You're Always in the Last Place You Look

You’re Always in the Last Place You Look

By T.N. Gates

T.O.S.O.L Books

Copyright © 2014 by T.N. Gates

All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and/or articles.

Printed in the United States of America

First printing August 2014

ISBN-13:
978-1501023118
ISBN-10:
150102311X

Cover art by Lou Harper

www.louharper.com

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Anke and Isla for all your time and input. For those times when I faltered, and you were both there. I am forever grateful.

To my husband who never doubts me—not always a good thing, but I love you for it.

Chapter One

It wasn’t until I walked into the science lab that I finally saw him. The boy my father had been talking about. Zane Z. Zimmerman. Only he didn’t look like any boy I’d ever seen. Black hair cascaded over half his pale face, partially hiding the colorful tattoo decorating his right cheek. I couldn’t see the details from here, but I had already heard the stories about the
cool
vine that appeared to bleed.

Despite it being close to eighty today, he was draped in a black leather jacket. A teal bandana wrapped his wrist, and his nails were painted black...and...was that—I squinted—I’ll be, metallic pink.

His head was tipped down as he scribbled intently in a steno notebook. And of course he had taken the empty seat at the station I had occupied all year, alone.

I could sit next to him
. He was only a city kid, nothing to be afraid of. I took a deep breath, wiped my clammy hands on my jeans, and searched the room again. Dang, that really was the only seat. Alicia even chose to sit by Patty rather than the new kid. I closed my eyes and whispered a small prayer, asking that he not punch me, stab me, or do anything else a damaged city boy might to a country boy like me. I wasn’t a big guy like so many around these parts, kinda short and squat actually, not to mention I was the pastor’s son. Not a fabulous high school combination. I wasn’t
un
-popular, like Patty who picked her nose, but I definitely wasn’t
in
. I mean, I had two friends...sort of, and people didn’t avoid me in the halls—much.

I knew Zane would be somewhere among the “in” crowd. When the biggest news of the day usually consisted of who won the local jackpots, or whose bull got out and ravaged so-and-so’s lawn furniture, Zane was just too mysterious an entity not to become
the
news in town.

I reminded myself he was just a boy. I had to stop myself from snorting. A boy who had been crushed in a car for three days watching his family die one-by-one, trapped, bleeding, unable to help, alone, sole survivor...
fabulous
.

As I drew closer my resolution faltered. The word
kilz
was scrawled upsidedown in black ink above the knuckles of his right hand...a hand that was in a tight, colorless fist right now. There was something scrawled on his other hand, but I couldn’t read it as he had it cocked at an odd angle while he wrote. I probably didn’t want to know what it said anyway.

I plastered on a friendly face. “Hi, you must be the new guy Zane. I’m Gabriel, but everyone calls me Gabe.” I set my books down, and slid onto the stool next to him.

“How perceptive of you to figure that out,” he drawled sarcastically, turning his head slightly, his pencil going still as he looked me over.

I knew girls that would kill for his deep blue eyes and plush lashes. The hard, unfriendly expression, however, wouldn’t be so attractive on any of them. It seemed to fit Zane splendidly however. Not that I would have been the one to tell him otherwise.

I tried not to squirm under his harsh appraisal. My father always said to greet everyone you meet with a smile, as if they were an old friend. Yeah. Not happening. Zane’s teeth toyed with his silver lip ring before he went back to his notebook.

“God, I hate it here. Stupid rednecks.”

He uttered it under his breath, but I knew he meant for me to hear it. I couldn’t really blame him. It must be hard to have lost everything: family, friends, where you grew up, and all that you knew. We might not have the excitement of a big city, but we rednecks knew how to have fun too. Well, I might not know how, but based on the conversations I overheard most Monday mornings others seemed to.

I caught sight of what he was working on and felt a shudder run down my back. It was beautiful and horrible all at once. Zane was an incredibly talented artist, unfortunately his subject matter was macabre at best. Then I realized the mangled bodies must be his family. His hand slammed down on the sketch, breaking his black pencil, and causing me to jump.

“Do you fucking mind? Jesus Christ.” He threw the broken pencil, grabbed the notebook, and almost knocked me off my stool as he left. His shoulder chipped Mr. Taylor as they passed in the doorway.

“Mr. Zimmerman?” The teacher turned and followed him. I heard Zane’s name echo in the hall a few more times before Mr. Taylor re-entered the classroom.

He pointed at the doorway. “Was that Zane Zimmerman?”

Several of us nodded, and Dirk threw out, “Yep, he’s an asshole.” This coming from the school asshole himself.

“
Dirk
. Let’s not judge him, okay? He’s been through a rough time.” Mr. Taylor sighed as he pulled out the roll chart.

Wow, it wasn’t like him to let a swear slide like that. I guess Zane had the whole school out-of-whack. Heck, probably the whole town. The Cormley’s, Zane’s aunt and uncle, had called my father two months before he was even scheduled to arrive in order to ask the congregation to pray for him. We all did, for awhile anyway, then folks lost interest wondering if he even existed. Now, four months later, the boy everyone had been praying so hard for had finally materialized in our small town. The fact he really was real had surprised everyone. 

*

I didn’t see Zane again until I was headed home. He hadn’t been in the cafeteria or the courtyard at lunch. Not that I had been looking. Well, maybe I had been looking a little. He was...different. A curiosity.

As I crawled through the barbwire fence surrounding the Haynes’s south field, I spotted Zane sitting in the bed of Mr. Haynes’s rusted-out old Ford, smoking. The truck had quit running about ten years ago while he was haying, and he had just left it where it had coughed its last breath.

I walked over. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

He glanced up, giving me the finger as he took another drag.

I shook my head. “Kill your lungs, I don’t care, just don’t do it here.” I ran my hand over the budding tiny purple flowers. “This is alfalfa, and if it burns Mr. Haynes won’t be able to feed his family.”

“Not my problem.”

My jaw fell, then I snapped my mouth closed before I accidentally swallowed a bee. I knew from experience that they didn’t
really
taste like honey, or sweet in any way for that matter. Rather crunchy and sour actually.

I tried to look firm by pulling my eyebrows down. “You’re on his land,” I said, unbelieving of how callous and uncaring he was over a man’s livelihood.

“Aren’t you trespassing too?” The one eyebrow I could see rose.

“No. He knows we respect his field so he lets us cut across.”

Zane swung his legs as he twisted his tongue back and forth between his teeth. I saw a glint and noticed he was playing with a silver stud. I’d always wondered why people got them. They looked rather uncomfortable, yet Zane seemed quite enamored with his, pulling it between his lips and teeth like it was a favorite toy. Suddenly he slapped his neck.

“Sonofabitch.” He pulled his hand away, and narrowed his eyes at the stunned bumble bee in his palm as its shiny black legs twitched.

“Did he sting you?”

His face wrinkled as he tossed it away. “Yeah. Listen, God Boy, I need you to do your good deed for the day, and walk me home.” He took a last drag, heeled up some soil, and buried the butt, tamping the soil back down with the toe of his Converse while I gaped at him. Was he kidding?

“Wha...what?”

He rolled his eyes, then squeezed them shut. “I’m allergic to bees.” His gaze swept the field. “And snake venom.” He laughed ruefully. “This probably wasn’t my best idea since I don’t have my EpiPen.”

At least he wasn’t suicidal. Or the untouchable entity my mind, for some reason, had conjured up.

“All right. But, well, should I call someone? I have my phone and there’s service at the road, maybe even in the back of the truck.”

As he shook his head, I noticed his eyes squeeze closed again. I wondered if it was a reaction to the bee venom or a tick he had.

“No, I have a few minutes. But, um, do you think you can pull the stinger out?” His fingers fumbled along his neck over the red lump already the size of a quarter. Shoot, he really was allergic, and it was already looking rather serious.

I stepped over, and he tipped his head. “All right, move your hand.” Leaning in I squinted, barely able to see the white stinger. He had pit stains but he didn’t smell sweaty. He smelled...exotic. Leather, cloves, some sort of herbal soap, maybe sandalwood, and something else I couldn’t quite make out.
Jesus, what am I doing
? But even as the thought took hold, I couldn’t stop myself from breathing through my nose as I pulled the stinger out.

Zane grabbed my hand. “Let me see.” He leaned close to my index finger where the tiny stinger lay, narrowing his eyes down. “Okay. Thanks,” he breathed.

He seemed to be struggling for air. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, refusing to be responsible for him dying of asphyxiation. I think that was one of the dangers of a bee allergy, wasn’t it? Yeah, I was sure of it.

His lips quirked up on one side before he pulled them between his teeth, and turned to grab his jacket. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get home so my aunt can give me my shot.” He turned back and his eyes pinched closed again, only this time I heard the small grunt he tried to hide. He slung his jacket over his shoulder, then started across the field towards the line of scrub oak and sycamore that marked Cranes Creek.

I followed, surprised that after only a few days here he already knew the shortcut to his aunt and uncle’s place. It wasn’t exactly easy to find. From the Cormley’s you had to push through the heavy brush along Oak Street in order to reach the path that ran along the creek. It wasn’t really a path per se. More like a tramped down deer trail that teens, and occasionally adults, used for illicit activity. I only knew this because I had caught Mrs. Smithers cheating on her husband two years ago with Chad, our friendly local farm mechanic. Obviously he serviced more than tractors and haybines.

They hadn’t seen me, and in a fit of embarrassment I had slunk away. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone having sex. It hadn’t left much of an impression, and my own scant experiences had only strengthened that opinion. Beautiful act my foot.

We reached the creek, and turned left. Zane hesitated long enough to light a brown cigarette before continuing on. I cleared my throat when the smoke wafted over me. The scent of cloves teased the air. Now I knew why he smelled like a spice shop. His cigarettes must be herbal or something.

“Sorry,” Zane muttered, blowing his next lungful the opposite direction. It still managed to float past me however, no matter where I positioned myself.

Zane tripped over a root, and my arms shot out automatically, somehow managing to stop him before he face-planted. My fingers closed around his waist and I felt the dampness of his t-shirt. As I held him steady I became aware he was trembling ever so slightly. This time he didn’t try to stop the grunt that rose out of his chest as his eyes twitched closed. The cigarette fell from his long fingers, and I stepped it out, looking at him with growing concern.

I didn’t necessarily like the guy, but I couldn’t help worrying about him. It was in my nature—being a pastor’s son and all. It didn’t help that my mother was a sweet woman too, and tended to be the overly-sympathetic sort. On more occasions than I cared to count, we had eaten beans or potatoes for dinner because she had given a family in need all our beef. Genetically I was doomed to be a nice person, and no matter how hard I tried, meanness just wasn’t in me.

I was brought out of my head when Zane leaned heavily against my side. He was trying to get a pill bottle open, but his hands were shaking and uncooperative.

I took the bottle, opening it for him. “What are these for?” I was only able to catch his name on the label before he snatched them away. He glared at me as he shoved two over his lips, swallowing with effort. He coughed, and the side of his face tightened then released. He slid the bottle back into his jacket pocket.

“N-none of your...mm...b-business,” he stammered out, then sniffed a few times, and shuffled forward. I went to support him, but was pushed away.

He didn’t make it very far before he was breathing heavily and staggering. He stopped, doubling over. “Help,” he croaked.

I pulled out my phone as I wrapped an arm around him.
Dang
. Not even one damn bar. I sighed as I shoved it back into my pants pocket.
God, I’m assuming it is not his time since you left him when you took his family. So, help me out a little here, please?
I hadn’t prayed for awhile since I didn’t really believe God was up there—but praying never hurt anything, and I really did need some help.

You’d think somebody heard me since Zane straightened up right then, and clutched his arm around my shoulders. He was about three inches taller, which made using me as a crutch a fairly easy task. A few minutes later found us crashing through the front door into the Cormley residence. Zane let go, and sort of half-slid and half-crashed onto the parquet entry.

“Hello? Mrs. Cormley?
Hello
, Zane needs help.”

Zane tugged my pant leg. “Gabe.”