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goforth-ladymidnight · 4 months

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A Second Chance

Ch. 4 of (I stopped counting, ok?)

Pairing: Tamlin x Lucien

Word Count: 6k

Summary: Tamlin reveals what happened to him seven years ago

Warning: This chapter involves some heavy themes and implied SA, but it is not explicit

Read on AO3 or read on below:

Lucien carefully set down the steaming ceramic coffee mugs on matching cork coasters before taking his place on the loveseat next to Tamlin. “Do you want anything else?” he asked gently.

Tamlin huffed a laugh and rubbed his eyes. When he dropped his hands, his face was flushed red, and his green eyes were swollen, like some sad sort of Christmas card. “How about a do-over?” he sniffed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I wish I could have a do over of the last seven years,” he said, voice cracking.

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

Tamlin winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, but… I need to.”

Lucien reached out and gently rested his hand on his friend’s back. Tamlin stiffened at first, then sighed and softened as he began to rub. “I’m sorry I pushed you,” Lucien said softly. “If you don’t want to tell me, I completely understand.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Tamlin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s the problem.”

Lucien sighed, then leaned over to reach for the box of tissues. “Here.”

Tamlin breathed a teary laugh, then took two tissues and wiped his face with them. “Goddammit,” he whispered. “I’m such a wimp.”

“You’re not a wimp,” Lucien said firmly. “That’s your dad talking.”

“No, if it was really my dad talking, he would grab an empty mug and tell me to fill it up if I was going to cry so much.”

Lucien grimaced and removed his hand to pick up his coffee and Tamlin’s. “I don’t have any empty mugs,” he said, “so if you want one, you’re just going to have to drink this up first. And something tells me you won’t feel like crying into it when you’re done.”

Tamlin’s red-rimmed eyes fell to the proffered coffee mug, then he sighed. He slowly, carefully took it and wrapped his hands around the warm cup, then inhaled the fragrant steam. “Thanks, Lu,” he murmured.

“Anytime.”

When Tamlin seemed more interested in holding it than drinking it, however, Lucien gently nudged him.

“Hey.” When Tamlin looked up, he lifted his mug in salute. “Here’s to your health,” he said in Scythian, then sipped.

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

When Lucien translated, Tamlin’s lips curved into the softest of smiles.

“You used to drive me crazy, you know, practicing Scythian on me all the time,” he said with a breathy chuckle. His gaze grew distant, as though remembering, then he sighed. He had been doing that a lot lately, Lucien noticed, but at least he didn’t look like crying anymore.

Tamlin raised his mug to his lips, then paused. “How do you say that again? That little toast, or whatever.”

Lucien smiled and told him, then grinned as Tamlin repeated it. His accent was atrocious, but it was the thought that counted. With an approving nod, he clinked his cup against Tamlin’s and repeated it once more, then gladly drank when his friend drank.

After that first swallow, Tamlin lowered his mug with a contented sigh. “God, I’ve really missed this,” he whispered.

“Hey, there’s more plenty more where that came from,” Lucien said, raising his mug with a smile.

“No, I meant… Being with you.”

Lucien’s smile faltered. There was such pain and sorrow in those big, amber-flecked green eyes… and yet, there was a glimmer of something like hope. Like an abandoned tomcat that had found its way to a warm fire. I know this can’t last, his eyes said, but thank you for letting me rest.

Lucien suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap Tamlin in a giant blanket and feed him latkes and coffee and pie until he was too stuffed to move, then tuck him into bed and promise that nothing would ever hurt him again. Tamlin was no tomcat, but still, the idea was a tempting one.

For now, Lucien contented himself with patting Tamlin’s leg. “I’ve missed you, too,” said softly, trying to smile.

Tamlin dropped his gaze to Lucien’s hand still resting on his knee. Worrying that he might have crossed some kind of line, Lucien removed it to cradle his coffee mug.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said, shifting his position to sit sideways on the loveseat. “What are the odds of us running into each other again after all these years, right?”

Tamlin flexed his fingers as he readjusted his grip on his coffee cup and smiled sadly. “Yeah. Right,” he murmured.

In the silence that followed, unsure of what else to say, Lucien looked away and took another sip of coffee.

“I know you’re wondering what happened.”

Lucien winced. “That doesn’t mean it’s any of my business. It was seven years ago. If you don’t want to tell me, we can just move on, you know?”

Tamlin scoffed. “I wish I could.”

“Why can’t you?” When Tamlin hesitated, Lucien chided himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry…”

“You’re not. It’s just… I’ve never really told anyone about this before, except Jurian.”

Lucien grimaced. “I am kind of curious how you two met,” he admitted. “So, if you don’t mind telling me that much…”

Tamlin sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “For that to make sense, I’d have to start at the beginning.”

“Which was when?”

“When I met the Dean… Amarantha.”

* * *

Tamlin still remembered the rap of his knuckles against the heavy hardwood door, and the emptiness of the administrative office when he stepped inside. There were no windows, but miniature twinkle lights and strands of tinsel decorated the walls and the desks of those who had already gone home for the day, and the holidays, for that matter. There must have been a party earlier, because discarded napkins and cups and plates filled the garbage cans as he passed by.

A long table rested along one wall, covered in a festive disposable tablecloth. He didn’t remember what foods were left, except perhaps the usual sugar cookie crumbs and frosting smears that always made their appearance at such parties. There might have been sandwiches, too, but he didn’t remember. There was a punch bowl, though, with citrus slices floating in bright red liquid. That, he remembered.

It looked like it had been a fun party, but he wouldn’t have thought so based on the look the secretary gave him when he walked in. If the abandoned office was a tomb, she was the corpse, with her leathery skin and dusty-gray hair and pinched, puckered mouth. In all fairness, she was probably only in her mid-fifties or so, but she might as well have been a hundred.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi… Um,” he began, reaching into his jacket pocket. He held up a handwritten appointment card and explained, “I’m here to see the Dean.”

She stared hard at him over the tops of her horn-rimmed reading glasses. Her hands, which were straightening a stack of bright red folders, were long and sharp and bony. There was a shapeless gray cardigan resting around her shoulders, and a tight pearl choker at her neck. She was probably a very nice lady to her grandkids, if she had any. But somehow he doubted she did. She breathed loudly through her nose, then asked in a patiently impatient voice, “And you are?”

“Oh. My name is Tamlin, sir—uh, ma’am. That’s T-A-M-L-I—”

“No. You are late. L-A-T-E. Late. Do you know what time it is?”

Tamlin lowered the card with an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry. My last exam was on the other side of campus. I didn’t think—”

“Young man,” she said sharply. “You were expected to arrive over an hour ago. This office is now closed until after New Year’s. When the office reopens, you may make another appointment. That is, if the Dean agrees to see you. She does not tolerate tardiness.”

Tamlin winced at each snippy, enunciated syllable. So much for tidings of comfort and joy. “I am sorry,” he said, trying to smooth things over. “I thought she might still be here. If you could just put me down on the schedule for the next available opening, I promise I won’t be late.”

The old bat stared at him, then loudly sighed as she set aside her folders. “I suppose I could take a look…”

“That’s all right, Ms. Attor,” an authoritative voice said nearby. “He’s here now. Let him in.”

Tamlin turned to see a tall, imposing woman wearing a long black coat standing in the doorway of the largest corner office. The door had been closed when he walked in. When she caught his eye, she smiled at him with lips as red as her ruby-tinted hair.

“Hello, Tamlin. It is Tamlin, isn’t it?”

He nodded, but the secretary tried to protest.

“But-but-but… It’s after five o’clock! The office is closed—”

“This won’t take long,” the Dean declared, not taking her eyes off him. “You go home. I’ll lock up.”

Without waiting for an answer, she stepped aside and motioned for him to join her. Her long fingernails matched the crimson shade of her lipstick.

“Tamlin. If you please.”

He stuffed his hands inside his jacket pockets and smugly ignored the squawking protests of the Dean’s power-tripping secretary to step inside the spacious private office. She motioned for him to sit while she stepped outside to have a private word with her employee. Part of him wished that he could listen to the verbal dressing down, but the heavy door blocked out all sound.

Unlike the rest of the office space, this room was free of all Christmas decorations. The desk was dark, polished wood, and the rest of the minimalistic décor consisted of polished, black marble sculptures. There weren’t any photos, but there was a large mirror on the wall. Everything was cool and stark and purely professional. Tamlin was studying an abstract painting of a lone mountain peak behind the desk when the door closed behind him.

He turned to see the Dean carrying a single red folder. The tab, he noticed, had his name on it. He gulped.

“You must excuse my secretary,” she said as she took her seat behind the desk. It sounded less like an apology and more like a command. “She didn’t realize how important this meeting was to me. I do hope that your studies were not affected in any way.”

“Oh. No,” Tamlin said, shifting in his chair. “Like I said, I just had my last exam, so…”

“Good,” she said with a cool smile, then opened the folder and laid it flat. “Now, it says here that you had your Language Arts final today, is that correct?”

Tamlin blinked in surprise. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Please. Call me Amarantha.”

“Yes, m—Amarantha.”

Her lips curved upward into a pleased smile. “Good boy,” she purred, then returned her attention to whatever was written in his file. “Would you say that this is your best subject?”

“Second best,” he replied honestly. “I like poetry well enough, but ever since my mom gave me my first violin, music has been my best subject. Well, I mean, it’s my favorite subject, anyway.”

She smiled again. “You are far too modest. Your record says that you’ve been first chair in the orchestra for two years running. That is quite an accomplishment for someone of your age and background.”

“Yes, m—I mean, thank you,” he said, confused.

“Are other members of your family similarly gifted?”

Tamlin took a deep breath, considering. He could have told the Dean how his mother had given up a career in music to marry his father while he pursued a career in the military. He could have told her how his mother used to write her own songs and sing them to her three boys when their father was away. He could have said that out of his three brothers, he was the only one to follow in her footsteps, even though the oldest had become a star quarterback, and the second the captain of the wrestling team. He could have mentioned his father and his five-star ranking, but he didn’t want to. No one but his mother had supported his dreams in any way, so they didn’t deserve any credit. Besides, Amarantha didn’t really need to know the details; she was a complete stranger, even if she was the Dean.

Knowing that she wanted some kind of answer, though, he said simply, “Well, my mom used to play the cello before she—she passed away.”

Amarantha made a small, sad noise. “Oh, dear. I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said politely, then asked, “What about your father?”

“What about him?”

Amarantha chuckled at the clear disdain in his tone. “Oh, dear,” she said again, continuing to smile. “You are not very fond of your father, are you?”

Tamlin snorted. “Should I be?”

“Hmm. It certainly isn’t required,” she remarked thoughtfully, fiddling with her pen. “I, myself, was raised by a single mother, and look at me now…” She smiled proudly. “The first female dean in Middengard University’s history, and I’m not even forty.”

Tamlin nodded politely. “I had no idea,” was all he could think to say, but now he was beginning to wonder.

Her smile grew, and he noticed her eyes crinkle at the corners. “You are a darling,” she said sweetly. She set her pen down to lace her fingers together and delicately rested her chin upon them. “Just between us,” she began in a congenial way, “I was there for your final performance with the orchestra last week, and I have never heard a finer rendition of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony in all my life.”

Tamlin couldn’t help his pleased grin. “Thank you, ma’am—I mean, Ms. Amarantha,” he amended when she gave him a look. “I worked very hard on that piece.”

“I could tell,” she said sweetly.

“It wasn’t just me, though,” he offered. “It was a group effort. Everyone worked just as hard as I did.”

“Yes, but they aren’t the first chair violinist, are they?”

“No, ma—No, Amarantha.”

She smiled and picked up her pen. “Modest, talented, and handsome,” she remarked. “You must be beating off the girls with a stick.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, no?”

He didn’t want to admit that girls didn’t interest him that much. They never had. He was more interested in playing his music, or keeping his head down. Lucien was the first person to weasel his way into Tamlin’s affections, but he was in Scythia for another semester. There was a girl he had known for a while and recently gotten together with, but he had been so busy prepping for finals, they hadn’t spent much time together yet.

Still, he had to say something, so he shrugged. “It’s just… I already have a girlfriend, so…”

Amarantha’s smile faded. “Yes,” she said slowly, turning a page in his file. “A Miss… Feyre Archeron.”

Tamlin straightened in his chair. “How did you know that?”

She glanced up and gave him a cool smile. “I make it my business to know.” She returned her attention to his file and recited, “Feyre Archeron, age 20. Art major, Educational minor. She is passing most of her classes, although failing Literature. Her father paid her tuition in full, but it would seem that she is more interested in socializing than social economics.” Amarantha folded her hands over the file and gave him a stern look. “I certainly hope you are using protection,” she said coolly. “A mid-level student like her will only bring you down.”

His face grew hot. “No offense, but that’s none of your business.”

“As Dean of this University, the success and failure of each of my students is my business.”

“Then why aren’t you lecturing her?” Tamlin said angrily. “If you think she’s doing so badly, then tell her off, not me.”

“Tamlin.” He was already halfway out of his chair, but her tone made him pause. She pointed to his chair with her pen, and said quietly, “Sit down. Please.”

He didn’t want to, but she was the Dean.

When he reluctantly resumed his seat, she lowered her hand and slowly tapped her pen on her desk. “It seems that you have a temper,” she said coolly. “You get that from your father, I take it.”

Tamlin’s temper flared at the accusation, then stuttered out as he realized that he did, in fact, share his father’s temper. And he hated it.

When he remained surly and silent, Amarantha went on, “Don’t get me wrong. A temper can be quite useful, when honed correctly. The same fire that can burn bridges can also create a stained glass window. In your case, the stained glass window is your music. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he muttered and looked away. The sooner she was done talking, the sooner he could leave.

“I can see that I have offended you, and for that I do apologize.”

When he finally turned his head and met her gaze, she smiled.

“You are a bright, passionate young man who cares deeply for others. I know you care for your girlfriend, but her path is not your path. I would hate to see you shackled to someone whose greatest ambition in life is teaching children how to fingerpaint.” Amarantha sighed and shook her head. “I cannot tell you how many talented students I have seen who had to give up on their dreams because they decided to get married to their college sweetheart and have children before they completed their studies.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I don’t want kids, then.”

“Yes, I—” She sat up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I don’t want kids.”

She stared at him open-mouthed, then stammered like her secretary. “But-but—I… W-what about your legacy?”

Tamlin snorted. “Just a second ago you were telling me not to have kids.”

“I was urging you to reconsider having children with someone who is not on your level both creatively and academically.”

“Look, it’s not that serious, okay?” Tamlin said, pushing himself to his feet. “We’re just dating. Besides, everyone I know has had a crappy father, and I don’t want to be one.”

“You don’t have to be to be one.”

His brows furrowed as he looked at her askance. “Huh?”

She gripped her desk and leaned forward. “I don’t think you realize what a treasure you are,” she said fervently. “Not only are you a talented musician, you are tall, handsome, intelligent, well-spoken, and polite. Most of the men I meet have only one or two of those qualities. I have been looking for someone like you for a very, very long time. I had very nearly given up.”

Her unblinking stare made his skin prickle. “Um… okay,” he said, nodding slowly. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Can I, uh, go now, please?”

“Not just yet,” she said, turning to the last page in his file. “We still need to discuss your future here.” When she looked up and noticed that he had remained standing, her features softened. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve made you uncomfortable.” She rose to her feet and motioned for him to sit. “I know you are eager to be on your way, but we are nearly done. Please, have a seat. When I return, we will complete our interview, and then you have my permission to go.”

There were three steps to the door. Three steps to freedom. And three steps to potential academic ruin. So Tamlin sighed, and he sat.

Amarantha smiled. “If you will excuse me for just a moment, I will be right back.”

When the heavy door swung closed behind her, Tamlin glanced at his wristwatch. It was getting late. Feyre was expecting him to pick her up for dinner at seven. At this rate, he would barely make it back to his dorm in time to change.

He could have walked out, but Amarantha was on the other side of the door. Besides, she had access to his file… and Feyre’s, too, for that matter. She hadn’t mentioned it, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she had Lucien’s file on hand, as well. His friend had worked too hard to qualify for this trip to Scythia for Tamlin to mess it up in any way. Amarantha didn’t seem like the sort of person to sabotage a student’s record, but there would be no stopping her if she did.

When the Dean returned, she was carrying two clear cups of bright red punch, complete with floating lemon slices and cinnamon sticks for extra holiday flair. “Here you are,” she said brightly, handing him the fuller glass. “This was served at the faculty Christmas party earlier today,” she explained, taking a seat on the edge of her desk. “There is plenty left if you’d like another glass, but it would be a shame to waste it.”

Before he could protest, she had already lifted her cup to toast him. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped her head back to drink.

“Oh, okay. Cheers, I guess,” he said quietly, then took a tentative mouthful of fruit punch. He grimaced at the surprisingly bitter taste, and swallowed hard. Perhaps he’d swallowed a lemon seed, or a clump of cinnamon by mistake.

“Now, then,” Amarantha said, setting her drink aside. “What are you going to do to celebrate? You’ve finished your last final, and here it is, nearly Christmas.”

He was distracted from answering as he watched her unbutton her coat. “Um… I thought we were almost done.”

“Oh, we are,” she said, shrugging it off her shoulders. “I was feeling a little warm, and I thought I’d make myself more comfortable. You don’t mind, do you?”

He swallowed hard as he watched her lay the coat beside her on her desk. Her dress was cut above the knee, and her long, shapely legs were very, very bare. “No, no, of course not,” he muttered, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You were saying?”

He scratched at his eyebrow as he looked away; his face felt flushed. “About what?”

“Your plans,” she reminded him, then began playing with the long gold chain that had fallen into her exposed cleavage.

Had she been wearing that dress under her coat this entire time? The little black dress was unbuttoned below her cleavage and cinched at the waist. It was not exactly what he would have pictured a dean wearing, but who was going to stop her? Some of the guys in the dorm would have called this a fantasy come to life; he felt more like he had walked into a nightmare.

He suddenly remembered she had asked him a question. It was difficult to think. “Um, I’m having dinner later, I-I guess…”

“Oh, really?” she asked, taking his glass from him. “What kind of foods do you like?”

“I—um… Is this rel—rev—revela…” He frowned. His tongue wasn’t working right.

“Relevant?” she finished for him, then laughed. “Very.”

He blinked. “A-all kinds, I-I guess…”

“Good,” she purred. “I do hate picky eaters.”

“W-why?”

Instead of answering, she set his glass aside and pushed herself off the edge of her desk. She stepped closer and reached out to slide her fingers over his scalp, then grabbed his hair and bent his head back.

“Hey,” he tried to say, but his mouth refused to cooperate. His body, too.

“You have green eyes,” she mused, looking into them, then she smiled. Her own eyes were such a dark brown that they were nearly black, or at least they appeared so in this light. Her entire face was in shadow. “They’re the rarest color, you know. I’ve always liked green eyes. They’re so attractive.”

He could only groan in answer.

Her grip softened as she looked him over, and her hands slid through his hair and down to his collar. “I didn’t want to do it this way,” she said, pouting softly as she ran her fingers along his shoulders. “I had so many more questions, but you forced my hand.”

To his horror, she began unbuttoning his shirt, and there was nothing he could do to stop her.

She bent down low, pressing herself against him and filling his nostrils with the sickeningly sweet smell of her perfume. Her breath was hot against his ear as she whispered, “Don’t worry. You won’t remember a thing, but I promise, I’ll make it good for you.”

The last thing he remembered was the sensation of greasy red lipstick pressed against his neck.

* * *

Lucien stared at his friend in horror. Tamlin’s eyes were shadowed and unfocused as he shrugged a shoulder.

“The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with all these security guards standing over me. They said someone had spiked the punch bowl, and did I need to go to the hospital. I don’t… I don’t remember much after that.”

Lucien covered his mouth and looked away, speechless. Of all the stories his classmates had concocted about Tamlin’s disappearance, none of them came close to the horrifying truth. If he had heard the story from anyone else, he would have dismissed it as something they saw on a detective drama or made up for a creative writing class. But to hear this from Tamlin’s mouth… He hadn’t expected this. Never this.

“It took me a while to piece everything together,” Tamlin said quietly, staring into the bottom of his empty coffee mug. “Sometimes I think that I dreamed it all up. Or maybe I’ll wake up, but…” He trailed off and shrugged again, listlessly.

Lucien shook his head to clear it. “Did—did you report her?”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened. “I tried.”

* * *

The police station was a dizzying whirl of sights and sounds and smells. The bluish tint of flickering overhead lighting, the squeak of police-issued shoes against dull laminate flooring, and stale coffee mixed with cheap aftershave. Tamlin sat alone on a barely padded metal chair with uneven legs, next to a scratched wooden desk covered in coffee ring stains and scattered paperwork, waiting to make his statement. With his arms resting on his knees, he tried to block out the tinny ringing of telephones, the blurred murmur of voices, and the slamming of metal filing cabinets by slowly rubbing his palms together, feeling the light calluses in his fingertips that were already beginning to fade. He hadn’t touched his violin since… the incident.

The nurse at the hospital had tried to suggest a r*pe kit, but the idea was absurd. Unthinkable, even. It was just a glass of spiked punch. Nothing more. Nothing except… He hadn’t been sleeping well. Nightmares plagued him. He snapped at Feyre for no reason, and often forgot to eat.

It was the get-well-soon card delivered to his dorm that did it. It smelled like perfume. Her perfume. So on a bitterly cold January day shortly before the start of spring semester, he gathered his courage to go down to the local station and ask the police to look into it. He couldn’t ask the campus police for help. Not when they worked for her.

“Someone say something about reporting a r*pe?”

Tamlin startled and looked up to see a tall, leathery-faced officer with short, iron gray hair frowning down at him. The officer gestured with his clipboard.

“Are you the witness?”

He swallowed. “Um, sort of.”

The officer let out a resigned sigh and took a seat at the desk. He turned in his rolling chair, then leaned back to cross his legs on the scarred wooden desktop.

Resting the clipboard in his lap, he clicked his pen and flatly said, “Please state the date on which the incident occurred.”

Tamlin cleared his throat. “Um. The Friday before Christmas.”

The officer’s eyes flicked up at him, apparently waiting for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, he let out a loud, annoyed sigh to look at the exact date on the calendar. After scrawling it down, he continued, “State the name of the victim if you know it.”

Tamlin rubbed the back of his neck and whispered his own name.

The officer looked him over, frowning, then tersely said, “Spell it.” When he did so, the officer murmured, “…L-I-N… Okay. And you are?”

Late. L-A-T-E. Late. Tamlin blinked, and looked more closely at the officer’s badge.

Attor. T. Attor.

Tamlin’s blood ran cold. “Excuse me, sir. Um, do you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you h-happen to know someone that works f-for the University?”

The officer’s dark eyes narrowed as he looked him over. “My mother works for the Dean’s office, not that it matters. Why, you want to accuse her of something?”

Tamlin blanched and quickly shook his head. “No. Um, thank you for—for your time.”

As he stood, the officer shrugged with the clipboard. “What…?” He made a noise of disgust as Tamlin walked away and muttered, “And thank you so much for wasting mine.”

When Tamlin shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and turned for the exit, he heard the distinct sound of paper crumpling and being tossed into the nearest wastebasket.

Gray slush lined the street and reflected the overcast sky as he trudged to the nearest bus stop. The dirty glass enclosure offered little shelter from the cutting wind, but it was better than nothing. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t feel much anyway.

No one else was waiting around except a brawny, dark-haired fellow in a long coat with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He was patting his coat pockets and muttering something when Tamlin took his seat on the frigid metal bench at the other end of the enclosure.

He had just turned up his collar and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to imagine how painful walking in front of a bus would be, when the man at the other end cleared his throat.

“Hey, kid, you got a light?”

Tamlin glanced over, then slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Neither do I.”

To his dismay, the man got up to join him on his side of the bus shelter.

Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he remarked, “I suppose it’s just as well. I’ve been tryin’ to quit, but you know how it is.” As he replaced the cigarette and its box inside his coat pocket, he continued, “Miryam, that’s my wife—well, now she’s my ex-wife—she used to buy me those patches that are supposed to lessen the cravings or whatever, but damned if they don’t just make ‘em worse. Besides, they don’t keep your fingers warm when it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside, ya know?”

Tamlin managed a shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, well… You’re still young.” The man thumbed his nose and sniffed before copying Tamlin’s stance and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I hate taking the bus, but I hate cabs more. Those bloodsuckers will drain you dry and then run you over to squeeze out loose change.”

Tamlin breathed a tiny chuckle, but the man didn’t seem to notice. Not that he minded. It had been a while since anyone had tried talking to him without some kind of agenda or pity. It was… kind of nice.

“So, my wife—well, ex-wife—got the car in the divorce, so I got a new one, only it got impounded.” He nodded at the police station across the street. “Turns out, cops don’t like it very much when you park outside their house to go birdwatching.”

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “Birdwatching?”

“Yeah, birdwatching.” The man nudged him and raised his brows in a meaningful way. “You know: ‘A little birdie told me that…’ No?”

Tamlin shook his head, confused.

The man’s mouth shrugged. “Yeah, well. Let’s just say it’s code for ‘I got hired to take some private photos’ by a cop’s wife—who now happens to be his ex-wife—and the cop involved figured it was me. So now, I get to try to make friends with the impound lot desk clerk. Except she doesn’t like me very much.”

Tamlin glanced between the man and the station across the street. “So… what are you doing over here, then? Why aren’t you over there, trying to get your car back?”

The man sighed and smiled to himself. “Because I’m trying to quit smoking.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter and flicked it on. Tamlin stared at the flickering orange flame as the man explained, “I was a cop for four years before I decided that wasn’t the life for me. There’s a whole lot of paperwork and not a whole lot of justice goin’ around. So, when I saw you walk out of the station, I figured that my old pals over there didn’t treat you very nice. And, I figured, what the hell; if nothing else, you just needed someone to talk to.” He flicked off the lighter and returned it to his pocket. “Was I right?”

Tamlin managed to swallow down the lump in his throat, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped.

The man smiled, then sat back on the bench. “We’ve got some time to kill before your bus comes. My date at the station can wait, so, spill.”

Just then, the bus appeared at the end of the street, and slowly rattled to a stop as it approached.

“Well, it was worth a shot,” the man remarked. He slapped his knees and sat up, then reached into another pocket and pulled out his wallet. With an expert flick of the wrist, he pulled out a business card and offered it to him. “Here. Any time you need someone to talk to, I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

Tamlin took the card and looked it over. The logo was an eyeball surrounded by a ring. “You’re Jurian?” he guessed, reading the name from the card.

“Yep, that’s me. How about you, kid? You got a name, or should I just call you ‘kid’?”

He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Tamlin.”

“Tamlin,” Jurian said, offering his hand, then shook his. “Good to meet you.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

As the bus screeched to a halt in front of the enclosure, Tamlin came to a sudden decision. He caught the eye of the driver and waved him on.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jurian asked him as the bus doors closed.

Tamlin slid the business card into his pocket and rose to his feet. “Sure,” he said, then nodded to the station across the street. “I’m going to help you get your car back.”

Jurian’s eyes widened as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’d do that?”

Tamlin shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s worth a shot.”

A slow grin grew on Jurian’s face. “Kid, if you can do that, I’ll treat you to lunch. Anything you want. As long as it’s at Annie’s Diner, which is all I can really afford.”

Tamlin chuckled, and he was surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ve never been there, so… Why not.”

Jurian pumped his fists and made a triumphant sound. “Yes. I’m comin’ for you, baby,” he said to himself, and Tamlin wasn’t sure if he meant the desk clerk or the car or even Annie herself. Before he could ask, Jurian pointed at him and said, “You, my friend, have just earned yourself an all you can eat buffet.”

Tamlin smiled nervously and shrugged again. “But I haven’t done anything yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re willing to try, and that counts for something.”

“Yeah,” Tamlin said quietly. “I guess it does.”

“You bet it does,” Jurian said, slapping him on the back. “Come on, kid. Let’s go get my car. I hope you like latkes.”