“Let’s take a look at Tatum Jackson’s career,” the commentator invited with a warm smile and then we were treated to a montage with a pre-recorded voiceover and sappy music playing over a variety of live action and still pictures of Tate’s short football career with some still frames of Tate’s longer bounty hunter career. These were pictures I recognized from Loretta’s stalker site, pictures I knew would mean about seven thousand new Tate Stalker Sites were going to spring up. The football footage included the tackle that took out Tate’s knee, a late tackle and dirty, made by an offensive lineman who was unbelievably huge, and, worst of all, it looked like it freaking hurt and I could have done without seeing that.
The montage done – with a photo in the top, left corner of the screen of Tate, looking tired, but definitely still smokin’ hot, striding purposefully toward the hospital, his eyes straight, his hand on Jonas’s shoulder, Jonas’s face blurred out – the camera closed in on one of the sports commentators as he looked soberly straight into the camera.
“They blurred out my face!” Jonas shouted, clearly aggrieved.
“Every Sunday,” the commentator’s voice was low and serious, “we report to you about the heroes of the gridiron. Many of those men do good deeds but not many of them save lives. Tatum Jackson, a promising recruit for the Eagles, had his football career cut tragically short. But the real tragedy would have been if Jackson had not gone on to protect the people of the town of Carnal, Colorado and the future victims of the vicious May-December murderer. Our hats off to you, Jackson. You are a true hero.”
“Fucking hell,” Tate muttered and I giggled which was bad since it hurt my side.
“I liked it,” Mack declared, lying on the floor with Jonas and Carrie, he rolled to his back and looked up at Tate and me, “pure drama, absolute class.”
Tate scowled at the screen and ignored Mack. “They didn’t mention Jim-Billy.”
“We all love Jim-Billy but, it must be said, Jim-Billy isn’t as hot as you, Tate,” Carrie noted, also turning but lifting up with her forearms in Mack’s chest. “And, as far as I know, he didn’t make the All-American team,” she hesitated before finishing, “twice.”
“I think we should do the reality show,” Jonas chimed in. “That would be so cool!”
“We?” I asked Jonas.
“Bub, get that outta your head. Not gonna happen,” Tate said over me.
“We!” Jonas ignored Tate. “You, me and Dad. You and me will be, like, the brains behind the action, doin’ searches on Dad’s computer and, I don’t know, other stuff.”
“The brains behind the action,” Dad murmured through a chuckle.
“Laurie would look hot on TV.” Jonas thought this was enticement but it was not.
“Reason one not to do it,” Tate said to Jonas.
“Why is that reason one?” Jonas asked his father.
“Bub, it isn’t gonna happen,” Tate repeated.
“She’d be hot, you’d be cool and I’d be famous!” Jonas shouted.
That’s when Tate got mad, so mad, he didn’t weigh his words.
“You think Dalton McIntyre is the only cracked fuckwad out there? You want Laurie on TV so any sick fuck can fixate on her? Bub. It. Is. Not. Gonna. Happen.”
Jonas’s face got pale and my body got tight. Then Jonas shot up from the floor and ran from the room.
I started to make a move, mumbling, “I’ll go –”
“I’ll go,” Mom said over me, didn’t look at anyone, and swept from the room.
Dad got up from the armchair announcing, “We’re out of beer.”
“We aren’t Dad, there’s –” Carrie started but Dad interrupted her.
“We’re out of beer,” Dad stated firmly. “Mack, Carrie, you comin’ to town with me?”
Carrie looked down at Mack and Mack looked up at Carrie. Then without glancing in any direction but the door, Dad, Mack and Carrie walked out of it.
Carefully, because my stab wound miraculously didn’t hit anything vital, but it still hurt like a mother, I twisted to look up at Tate.
“Baby, you should go talk to Jonas.”
Tate was staring at the TV screen, a commercial now on, he lifted the remote and I heard it go mute. Then he looked down at me and I held my breath at the anger still darkening his features.
“What happened to you isn’t exciting. The aftermath of it, with those fuckin’ buzzards circling, isn’t cool. It’s fucked. He needs to get that.”
“He’s coping,” I said softly, “the only way he knows how.”
“And you?” Tate shot back a question that confused me.
“Me, what?” I asked.
“I was in that house, Lauren. When we went after Jim-Billy, I saw where he had you, I saw what you saw. I saw your blood on that mattress. Are you coping?”
“Well…” I said, “yeah.”
He stared at me, his jaw went hard and a muscle ticked there.
Then he bit out, “Bullshit.”
I turned fully to him. I was lying partly on him, partly on the couch but my movements brought me fully on him. They also hurt but I fought back the pain and put my hand to his heavily stubbled jaw (he hadn’t shaved, not since that night, he was growing back the beard, for me).
“Honey,” I whispered, “I’m okay.”
“I saw what you saw and I wasn’t tied to a mattress,” Tate repeated.
“I’m okay,” I repeated too.