Their Boy (The Game 2)
One
Kit Damien
Oh no, the jogger was gonna trip. I paused with my ice cream cone in midair and watched the man and woman wrap up their conversation. I came to the Reflecting Pool on the National Mall every Sunday to get a glimpse into other people’s lives, but sometimes there were mishaps. The man was going to trip; I was sure of it. The shoelaces on one of his shoes had come undone, and they were pretty long. It could get ugly.
When the man looked like he was about to continue his morning exercise, I didn’t think. I made a move to get up and warn him about his shoelaces, but I was stopped. Vincent put a hand on my leg and let out a sharp whistle to get the man’s attention.
He looked over, confused, as did the pretty woman he’d been chatting with.
Vincent jerked his chin at the ground near the man’s feet. “Don’t make it an obstacle course, son.”
I grinned quickly and licked my ice cream. Vincent had the wittiest way of phrasing himself.
Crisis averted. The man retied his shoe before running off, and the woman went in the other direction.
I relaxed on our bench and squinted at the sun. It was a good day to people watch in DC. Early summer brought tourists in droves from all over the world.
“You always gotta rescue someone.” Vincent brought out his pack of cigarettes from the inside of his suit and lit one up. “So what if he’d tripped?”
I shrugged and bit into the waffle cone. “He was attracted to the lady. You could tell. We don’t want to make fools of ourselves in front of people we desire.”
Vincent nodded at a spot a few paces away on the path, then blew out some smoke toward the sky. “Maybe he had it comin’? He almost ran into a woman with a stroller over there and got cunty about it.”
Oh. Vincent was good for me. He often gave me a new perspective to consider.
“If we’d let him trip because he was rude to someone else, it would mean we judged him,” I said. “More than that, we’d have doled out a punishment.”
Vincent chuckled and gave my neck a gentle squeeze. “We always judge, kid.”
I tried not to, though. It wasn’t my business. I only wanted to be part of something.
Glancing over at the Lincoln Memorial, memories filled me—memories of better times. Of when I was part of a family. All the times my mom and dad had brought me here, the anecdotes they’d shared about our country’s capital, legends, history… I let out a breath and eyed my ice cream, then stood up as my stomach revolted, and I threw the cone in the trash can.
“I think I’m ready to go home now.” I tugged at the bottom of my shirt to smooth it down, and I brushed a finger over a button that was coming loose. Maybe Rosa could help me reattach it after lunch.
“All right.” Vincent stood up and threw away his cigarette.
I stepped on it as we started our walk to the car.
* * *
Perhaps it was time to give Vincent a position in the company instead.
We stopped at a red light, and I looked out at all the people crowding the sidewalk. It was where Vincent should be, with family or friends, enjoying the lovely weather and a day off. Instead, he was here with me, in a black car with tinted windows, drumming his fingers on the wheel as if he had no cares in the world. But I knew better. I knew he was hiding. He was hiding from the very thing I craved.
I sat in the back, where I only had to look chipper when Vincent checked the rearview mirror.
A woman about to cross the street dropped one of her shopping bags. She picked it up and shared an “oops” laugh with her friends. She could’ve been Vincent’s girlfriend, I thought. Maybe they’d have a few kids. I could visit them.
He’d been with my family since I was little. Back then, I didn’t think it was weird for him to work basically all hours of the day. Most twenty-five-year-olds in bigger cities were career-driven and hungry for that next step on the ladder. My father had promised Vincent many great things, most of all, the position as head of security.
That ladder was gone now, and Vincent wasn’t getting any younger.
He had to be hiding from something.
I’d thought he would leave when my parents died. Most of the staff had.
“You turn forty soon,” I noted.
“Whoa.” Vincent gave me an incredulous look in the rearview. “Can I turn thirty-six first?”
I smiled crookedly and shrugged.
He had a massive family up in Jersey. Brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, his father—he’d lost his mother to cancer a couple years ago—aunts, uncles, et cetera. If Vincent didn’t want to start his own family, then at the very least, he should spend more time with the family he already had. He shouldn’t spend every hour of the week at my constant beck and call just in case I wanted to go somewhere.