I'm out of my hotel before the sun has even risen the next day, wrapped in my coat and toting my luggage across the train platform by four-thirty. Without the sun, the city is chilled and as eerily close to quiet as it can get; nothing like deserted, but definitely the fewest people I've seen in any public place since I got here. The streetlights are still on, glowing softly through the fog that creeps down from the top of the main station building as I step onto the train.
No one else has boarded this car yet, so I settle into a window seat, staring blankly at the glass and willing the train to get ready a little faster. We finally set off from the station, but the hours crawl as slowly as the sun in climbing the sky, even though the landscape slides past at its usual rapid pace. I swear it's nearly a week before we finally pull into the Boston station even though we actually get in about a half hour ahead of schedule. Since we arrive so much earlier than I expected, I decide to stop by my place to drop off my luggage and freshen up a little. I've never understood how just sitting can make me feel so grungy, but I guess it's just train grime.
From the tidy look of things, the boys were true to their word and never stayed here. Nothing is out of place that I can see: no dishes in the sink, no movies out of their cases or scattered around the VCR, not even a couch cushion tossed carelessly in the floor. My favorite midnight blue chenille throw is still draped invitingly over the back of my sofa where I left it, and I run my finger lovingly over it for a moment, very much looking forward to all the future naps I'm going to have with it wrapped around me while I'm wrapped around Connor or Murphy.
I honestly don't know how they can prefer to stay at their place over mine. I have to shake my head at their stubbornness, but at the same time, I appreciate their concern for the safety of my furniture and the cleanliness of my apartment. I guess they're just used to they're mess.
I breathe in slowly for a moment, soaking in the harmonious familiarity of being home after a long trip. This is the longest I've been away from my apartment at one time since I moved to Boston after high school. I wasn't exactly homesick while I was gone, not for my apartment at least, but now that I'm back and standing in the middle of it, I realize how much I like being somewhere familiar and normal. I'm not so much a creature of routine as I am one of habit. I don't have to be at the same places, doing the same things at the same time, but I do like the first two of those three. I like the same activities and locations, just not necessarily on a schedule.
Conversely, I'm also very much looking forward to all the new things and new places I'm about to experience. Up to this point in my life, I've only ever been as far as New York City; even my summer camp was only a two hour car trip. I never thought of myself as a world traveler, didn't really think of visiting far-off locales and whatnot, but after this trip I can see all sorts of possibilities in my very near future.
I made it through two months more or less on my own in a huge new city, and I didn't get fired or horrendously embarrass myself (or Jen). Hell, I even seem to have lived up to everyone's expectations and impressed a couple of people. And every time I get back from a trip, I'll have Connor, Murphy, and Rocco there to greet me at home.
The word home rings through my thoughts with the clarity of an unexpected church bell, and I realize why I'm so excited to travel when I've never even considered it before. For the first time in my life, I have an actual home to come back to. Not just an apartment full of (okay, partially full of) my stuff: an actual home with family, people I look forward to seeing and can't wait to spend time with, people I can actually count on when I need them.
Wow. I have a family. And a home. That's tremendous.
My entire perspective shifts just a little bit as this new awareness settles into my brain. A genuine smile lifts the corners of my mouth as the stygian terrors of last night's dream recede, sliding into the hidden corners of my mind where they aren't nearly as alarming or distracting. Maybe, despite all these rotten dreams, things are going to turn out okay after all.
A timid knock on my front door shakes me from my silent reverie, shaking me from this train of thought. There's no reason for anyone to be here; we were all supposed to meet at the diner. I glance through the peephole and find a disheveled Rocco in the hallway, his hands shoved in his coat pockets as he scuffs the toe of his boot along the floor. I fling open the door and throw myself at my friend.
"Rocco! Oh, my god, I missed you! How are you? What are you doing here?"
He's as surprised as I am by my outburst, and he grins down at me, a little embarrassed at my sudden affection. He looks kind of rough, like he didn't sleep very much or very well last night, and whatever sleep he did get was probably in the clothes he's wearing right now. I can see the fading remnants of a black eye in the last yellow and green stages of healing, and he smells kind of stale, too, like cigarettes, old beer, and pizza. Must've been a late night.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, standing aside so he can come in. "Why aren't Connor and Murphy with you? They said they were going to crash at your place last night. I thought we were going to meet at the diner."
"That's still the plan, as far as I know," he mumbles, glancing around the room and not quite looking me in the eye. "They're...uh...they were still asleep when I woke up, and it was gettin' kinda crowded over there, so I figured I'd stop by and see if you were back yet and maybe hit you up to borrow your shower? Mine's all clogged an' shit from-"
"Don't need or want to know," I say, holding up a hand before he can tell me exactly why his shower is clogged. "Towels and washcloths are on a shelf in the bathroom; you should see them when you go in. Use whatever soap you want." He gives me a tired half-smile as he hangs his coat by the door and heads down the hallway. I hear the bathroom door click shut, and the shower cuts on after another minute.
Well, what do I do now? I was all set to go, but now I get to cool my heels while I wait for my friend to clean up. I'm more than ready for breakfast, but there's no food in my fridge to at least have a snack while I wait. I rummage in a cabinet and scrounge up a not-too-out-of-date box of graham crackers. I even manage to miraculously extract a nearly unbroken one, much to my delight. I stick the box back in the cabinet and wander back to my living room, munching away.
For lack of any better ideas, I plop down on the couch and flick on the TV, switching over to channel twenty-two to see if I can catch the remnants of the morning news show. Instead of seeing the typical overly-caffeinated, far too perky morning hosts, though, I find a replay of a breaking news story dated from last night. Sally McBride, one of the local reporters, stands outside of the Copley Plaza Hotel, and police car and ambulance lights flash dizzyingly behind her as EMTs load a stretcher into the back of a waiting ambulance.
Even as I note that the person on the stretcher is covered head to toe in a sheet, for one paradoxical second my mind wanders to my anniversary date with Connor back in November.
"We went right past there," I murmur.
Morbid curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn up the volume in time to hear Sally say, "...where we have just been informed that the largest multiple murder in Boston's history has just taken place. We have learned that there were nine victims, all deeply involved in a notoriously violent Russian crime syndicate right here in Boston."
She continues speaking, but I mute the television, frowning at the screen. This is what Connor was talking about last year when he was so upset the night he told me about Mary Callahan getting mugged and attacked in the street. Nothing but murder and death and horrible violence on the news. I still can't blame him for being so pissed that night, especially not after my pitiful attempt at heroics back in December and this lovely, uplifting story playing across my screen right now.
Welcome back to Boston.
Rocco emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam as the news is finishing up. He pads into the living room, clean now and dressed except for the ratty socks and the boots he's carrying in his hands. He seems to feel a little better now, as he's actually able to meet my eyes and offers a tired half-smile.
"You guys just let Beantown go to Hell while I was gone, huh?"
"What d'ya mean?" He unsuccessfully tries to shove his still-damp foot into his sock and struggles vainly for a moment before pulling it off and starting over.
I nod towards the television, indicating the Copley Plaza story that seems to be finishing up. "Pretty messed up stuff."
"Yeah, saw somethin' about that this morning," he says, still wrestling with the stubborn sock. His sopping hair flops into his face, and he flips it back with a frustrated grunt. "They think it mighta been one guy that took 'em all out."
"Are you serious?" I ask incredulously. "One guy? Roc, why in the world would the police think that?"
"Huh?" he says, glancing up at me through a curtain of wet hair. "Why not one guy?"
"Roc, there were nine trained, armed, Russian mafia guys there. There's no way in hell one guy could do that with anything short of a machine gun, and they didn't report anything about someone hearing something that loud. I mean I guess it could have been one guy, but it doesn't make any sense. That one guy would've had to kill them all in just a couple of seconds, or they would've pumped him full of bullets before he could kill half of them. Logically, there just wasn't enough time for one guy to have done it. At the very least, it had to have been two guys, and they would either have to be really good or really lucky. Or both"
He stares at me for a long, silent moment, his expression strangely serious but otherwise unreadable behind his hair.
"Shit. I, uh...I never thought about it like that. Guess the police need to hire you on as a detective, huh?"
I smile at his weak joke, watching him finally pull his sock on and start on the other. His hair slips down again, and he curses, flicking the soaking strands behind his shoulders. This, of course, results in me getting sprayed from halfway across the room.
I wipe my face, sighing. "Seriously, man?"
"What?"
"Meet me in the bathroom when you finish putting your socks on," I reply, standing and heading down the hall.
"Why?" He sounds thoroughly confused and more than a little suspicious and seems to plant himself a little further down in my armchair.
"Because otherwise I'm going to need to blow dry my own hair from all the water you keep tossing on me. Plus, you're soaking my chair and your clothes. Just trust me and meet me in there when you're done."
Rocco steps reluctantly back into the bathroom a minute later, looking very much still suspicious. "What is all this shit?"
"Leave-in conditioner, a hair dryer, and a hair brush. And I swear on my life I will never reveal to anyone what I do to you in here. Now sit on the edge of the tub and flip your hair over."
Sighing in defeat, Rocco does as he's told. Twenty minutes later, we're walking down the sidewalk on our way to the diner, and I glance over at my friend. The sun is shining down, glinting through his hair as a cool breeze fluffs it away from his face. Even his beard looks neater instead of rough and caveman-like. With his long coat billowing out behind him as he walks next to me, his hair washed and blown out, and his dark shades reflecting the sunny sky, he looks pretty damned cool and kind of...majestic, even.
"You look good, Roc. You should let me do your hair more often."
He snorts, laughing despite his obviously down mood. "Maybe next time I spend the night." But his heart isn't in the smile, and it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. I study him for a moment longer before speaking again.
"What's eating at you, Roc? Rough night with Donna? Are the boys giving you shit again?"
He's silent and seems likely to remain so on the subject, so I let it go. If he's as upset as he seems, I shouldn't push, regardless of my burning curiosity. I try to people-watch as we walk along, enjoying the sunshine and nice weather along with the majority of the rest of Boston, it seems.
The day has warmed up considering since I was up before the crack of dawn. After months of snow and slush and freezing rain, this is the first full week of decent weather we've had since November, and most of the kids of South Boston, along with their parents seem to be out in droves, and food vendors and souvenir vendors are taking full advantage of the crowd.
As Rocco and I dodge around a group of obnoxiously loud teenagers taking up most of the sidewalk, I realize a lot of kids must be off for Spring Break. Good news for Doc, I suppose; more college students mean more alcohol sales. The regulars will be pretty pissed, but that usually just serves as a source of amusement for me. I remember a pretty spectacular night last April where Connor and Murphy shut down an exceptionally obnoxious drunk frat boy and his "bros" without breaking a sweat, a fight that resulted in all six of the barely-post-adolescent idiots apologizing and buying a round for everyone in the bar.
And that lovely bit of nostalgia brings my thoughts full circle back to the other thing I need to talk to Rocco about.
"So, what happened at McGinty's Wednesday night? I hear tell it was the stuff of legends."
"I'm pretty sure the guys wanted to tell you all about that when they see you," he deflects quickly. I see a streak of panic flicker across his face, and I know instinctively that I can crack him if can just find the right angle. Or if I can pester him for long enough.
"Were Connor and Murphy the only ones who did anything? I mean, seriously, why will no one even tell me what other people did that night? Was it that bad? All Duffy would tell me is that Connor and Murphy spent Thursday night down at the precinct to avoid the press because they turned themselves in. Come on, Rocco, this is driving me nuts. Can you please just tell me what happened?"
I turn my best pleading eyes on him and even toss in a quivering, partially stuck out lower lip. He grimaces, his eyebrows lowered, and I go for the kill shot.
"Please, Roc? I'm just so worried about them. They barely talked to me last night after I couldn't get a hold of them for almost two days, and they didn't tell me anything and wouldn't even tell me why I shouldn't come back last night. I just need to know something so I don't go out of my mind."
I, of course, conveniently leave out that I will see them in less than a half hour, but that's beside the point.
"Okay, but whatever the guys do to me because I told you is your fault. Just wanna get that straight."
"I will defend you and your honor with my life," I say, grinning at him with relief and appreciation.
"Yeah, sure, say that now," he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. "We were hangin' out at McGinty's after everyone had gone for the night. Duffy and his brother were there, and I think one or two other guys. I was pretty trashed by that point, an' I can't honestly remember who all was there. Doc starts tellin' us how the people holdin' his lease are gonna make him shut down the bar, and-"
"What?" There's no way I heard him right. "McGinty's is closing?"
"It's kinda up in the air. You want me to finish?"
"Yeah, I'm...I'm sorry, keep going. You just threw me for a minute."
"Didn't sit good with us, either. So all of a sudden these big guys come marching in, tellin' everybody to get out, that the bar is closing. Connor and Murphy try talkin' nice to 'em, askin' 'em to have a drink with us, but they just wanted to be assholes, I guess, so they knock your boys' drinks to the floor."
Yeah, I know what happens next. I've been there for a couple of those nights.
Rocco nods at the expression on my face. "You got it in one. So, nobody's happy at this point, so I just, y'know, I wanna lighten the mood a little. I make one little wise crack about one of their mothers, and the biggest guy in the middle knocks me out with one fuckin' punch. Seriously, one punch."
"Your eye?" I ask, peering at the faded bruising.
"Yeah." His grin shines out from his beard, white and unexpected. "Didn't think it would fade this fast. And, seriously, one punch. Pretty epic shit. Next thing I know, I'm wakin' up on the floor, and Connor's got the big guy on the bar and he's settin' his ass on fire-"
"He did WHAT?!"
Rocco breaks off his narration, cringing and flinching away like he's afraid I'm going hit him. "See, this is one of the reasons I didn't want to be the one to tell ya what happened. I mean, it's not as bad as it sounds, hun. Really, I think ya had to be there to appreciate the whole thing."
"Appreciate? How could…didn't they...what would...why the hell would he set someone's ass on fire?!"
"Dunno. Guess it seemed like the thing to do at the time?"
I shake my head, having no idea what to do with this information. "So how in the world did they manage to convince the cops they did that out of self-defense?"
"That's not the part they went down to the station for. The party broke up after that,' Connor and Murph sent those gorillas on their way, and we all went home. Only those assholes found out where Connor and Murphy lived, followed 'em home I guess, and they busted their door down the next morning and started shit with 'em in their own apartment."
"I told them to get that damn door fixed; it's been broken since…Since I first met them." I only feel a tiny guilty twinge at being one of the people who broke it in the first place. "But Connor and Murphy are okay? How bad was the fight if the police were involved? Did they have to go to the hospital?"
"They went before they turned themselves in. Connor was pretty roughed up, took the worst of it, but he's much better today. Bandages, cut on his head, a little limp. But seriously, hun, they're both fine."
"I don't know how fine they're gonna be after I get a hold of them," I mutter, shaking my head in disgust. "I'm glad they decided not to stay at my place after all. Jesus, I leave you three alone for not even two months. What are you going to do when I start traveling on a regular basis?"
We continue walking in silence, which I don't mind now. I need the quiet to help sort through everything Rocco has just told me. As the diner comes into view up ahead. Rocco stops and puts a hand on my arm, turning me back to face him. I can't see his eyes, but the rest of his face is far more serious than I've seen him, more so than the night he broke down and told me about his issues with Donna and with his job. I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong again, but he beats me to the punch.
"Look, Grace, I...the guys should be here soon, it's almost ten. I...I've been tryin' to figure some shit out, and I gotta run an errand. I'm gonna miss breakfast, I'm real sorry. Missed ya while you were gone."
He pulls me into an abruptly tight hug, and I automatically put my arms around him. This is so unlike Rocco's normal attitude. I feel like I should stop him from leaving, say something that will keep him from leaving, but I have no clue where to even start.
"Roc, are you...I know you probably can't tell me anything, but...is everything okay with your, um…work?" I finish lamely.
He gazes down at me, but I can't fully read his expression behind those mirrored shades. He leans forward and places a quick, scratchy kiss on my forehead, and I can feel the dismissal in his gesture.
"Catch ya later, hun. Go enjoy breakfast. There's some guys I gotta go talk to." And with that, he sweeps away down the sidewalk, his strides long and purposeful. He turns out of sight a couple of blocks ahead, and I'm left standing in shock, staring after him.
Did Rocco, my Rocco, just sound a little...menacing?
I finally shake some feeling back into my feet and open the door to the diner, rattled and very worried about my friend. I'm immediately greeted by the comforting, familiar scent of salt, grease, and coffee, as well a wave of hello from the cook back in the kitchen. I return the wave a little absentmindedly, glancing at the clock and wondering when Connor and Murphy are planning on arriving. We were supposed to meet here about now, so I don't figure on having to wait too long, which is good.
I can't wait to hear about the thought process that leads someone to tie a man down and set his ass on fire. And I'd really like something to distract me from worrying about Rocco.
One of the regular waitresses, Becky, stops by with a glass of water and to ask if I want my usual, and I frown at the menu as all my worry and anxiety from the last couple of days comes flooding in from where I shoved it in the back of my mind. Connor and Murphy's evasiveness, Rocco's additional evasiveness, that dream I just can't seem to remember all crowd into my head, making coherent communication suddenly difficult. I can't even remember what my usual is, despite the fact that I've gotten it probably once a week for at least a year.
"I...don't know."
She smiles sympathetically and says, "Lemme know when you're ready, hun. Good to see ya again. And you tell those boys we said to keep up the good work."
I try to return her smile, but I'm sure I fail miserably. I'm so confused by her parting words that I don't even think to ask her what she meant. I mean, maybe they heard what happened at the bar, but why in the world would they congratulate my idiots for something like that?
I shrug it off and go back to studying the menu, hoping the guys get here soon. I'm starting to get antsy again. I'm getting pretty hungry, too, as I've been up since 4:00 this morning and the only thing I've eaten was a granola bar on the train around 6:30, but I don't want to order without them for some reason. Plus, I still can't remember what I always get.
I guess I could just ask, but that makes way too much sense.
Over an hour later, I'm teetering on a very fine line between frantic and furious. Connor and Murphy have neither shown up nor left a message. Maybe - maybe- they got the time of my train's arrival wrong; I doubt it, but I'd like to think they wouldn't purposefully snub me.
I finally give in and ask Becky if I can use the phone in the back. I guess she can see the genuine distress on my face because she leads me to the phone and tells me not to worry about any charges. I quickly dial Rocco's number, but all I get is a busy signal. I wait a couple of minutes, try again, and again it's still busy. I count to three hundred silently, visualizing each number clearly in my head before going to the next. I dial Rocco's number one last time, but it's still busy. Maybe Donna's on the phone or something. I hang up and returning to my booth, completely nonplussed.
At the hour-and-a-half mark, my temper finally snaps. I stand, drop a tip for Becky on the table next to my empty water glass, and on my way out I apologize for acting so strangely, oblivious to all the concerned looks being tossed in my direction. I head down the sidewalk, not really seeing anything but red as I make my way home.
I storm through my apartment door, my thoughts a tangled black mess of anger and worry, all relief from my homecoming long gone. I glance at my answering machine as I hang up my coat, but there are no messages. My anger overpowers my nerves, and I snatch up the phone and stabbing the buttons with much more force than necessary, furiously dialing Rocco's number again.
"What?!" A wailing, wasted voice shrieks halfway through the second ring. I'm so jolted by the unexpected screech I nearly drop the receiver, and my angry diatribe dies on my tongue. Now I have no idea what to say. I can hear someone else bawling incoherently in the background, and I wonder if this is even the right apartment.
"Uh...sorry, I may have dialed the wrong number. Who is this?"
"I live here, bitch, who the fuck are you?!" the voice screeches, and I finally make the connection.
"Shit, Donna, I'm sorry. This is Grace. Are any of the boys there? I saw Rocco earlier, and he said Connor and Murphy-"
My call waiting beeps on the other line, but before I can react, Donna is squawking at me, and I have to pull the receiver away from my head to preserve my eardrum.
"Don't you talk to me about those fuckin' pricks!" she howls into the phone. "Assholes, all three of 'em, trashin' my place and screaming at me, stickin' a gun in my face, and they killed my cat and…" she tails off into incoherent sobbing and rambling, and I finally gently place the receiver back on the cradle, barely feeling the phone in my nerveless fingers.
I stare at my phone, dumbstruck, at a complete loss as to what I should do now.
What the hell is going on?
Author's Note: Thank you to all the wonderful lovelies who have read, reviewed, followed, and favorited so far. Special thanks again to Siarh and bleedingrose0688 for helping through those rough, narrative patches. Please let me know if I should keep this up. Cheers.