The road loops into the forest and along the shoreline, and the lights of the first mansions appear between the trees. A police car screams past, red and blue lights piercing the darkness, and Haley doesn't breathe until it's around the next corner.
Jordan finds her eyes in the rearview mirror again, and Paige and E turn to look at each other too, and they all kind of exhale and laugh a bit, and Haley is glad the others were as freaked out as she was.
They keep driving until they reach Jordan's house. They pass more police cars, but none of them slow down. Jordan
reaches his driveway, hits the clicker to open the gate. The gate slides open, and then it slides closed behind the Tesla, and Haley follows E and Paige and Jordan out onto Jordan's driveway, and it's so quiet out here that they can still hear the explosion, ringing in their ears.
CAPILANO POLICE RULE FOUL PLAY IN CÃTE D'AZUR EXPLOSION
The explosion that ripped through the popular swimwear boutique Côte d'Azur two nights ago was caused by a bomb, a Capilano Police detective announced this morning.
“This was a professionally constructed bomb,” Detective Tom Dawson told the
Herald
. “A textbook IED, designed for destruction. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
Dawson would not comment when asked if the department has any leads in the case, nor would he speculate as to whether the bombing bears any connection to other seemingly random acts of destruction that have occurred in Capilano this summer.
“We're exploring all possibilities,” Detective Dawson told the
Herald
. “The department won't rest until these cases are solved and the perpetrators brought to justice.”
“âProfessionally constructed,'” Jordan reads from his phone. “âWhoever did this knew what they were doing.'” He grins across the Tesla at E. “What do you know, E? We're bona fide terrorists.”
E sips from his Fiji water and reaches for Jordan's phone. “Eyes on the road,” he says. “You may be a terrorist, but you can't text and drive.”
“Who's texting?” Jordan hands the phone over. “I'm just reading the news.”
“Whatever,” E says. “I still think you overdid it with that Vine.”
It's Monday morning, and E has a killer hangover. He and Jordan saw Calvin Harris at the Roxy on Saturday night, and then Jordan knew a guy who was throwing a warehouse party somewhere by the docks. E can't remember much about what happened after, except that he drank a lot and wound up tangled in Jordan's sheets this morning.
(Haley skipped the party. She went home the morning after the bombâ
“Went to be with her family,” Jordan said. “It would look pretty damn suspicious if she just disappeared right now, don't you think?”
âand Paige begged off after the Calvin Harris show. She said she had to get up early to work on
's movie, but she's been kind of
weird
since the bomb went off, anyway.)
Now E and Jordan are heading to E's house. E needs fresh clothes, and probably a shower. He's already running late for his volunteering thing. And he's worried about the Pack's latest Vine. The Côte d'Azur bombing.
Jordan made Haley post it. As far as E's concerned, it's borderline incriminating. It's sure as hell not fun and games. A close shot of the bomb. GoPro footage of the Côte d'Azur. Close-up on Tinsley Keefer's face.
And then the blast.
Haley's laughter.
The Pack logo.
The tagline: “Beauty is in the eye of the bomb holder.”
“It's too obvious,” E tells Jordan as they drive. “They're going to suspect Haley. If the cops see that Vine, they'll know for sure. It's her mom's store, after all.”
Jordan speeds through a yellow light. “What kind of crazy person would blow up her own mother's store?”
“Well, Haley, apparently.”
“Yeah, but the police don't know that. Haley's been the perfect daughter all week. Right now she's probably, like, agreeing to get a boob job just to cheer her mom up. No one's going to suspect her.”
Jordan rounds a corner too fast, and E winces from the g-forces. His head throbs. “So who do you think they'll investigate, then?” he says. “They have to have some kind of theory.”
Jordan shrugs. “They'll probably pin it on some crackpot. Some nut they've been looking for an excuse to arrestâbut not us.”
E thinks about it, and he decides Jordan's right. Still, it's hard not to worry. A bomb is a pretty big deal.
Jordan slows for a stop sign. “You have to stop worrying so much,” he says, reaching over to rest his hand on E's upper thigh.
(His fingers trace circles, and E leans over to kiss him, but Jordan draws back a little bit, teasing.)
“You just have to trust me,” Jordan says. “Everything's going to be fine.”
(There is a voice in E's brain that doesn't completely believe Jordan.)
(But E's getting pretty good at ignoring that voice.)
Jordan parks the Tesla at the curb across from E's driveway, and E leads him into the house. Down the stairs to his bedroom.
It's dark down there. It's a lot smaller than Jordan's bedroom. E's self-conscious of everything as Jordan stands in the doorway, looking around.
“Wow,” Jordan says, studying the dusty trophy shelf, the bookcase, the one piece of art on E's wallsâ
(a framed print of his grandfather's campaign poster his dad gave him for Christmas one year).
“So this is where the Connelly Man prepares for a life of greatness.”
E looks around, trying to see the room the way Jordan sees it. His academic achievement medals and trophies on the shelf. A couple of old rugby awards, because his dad lettered in rugby at Stanford. A collection of cast-off legal textbooks on the bookshelf, a couple of old comic books and the odd novel E's never had time to read. His cluttered desk, his messy closet. The twin bed he's had since he was, like, eight.
(Jordan has a walk-in closet, a private bathroom, and a private sunroom. He has a king-size bed, and his walls are decorated with framed, limited-edition Japanese language posters for his dad's movies, and fliers and art by big-name artists who Jordan knows personally.
Jordan's room is a castle.)
“I'm sorry you have to see this place like this,” E says, digging through his closet for a clean shirt. “My dad thinks a Connelly Man should know hardship, apparently.”
Jordan scoffs. “Like your dad knows anything about hardship. He probably had a team of personal servants growing up.”
“A maid,” E says. “That's all I need.”
Jordan grins that wicked grin. Puts down the Student of the Year plaque he's holding and comes across the room to E.
“I'll send mine right over,” he says, his hand on E's chest. “Or maybe you should just move in with me.”
He has that look in his eye, the mischievous sexy look that more or less guarantees trouble. He pushes E back onto the bed, straddles him. The frame groans, and E opens his mouth to protest, fend Jordan off. “I'm going to be
so
late for work.”
“Forget work,” Jordan says, pressing his mouth against E's. “Liam's not like those pricks at HH&B. He won't care.”
E's about to protest, thinking,
Liam might very well care, and anyway, I don't want to be a dick to him
, but then Jordan's pushing his tongue into his mouth, and E realizes he doesn't possess the power to tell Jordan to stop, so he shuts up and kisses Jordan back instead.
Jordan has E's shirt off when the floorboards creak upstairs. E freezes.
Shit
.
(Nobody's supposed to be home right now.)
Jordan catches the look in E's eye. Lets him sit up. “What's wrong?”
“Someone's here,” E says, looking around for his shirt.
“Yeah, I heard that. So?” Jordan arches an eyebrow. “You're almost eighteen, E. You're not twelve.”
“As if that matters.” Footsteps upstairs, but E can't tell if they're his dad's or his mom's. “They don't know about us. They don't know I'm, you know . . .”
“Gay?” Jordan laughs. “You're such a dumbass. We're adults. We use condoms. Why should it matter who we're fucking?”
Footsteps on the
stairs
now, coming down to the bedroom, coming in hot.
(E can't find his shirt anywhere.)
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Roger Dodger,” E tells Jordan. “My dad freaking
beat up
that gay guy in San Francisco. What do you think he'll do to us?”
“He isn't going to do shit. Calm down.”
“I can't calm down.”
E exhales.
“Where in the hell is my shirt?”
The footsteps stop outside E's door. The house goes quiet. Jordan reaches behind himself and fishes out E's T-shirt. Hands it over, but E's barely paying attention.
(It's like the whole house is listening, now.)
Three knocks at the door, loud, sharp, authoritative. Then E's dad's voice booms from outside. “Eric,” he says. “Are you in there?”
Jordan's still smiling like this is the funniest thing in the world.
Shit.
E can
feel
his dad waiting for an answer. “I'm here,” he calls back. “Just give me a second.”
E pulls his shirt over his head. Stands and crosses to the door. Collects himself.
“Dad, hey,”
he says as he pulls the door open.
“
Senator
Connelly,” Jordan says from the bed. “How's it going?”
E's dad looks past E and into the bedroom. Takes in the mess, the rumpled bed,
Jordan
.
(His dad is dressed for travel, holding an overnight bag.)
“Going on another trip?”
E's dad frowns. “Honolulu,” he says. “I'm speaking at a convention. Just stopped by to pick up my luggage.” He pauses, and his brow turns into canyons again. “What are you doing home? Shouldn't you be at your internship?”
E fakes a cough. “I'm not feeling so good.”
(This isn't exactly a lie, but E knows a hangover isn't going to get him any sympathy points.)
“I'm going to make up the missed time tomorrow.”
(This isn't technically a lie either. E
could
stay late.)
“I'm working on stats problem sets instead. Jordan just dropped by to make sure I'm not, you know, dying.”
(Okay, now
this
is a lie.)
“Honolulu, huh?” Jordan says. “That's rad. Do you think you'll have any time for, like, surfing?”
“Surfing.” E's dad looks at him like he's insane. “No, I won't be doing any surfing. This isn't in any way a vacation.”
“Oh,” Eric says. “Too bad.”
E's dad studies him. Disapproving, like anyone who stays home sick is the same kind of monster who would go to the beach in Hawaiiâ
(definitely no Connelly Man).
“I should get back to it,” E says, a big, cheesy fake smile on his face. “What time does your plane leave?”
“Hmm?” his dad says. “The flight's in an hour and a half.” He looks past E again. Takes a long hard look at Jordan. Then his eyes go back to E, and his forehead goes all Mariana Trench.
“Eric, your shirt is on inside out,” he says. “And if you think I don't see your friend trying to pull his socks back on, you're both kidding yourselves.” He looks at E, hard. “What's really going on here?”
E feels his face flush. “It's not what you think,” he tells his dad. But he can tell from his dad's thundercloud expression that it's pointless to even try.
“You were fooling around down here,” E's dad says. “You haven't been home in days, but you brought your friend over to have
sex
in
my house
. And now you have the gall to lie to my face about it.”
“So what?” E replies. It's out of his mouth before he knows he's saying it. “Are you actually going to stand there and judge me? You're not exactly, like, a paragon of virtue.”
His dad's face is turning angry red. “We don't raise Connelly Men to be morally bankrupt,” he says, his voice trembling. “I've put up with a lot of bullshit from you this summer, Eric. But I will
not
tolerate this kind of perversity.”
E can't think of an answer that won't get him disowned. It doesn't matter. Jordan butts in.
“So what are you going to do,
Senator
?” he asks. “You going to kick his ass like you beat up that
faggot
in San Francisco? Are you going to teach him a lesson?”
E's dad spins at Jordan, furious. “You did this.
You
did this to my son.”
“I'd say we did it to each other, but whatever turns you on.” Jordan winks at E as he stands up from the bed. “We were going to fuck around in E's bed like a couple of big gay homos, but you had to come down and cock-block us. I guess we'll have to take this party somewhere else. Wouldn't want you to have to commit another hate crime.”
E's dad does look ready to unleash another beating.
“Get. Out
.
”
“What did I just say? I'm leaving.” Jordan sidles in close to E. He has his arm around E's waist before E can react. “But I'm taking your son with me.”
(
Dude! Shut the fuck up!
)
E's dad makes a move toward them, and E thinks,
This is it, Roger Dodger reduxâ
(
or maybe he'll just murder me first
).
“Do it,” E says, stepping in front of him. “Go on and hit him, you hypocrite. And then watch how I tell Mom what you're really about.”
But his dad stops himself. He's red all over and, like, shaking with rage, but he doesn't hit anybody.
“Don't come back, Eric. I won't have this filth in my home.”
E's legs are jelly. He feels numb. He lets Jordan push him away from his dad and out to the hallway. Up the stairs.
“You should try practicing this filth sometime,
Senator
,” Jordan calls back. “Maybe then you wouldn't be such a douchebag.”
