Gramps had this weird thing about lineage, and since Ben had been named after Gramps—a pretty slick idea, if he did say so himself—Gramps adored him. Most of the time, Clayton had the sense that Gramps liked Ben, his great-grandson, a lot more than he liked his grandson.
Oh, Clayton knew Ben was a good kid. It wasn’t just Gramps—everyone said so. And he did love the kid, even if he was a pain in the ass sometimes. From his perch on the front porch, he looked through the window and saw that Ben had finished with the kitchen and was back on the couch. He knew he should join him inside, but he wasn’t ready just yet. He didn’t want to fly off the handle or say something he’d regret. He’d been working at being better about things like that; a couple of months back, Gramps had had a little talk with him about how important it was to be a steady influence. Peckerhead. What he should have done was talk to Ben about doing what his dad asked when he asked, Clayton thought. Would have done a lot more good. The kid had already pissed him off once tonight, but instead of exploding, he’d remembered Gramps and pressed his lips together before stalking outside.
Seemed like he was always getting pissed off at Ben these days. But it wasn’t his fault; he honestly tried to get along with the kid! And they’d started out okay. Talked about school, had some burgers, tuned in to SportsCenter on ESPN. All good. But then, horror of horrors, he’d asked Ben to clean the kitchen. Like that was too much to ask, right? Clayton hadn’t had the chance to get to it for the last few days, and he knew the kid would do a good job. So Ben promised he’d clean it, but instead of doing it, he’d just sat there. And sat. And the clock ticked by. And then he’d sat some more. So Clayton had asked again—he was sure he’d said it nicely—and though he couldn’t be certain, he was pretty sure that Ben had rolled his eyes as he’d finally trudged off. That was all it took. He hated when Ben rolled his eyes at him, and Ben knew he hated it. It was like the kid knew exactly which buttons to push, and he spent all his spare time trying to figure out new buttons to hit the next time he saw him. Hence, Clayton had found himself on the porch.
Behaviors like that were his mom’s doing; of that, Clayton had no doubt. She was one hell of a good-looking lady, but she didn’t know the first thing about turning a young boy into a man. He had nothing against the kid getting good grades, but he couldn’t play soccer this year because he wanted to play the violin? What kind of crap was that? Violin? Might as well start dressing the boy in pink and teaching him to ride sidesaddle. Clayton did his best to keep that sort of pansy stuff in check, but the fact was, he had the kid only a day and a half every other weekend. Not his fault the kid swung a bat like a girl. Kid was too busy playing chess. And just so everyone was clear, there was no way on God’s green earth that he’d be caught dead at a violin recital.
Violin recital. Good Lord. What was this world coming to?
His thoughts circled back to Thigh-bolt again, and though he wanted to believe the guy had simply left the county, he knew better. The guy was walking, and there was no way he could reach the far side of the county by nightfall. And what else? Something had been gnawing at him most of the day, and it wasn’t until he’d come to cool off on the porch that he’d figured it out. If Thigh-bolt had been telling the truth about living in Colorado—and granted, he might not have been, but let’s say he was—it meant he’d been traveling from west to east. And the next town east? Not Arden. That’s for sure. That was southwest from where they’d met. Instead, heading east would have brought the guy to good old Hampton. Right here, his hometown. Which meant, of course, the guy might be less than fifteen minutes from where he was sitting now.
But where was Clayton? Out searching for the guy? No, he was babysitting.