The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,107

was actually ill. A middle-aged man holding a sheaf of parking tickets was also standing there, clearly hoping that this new distraction might somehow help him resolve his own problem. And, of course, Ammon was there, bending down to touch Tean’s shoulder. “There’s absolutely no way you’re not going to a hospital,” Tean added. “Right now.”

“No insurance,” Jem said.

A flicker of genuine panic ran through Tean’s face.

“I just stood up too fast,” Jem said. “And I haven’t eaten today.”

“Sure,” Ammon said. “Happens to pregnant women all the time.”

“Do you think this is funny?” Tean said to Ammon.

Ammon winced and held up both hands in surrender.

“Help me up,” Jem said.

This time, Tean grabbed his hands and got him standing. Tean put Jem’s arm around his shoulders, and Jem thought of the heat of the bonfire, the smell of wood smoke, bending to kiss Tean’s neck. Pretend. He was just so good at pretending.

“Maybe I should do that,” Ammon said. “He’s a little big for you.”

“I’m doing it,” Tean said.

Ammon held up his hands again, but he followed them out to the truck. It was noon, the May day hot, and Jem was surprised to see that traffic was light and that the station’s parking lot was mostly empty. Then he realized—remembered?—it was a Saturday. Somewhere on the next block, a horn blatted. Skateboard wheels clicked and whirred as a girl shot past them, crouched low, Tony Hawkette as she picked up speed on the sidewalk. Once, Jem made the mistake of glancing over. Ammon was staring at him, his face hard, and he mouthed two words: Watch out.

Once Tean had loaded Jem into the truck, he shut the door. Jem leaned against the glass. Tean was still standing there, turned toward Ammon, and Jem shut his eyes. You could only watch Romeo and Juliet eye fuck each other for so long before you needed intermission.

“I’m sorry I got upset in there,” Tean said to the detective. “And I understand why you feel the way you do. But I know Hannah, and I know she didn’t do this.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it anymore. Maybe you should talk about it with her lawyer.”

“I want to talk about things with you.”

“Really? Because you haven’t said a word about yesterday. I was starting to think I made a mistake. Never mind. We can talk later.”

Jem opened his eyes in time to see Ammon duck in, peck Tean on the cheek, and hurry away. Tean stood there, his hand to his face, watching him until he disappeared inside the station. Then he came around the front of the truck and got in. His expression was distant, and Jem felt twice as many of those glass blocks on his chest.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Tean said as they headed out of the lot.

Jem slumped against the door, trying to keep his eyes open. The doc shrank and swelled in his vision.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Tean said. “Why can’t he tell me anything?”

“It might have something to do,” Jem paused to swallow, his throat dry, “with the fact that he’s a major prick.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve told you that you don’t understand.”

“Maybe you don’t understand.”

The light at the next intersection must have changed because Tean slammed on the brakes. The truck jerked to a stop. Jem’s head rocked against the glass. A sugary smell came through the vents; on the other side of the street, the door to a bakery stood open.

“His dad is a cop. That’s how he grew up. His whole life is doing this, being police. And that culture is toxic. It’s horrible. Most of those men are deeply afraid. They’re afraid of the people they’re supposed to protect. They’re afraid of each other. They’re afraid they’ll answer a call and a citizen will shoot them in the back of the head. They’re afraid they’ll be blackballed by their brother cops and abandoned when they need them most. And all that fear manifests as anger. They’re brutal because being brutal is better than feeling scared. His days revolve around violence—what he sees, what he tries to stop, what he does himself. It’s this cycle of fear and adrenaline and self-defense that makes them do terrible things because they’d rather do something terrible than die. For most of those guys, their fellow cops are the only ones they can rely on, and now Ammon doesn’t even have that because he came out. And he didn’t tell me. I thought—I thought he trusted