Sam lapsed into silence shortly thereafter. It was a lot to take in—carriers and extraterrestrial war and alien artifacts. Lennox seemed to understand his need for space. The older man turned on the radio, sliding through frequencies, before settling on a station. The sun climbed higher in the sky as they listened to country music. Sam stared through the windshield without really seeing anything—not that there was anything to see, really. Nebraska was flat and empty and mind-numbingly boring. Their convoy were the only vehicles on the road, excepting the occasional tractor trailer or beat-up sedan. Sam watched the pick-up truck at the front of the column as they drove. It navigated between lanes, avoiding potholes and slower moving vehicles, while the others smoothly followed its lead.
They were somewhere in southern Nebraska when a BMW driver tried to cut into their column, but the two Lamborghinis boxed him out. The driver laid on his horn down the full length of the procession, before jerking in front of the pick-up truck.
Lennox huffed a wry laugh. "Activist or asshole?"
The steering wheel twiddled in his hands. "Mr. Morgan Miller, 56, of Platsfield, Nebraska." Jazz's voice came over the radio, "Shitty driver, but not a threat. His Facebook page is entertaining, though."
Sam glanced at the dashboard in surprise. He knew the Autobots were extraordinarily capable on the Internet, of course, but maybe not 'find a tailgater's social media in fifteen seconds or less' capable.
"Tell the twins to leave it alone." Lennox said, "Last time was a pain in my ass."
Sam glanced sidelong at the older man. "The last time?"
Lennox directed a wry smile his way. "Two months ago. Sideswipe got brake-checked outside of Reno, and he posted the guy's social security number on 4Chan. Prowl was furious—it took him days to get it sorted out."
"I never saw anything about that." Sam said, dubiously. He mainly lurked on the anti-occupation forums, but he read most of the content. An Autobot compromising the personally protected information of a private citizen—especially for such a petty reason—would have caused a furor on the dark-net.
"No, you wouldn't have." Will replied, "We try to keep the twins' antics under wraps."
Sam's mouth turned down in a frown. "So, you guys... scrubbed it?"
Lennox glanced at him for a scant second, before looking back at the road. "Yeah, we did."
The older man's tone was carefully neutral, but Sam wasn't fooled for a second. He knew the Autobots influenced on-line discourse—it was their technology, after all, and they were hardly above meddling in human affairs. It was why Sam had started frequenting the dark-net in the first place: the overlay network was widely regarded to be the last bastion of free speech in an otherwise heavily controlled, carefully sanitized media environment. Only a fool would think the Autobots weren't active on the dark-net, of course, but it was generally accepted that they let the conspiracy theorists and malcontents use the platform to blow off steam. Easier to monitor, easier to contain.
The realization that the Autobots were controlling discourse on the dark-net too was difficult to stomach. It felt like a violation of his privacy—of their privacy—although Sam knew that was absurd. Nothing said on the Internet was ever truly private.
Sam grimaced faintly as he hunched down in his seat. Irrationally, his first instinct was to reach out to his contacts to warn them, but his contacts hadn't exactly proven trustworthy of late. Sam sighed softly, tipping his head back against the seat and staring out the windshield. The countryside was just as flat and unremarkable as it had been for the last seven hundred miles. The sky was starting to turn hazy near the horizon in the way it often did on hot summer days, though a glance at the dashboard confirmed it was barely noon.
"When's the next rest stop?" Sam asked, abruptly.
Lennox glanced sidelong at him in surprise. "The plan was to stop in an hour or two for lunch. Why? Do you need a break?"
Sam hadn't been expecting the question or the consideration, but all at once, he needed some space more than he needed his next breath. His heart flip-flopped inside his chest. He wasn't sure whether they would pull over if he just asked, but the thought of driving for another two hours was enough to turn his stomach.
Lennox's brow furrowed in concern. "Sam? You okay?"
Sensing an opening, Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Could we pull over?" He asked softly, before adding for good measure: "My back hurts."
Lennox seemed to take the bait, for his expression softened with sympathy. "Yeah, I'll bet. The first few fits are always the worst, and all this driving sure doesn't help." The older man glanced at the dashboard, "Anywhere we can stop soon, Jazz?"
The question was followed by a protracted silence—for a moment, Sam thought Jazz was refusing to answer him—but then, the steering wheel twiddled back and forth in Lennox's hands.
"There's a Pump and Pantry at the next exit." Jazz replied, "If you'd rather stop for lunch, then there's a roadside dinner in twenty miles or so. Four-point-six stars on Yelp." The radio slid across frequencies in a sound reminiscent of a thoughtful hum. "What'd'you think, Sam? You hungry?"
The saboteur's voice was dry, almost deadpan, but Sam was too relieved to notice.
"Yeah, I am." He lied without missing a beat, "How long til we get there?"
Jazz chuckled quietly. "Fifteen minutes. Hang on."
The words were accompanied by a throaty roar of the Solstice's engines. The sudden acceleration pushed Sam back against the seat. Lennox chuckled at his soft oof of surprise, before letting go of the steering wheel, seemingly ceding control back to the Autobot. The countryside flashed by on either side of the highway—a quick glance at the speedometer showed they were driving a steady seventy-five.
True to Jazz's word, they took an exit about ten minutes later. The off-ramp led to an empty intersection, where they slowed to a stop for a red light. The light blinked green less than a minute later, and then they were accelerating down a quiet road. It wasn't rural, exactly—there were properties on either side of the street, interspersed with the occasional gas station or country store—but it wasn't suburban, either. Sam soon spied the diner in the distance. It was a family-style restaurant with large windows and dark green awnings. The convoy pulled into the lot in neat procession, before parking one by one directly in front of the building.
Sam's seatbelt released with an audible click at the same time his door swung open.
"Apres-vous." Jazz drawled.
A moment later, his holoform flickered into existence directly in front of the vehicle. It looked the same as it had earlier that morning: jeans and high tops, locs tied in a high bun. The holoform's eyes landed on Sam as soon as it finished materializing. He seemed to consider what he saw for a moment, before his lips twitched in suppressed humor.
"You hungry or not, kid?" Jazz called, tipping his head towards the diner.
Sam could feel himself flushing as he climbed out of the vehicle. Lennox, Epps, and the other humans followed suit. The sound of good-natured talking and slamming doors filled the mostly empty parking lot. Epps stepped forward to pull open the door, and then Lennox and the others made their way into the building. Sam tried to ignore Jazz's presence at his back as he ambled inside after them.
"Mornin', darlings." A middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair greeted as they approached, "Y'all together? How many?"
"Yes, ma'am." Epps replied in a respectful baritone, "A table for seven, please."
The hostess made an agreeable sound as she picked up a stack of menus, before motioning for them to follow as she made her way across the room. The diner was a proper country eatery. There were tables arranged around the center of the room and larger booths lining opposite walls. It was spacious but cluttered, and Sam found himself navigating between patrons and furniture alike as they made their way to a booth near the back of the building. Their table overlooked the parking lot—the two Lamborghinis were parked side by side directly in front of the window.
"Can I get you folks anything to drink?" The hostess asked.
"Can we have a pot of coffee for the table?" Lennox asked, sliding into the booth.
"Sure thing, sugar." The waitress agreed as she handed the menus around, "I'll be right back."
Sam soon found himself sitting between Lennox and Jazz on one side of the booth, while Morrison, Anderson, and Kelley sat on the opposite side. Epps grabbed a nearby chair and parked himself at the end of the table. Sam half-turned, glancing around the room. It was busy, given the lunch-hour, with most of the tables occupied by families or small groups. The room was filled with the sounds of quiet conversation and the clatter of dishware. It was a pleasant enough atmosphere, but it left Sam feeling wrong-footed.
"Hey, this is a decent menu." Morrison was saying, pulling Sam back to himself, "They have cornbread! I haven't had good cornbread in ages."
"You can take the boy outta the south, but you can't take the south outta the boy." Epps observed, dryly.
Morrison grinned at the older man, before he continued looking through the menu. The others at the table were doing the same. Sam glanced down at the bi-fold in front of him. It had 'Pearl's Diner' stenciled along the top of the page and "If you're here, you're already home" in cursive along the bottom. Sam couldn't prevent the grimace that twisted his mouth at the irony. Eventually, he reached out, flipping open the menu. The first page was breakfast fare, the next two pages were the brunch and lunch options. Sam had had enough breakfast food over the last three days to do him a lifetime.
The waitress returned in short order. She set seven waters, a coffee carafe, and a wicker basket filled with creamer and sugar on the table, before pulling a notepad out of her apron.
"What're y'all having?" She asked.
She took their orders in turn. Morrison ordered a chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and a side of cornbread. Anderson ordered chicken and waffles. Kelley ordered a chili bread bowl, which earned a smattering of good-natured laughter around the table. When it was Epps' turn to order, he asked for a grilled chicken wrap and a side salad.
"Monica's been on me about my diet." Epps said by way of explanation.
The waitress took Lennox's order of a bacon cheeseburger and fries next, before turning to look at Jazz. The holoform offered her a charming smile in return.
"Nothing for me, thanks." He rumbled. "Watchin' my figure."
The waitress shrugged in easy acquiescence, before turning to look at Sam. Sam flushed faintly—he wasn't hungry, not really, but he knew they wouldn't be stopping again until suppertime. He glanced down at the menu and ordered the first thing he saw.
"Salisbury steak, please." He said, extending the menu towards the waitress, "And a diet coke."
The waitress leaned forward to accept the menu, before making her way towards the kitchens. As soon as she was out of earshot, Anderson broke into laughter.
"Salisbury steak? Oh, man." He grinned, leaning all the way forward to grab the coffee carafe from the middle of the table, "Lennox is going to make you walk back to Nevada."
Sam's brow furrowed in confusion, before he turned to glance at Lennox. The older man had a look of wry exasperation written all over his face.
"Don't worry about it, Sam." Lennox replied, leaning forward to retrieve the coffee carafe from Anderson, who relinquished it with an easy laugh, "I've just eaten enough Salisbury steak for a lifetime."
The other men shared knowing looks and half-smiles, but Anderson just grinned across the table at them both. "More like three or four lifetimes, am I right?"
Lennox's look of exasperation took on roots, etching lines into his face. "He knows about the war, Killian. Thank-you."
Anderson's grin curled even wider in obvious delight. "Oh, he does, does he?" He turned to pin Sam with a conspiratorial look, "Lennox can't stand the smell of salisbury steak anymore. It's all they fed him during the war. I mean, I'd say it's gotta smell better than a camp full of unwashed soldiers, but what do I know?"
"You don't know your ass from a hole in the ground." Epps interjected dryly.
Killian swiveled around to give the older man an affronted look. "Excuse you. I'll have you know that my dump truck is a sight to behold."
"No wonder." Morrison drawled, "You're so goddamn ginger you glow in the dark."
Sam's brow furrowed with consternation as the group of men joked back and forth. It was obvious they were all comfortable with one another—so comfortable, in fact, that they could tease Lennox about his past without giving offense. Sam glanced over at Will, who was watching Anderson get dragged with an expression of good-natured humor on his face. The whole thing was so patently bizarre that Sam didn't know how to take it.
"Are you a cassette too?" Sam blurted, abruptly.
Anderson stopped speaking mid-sentence, before turning to look at Sam. "Who, me?" When Sam nodded, the older man broke out into a wide smile. "Nah. The four of us are all run-of-the-mill Homo-sapien-sapiens. We're just here for the company."
Sam's brow knit in consternation. "The company?"
Anderson grinned, before leaning back in his seat and throwing his arms around Kelley and Morrison. "Yeah, the company. You know how some Zoo's will partner baby cheetahs and puppies together? Well, it's like that—I mean, except the cheetahs in this equation are older than the combustion engine."
Morrison snorted expressively, before elbowing Anderson in the ribs. "Get off me, Killian. It's no wonder Sunstreaker's nose is always out of joint."
Anderson laughed good-naturedly, before settling back in his seat. "What are you talking about? Sunny loves me."
In the parking lot, the yellow Lamghorgini honked sharply in reply. Anderson just laughed, waving a cheery middle-finger to the window, before grabbing a handful of sugar packets from the wicker basket on the table. By the time he emptied them into his coffee, the waitress had returned with their food.
Sam leaned backwards so she could place his plate in front of him. The Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes were drenched in thick, brown gravy. Sam picked up his fork, before glancing discreetly at Lennox. The older man was eating his burger with a neutral look on his face—but he was decidedly not looking in Sam's direction.
Sam was briefly tempted to apologize, but that was absurd, all things considered, and so he started picking at his food. He had never eaten Salisbury steak before, and it was richer than he expected. Sam poked at the ground beef as he tried to ignore the familiar, homey sounds of conversation and laughter that permeated the dining room. It was easier said than done—the diner was nearly full.
"Not hungry?" Jazz asked dryly, drawing Sam's attention back to the table.
Sam glanced sidelong at the holoform. Jazz was watching him with an uncanny scrutiny that he had come to recognize. It was the same way that Jazz had looked at him during breakfast at the safehouse—like he was trying to decide whether Sam was going to be a pain in his ass.
"No." Sam replied woodenly. "I guess not."
Jazz tipped his head to the side. "You should still eat something. It's a long drive to Nevada."
The taste of gravy turned sour in Sam's mouth. "Where're we stopping tonight?"
"We aren't." Jazz replied, watching him closely. "It's a fifteen hour shot to Jasper. We're driving straight through the night."
Sam's grip tightened around his fork. He had known it was coming. He had been dreading it from the moment he woke up in that attic bedroom in Florida. Still, the confirmation made Sam's pulse quicken in anxiety. It was made worse by the knowledge there was nothing he could do about it. He had no money, no cell phone, and nowhere to go. Even if he managed to give Jazz the slip, which seemed increasingly unlikely, there was still Ray's group of psychopaths out there. Sam had no idea whether they would be looking for him, but he dreaded the thought of what would happen if they found him—especially after all Sam had learned about his 'condition'.
"You okay, kid?" Jazz asked, mildly.
"I need to use the bathroom." Sam managed.
Jazz's gaze roved over Sam's face, before he gave a slight nod. "Okay. Let's go."
The holoform slid to the end of the booth, before pushing to his feet. Sam's face warmed in a mixture of embarrassment and consternation, but he slid out after him. Jazz made his way towards the opposite wall, which had a restroom sign affixed above the opening of a darkened hallway. Sam followed behind him without a word. It soon became abundantly obvious why Jazz had accompanied him: there was an emergency exit at the end of the hall. It was currently propped open by a brick, revealing a back lot and pale, blue sky.
"Sam." Jazz prompted.
Sam dragged his gaze over to the holoform, who was holding open the men's room door. Sam stared at him for a long moment, and then he made his way inside. The restroom was empty—thank God for small mercies.
Sam used the urinal at the end of the row, before washing his hands at the sink. He stood there for a long time, eyes half-lidded, elbows braced on the countertop, listening to the running water. Eventually, the sound of conversation carried down the hallway through the open door. Sam reached blindly for the paper towels, before wiping his face. By the time he turned around, Anderson and Morrison appeared in the doorway. The two men gave him a friendly wave, before making their way over to the urinals. Sam didn't wait around for them—he left the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him. It only took him a moment to realize that the emergency exit had been shut and locked while he was inside. Sam didn't let himself dwell on it. He walked down the hall and into the dining room without so much as a backwards glance.
Kelley was still working on his chili bowl by the time Sam returned to the table, but Lennox and Epps had finished eating. Sam slid into the booth, before picking up his fork and working through the rest of his food. He ate mechanically and without pause, one bite after another until his plate was empty. He became aware of the glances that were being exchanged around the table, but he steadfastly ignored them. When Sam was finished, he placed his fork on his plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Excuse me." He said woodenly, directing the words to Jazz.
The holoform slid out of the booth for a second time, before stepping out of Sam's way. Sam stared into the middle distance as he climbed out after him. Morrison and Kelley were making their way across the dining room, but Sam turned and started in the opposite direction. Behind him, Epps and Lennox stood up and began gathering their things. Sam heard Kelley ask something, but it was swallowed by the clamor and din of the dinner hour. The bell above the door jingled as Sam pushed it open and stepped outside. The parking lot was hot and dusty, and the smell of fryer grease hung faintly in the air. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as he ambled down the sidewalk. He stared at his feet as he walked, but he could see the vehicles in his peripheral vision. Pontiac Solstice. Chevrolet Camaro. Two Lamborghinis. A Jeep Wrangler. Sam glanced sidelong at the sleek red car parked next to the Jeep.
A Bugatti? Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. You have got to be kidding me.
The familiar black pick-up was parked at the end of the row. As Sam approached, the truck flashed its high beams twice in quick succession.
It could have been a greeting, Sam supposed, but he knew with cold certainly that it was actually a warning.
"Yeah, I got it." He snapped at the Topkick, before stabbing his hand towards the road, "Where the fuck would I even go?"
The truck gave no indication of having heard him. Sam turned on his heel and stalked back the way he came. Morrison and Anderson were already standing outside. The two men seemed to be engaged in quiet conversation, which petered off he approached. Jazz's holoform was leaning against the front end of his alt mode, arms folded loosely over his chest. Sam ignored the two men in favor of fixing the holoform with a flat look.
"Am I riding with you?" He asked.
Jazz inclined his head in return. "Sure are."
Sam stepped off the curb and walked over to the coupe's passenger side door. He tried the handle and was vaguely surprised when it swung open for him. He was aware of the looks being directed his way as he climbed into the seat, but Sam pulled the door shut before anyone could say anything to him.
The interior of the cab was shaded and cool. Sam crossed his arms over his chest and hunched down in his seat. The door to the diner swung open a few minutes later as Lennox walked outside. He held the door open for Epps and Kelley, before letting it swing shut behind them. Lennox glanced at the coupe, briefly making eye contact with Sam through the windshield, before he said something to the other men. Epps nodded, mouth moving in reply, and then he gestured to the others. They each made their way to one of the vehicles—Anderson and Morrison to the two Lamborghinis, Kelley to the Bugatti, and Epps to the imposing black pick-up truck at the end of the row. Sam's attention was pulled back to the coupe by the driver's side door popping open. He turned his head to watch Lennox as he climbed into the seat.
The older man glanced sidelong at him. "You good, Sam?"
Sam resisted the urge to scoff.
"Never better." He deadpanned.
Lennox's mouth did something complicated, and then he pressed the ignition button and shifted the coupe into reverse. The convoy made its way back the way they came, before merging onto the highway. Sam stared straight ahead as they drove. Lennox didn't say anything—Sam didn't say anything, either.
The rest of the afternoon passed in stony silence.
The radio turned on of its own accord somewhere in southwestern Nebraska, but neither Sam nor Will made any move to find a station. The convoy stopped a few hours later for a rest break outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming, before getting back on the road. The sky turned crimson as the sun sank below the horizon, and shortly thereafter, Jazz's headlights came on, cutting a swath through the gloom.
They stopped for supper just after nine o'clock at a little restaurant near the highway. Sam was tired and sore and hungry, and judging by the drawn faces around the table, the others were feeling the same. The restaurant was close to closing, and the dining room was almost empty. Sam briefly toyed with the idea of ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, but he was too hungry to risk trying salmon oscar just for spite. He ended up ordering the clubhouse and fries instead.
The food took almost twenty minutes to arrive, but it was hot and delicious when it did. Sam polished off his meal in record time, before excusing himself to the bathroom. Anderson joined him, which was a small mercy, because it meant that Jazz stayed at the table. The others had finished eating by the time they returned. Morrison and Epps disappeared to the bathroom while Lennox paid the bill. Sam wasn't exactly eager to get back on the road, but he was keenly aware of the impatient glances from the waitstaff. Lennox retrieved his credit card and the receipt from the hostess, before making his way outside. Sam followed behind him. The night was cool and brisk—a welcome change from the oppressive humidity of the south. His eyes skipped across the parking lot as he walked towards the coupe, almost by habit, taking in the position of the Autobots relative to one another. It was why he noticed Lennox and Jazz talking quietly near the black pick-up truck. Lennox's face was cast in shadow, but there was tension bunching his shoulders.
As Sam watched, Jazz reached out, grasping Lennox by the back of his neck, before drawing the older man closer.
Sam stiffened from head to toe.
Lennox's expression was impossible to see from this angle, but Sam didn't miss the way the older man leaned towards the holoform. Jazz's mouth curled up in a wry smile, thumb stroking up and down Lennox's nape, before giving him a little squeeze and saying something Sam couldn't hear.
Sam turned around abruptly, before pulling open the coupe's passenger side door and climbing into the seat. He tucked his hands between his thighs to hide the fact they were trembling. A moment later, the lights on the dashboard brightened to life as the engine started.
"Buckle up." Jazz announced, his holoform materializing in the driver's seat.
Sam startled badly in surprise, which caused the holoform to give him a sidelong look.
"Feelin' a little jumpy?" He asked, wryly.
"No." Sam muttered, twisting around to grab the seat belt and pull it across his torso.
"Uh-huh." Jazz replied, voice carefully neutral. "Well, your heart rate's high enough to trip my internal alert, so I'll ask again: you feelin' okay?"
"I'd feel a lot better if people would stop asking me stupid questions." Sam bit back. "I mean, how am I supposed to answer that? Really?" He crossed his arms tightly over his chest as the coupe pulled out of the parking space. "No, Jazz, I am not fucking okay. I am the exact opposite of okay. Okay?"
Jazz's fingers curled and uncurled around the steering wheel. His face was set in profile, illuminated only by the faint glow of the lights on the dashboard.
"Yeah, kid." He replied eventually, "That's okay."
Sam turned his head to stare out the passenger side window. The street lights flashed overhead as they made their way back towards the highway. The little town soon fell away behind them, however, and the countryside was plunged into darkness. The only visible light came from the headlights and brake lights of the convoy's vehicles. Sam stared out at the darkened countryside as the miles passed. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Jazz had touched Lennox or how easily Lennox had melted into it. Sam knew that touch—had experienced it for himself with Ray. He shivered at the thought before scrubbing his palm over the back of his neck, as though it could chase away the unwelcome memory.
Suddenly, the vents came on, blowing warm air into the cabin.
"We've got a long ways to go, Sam." Jazz said conversationally, "You should try to catch some sleep."
Sam knew that he should have been exhausted. It had been a long day on the road, which had been preceded by one of the worst nights of his life—which, in turn, had been preceded by days of terror and desperation. Still, Sam knew that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. His head was too full. Too loud. Too much.
Sam rolled towards the passenger window, insofar as the narrow confines of the front seat would allow, before pillowing his hands beneath his face. He thought about a lot of things as the time passed. Their imminent arrival at Diego Garcia was first and foremost on his mind. He had no idea what to expect from his captors-turned-would-be-saviors. Sam thought he had pretty good instincts, and something inside him was urging him to trust the Autobots. They had saved him from god-only-knows what fate that Ray and the others had planned. But still, long experience and common sense gave him pause. The Autobots were adept mimics with a demonstrated capacity for manipulation. How could he know if they were telling him the truth? And if Sam was one of their cassettes, then so what? That didn't excuse the fact they were dragging him across the country against his will. He had autonomy. It should have been his choice whether to stay or go—not theirs.
Inevitably, Sam's thoughts turned back to what he had witnessed between Jazz and Will in the parking lot. It had seemed consensual—Lennox hadn't resisted, at least. The thought stymied Sam the longer he mulled it over. Why would Jazz do that to him? Right there in the parking lot where anyone could see? And how could Lennox be so… accepting about it? Being scruffed like a dog. It seemed to go against everything Sam knew about the older man.
Eventually, Sam couldn't remain silent any longer. He wet his lips, before asking in a low voice, "...Why'd you do that?"
"I'm sorry, what now?" Jazz asked, lightly.
Sam stared steadfastly at the passenger side door. "Why'd you… touch him like that?"
"Who? Lennox?" Jazz asked.
"Yeah." was all Sam said in reply.
"Do you mean at the parking lot?" Jazz asked, the upward inflection of his voice suggested the holoform was confused by the question. "It's fine. I was just sayin' good-night."
Sam rolled over onto his back. "But why?" His voice sounded strained, even to his ears, "Why'd you touch him like that specifically? Like—" Sam shuddered, trying to chase away the phantom sensation of fingers on his nape. "Normal people don't do that."
There was a pronounced pause, before Jazz replied, slowly and carefully, as though he were weighing each word, "Lennox and I have known each other a long time. His carrier is my… look, it's complicated, but Lennox and I are closer than most." Jazz cleared his throat, "I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable."
Sam swallowed thickly. The explanation hadn't helped—neither had the apology. He stared at the roof of the car as he tried sorting through his thoughts. Eventually, he rasped, "Ray did that. To me, I mean. In the car with Tiresias. And I— I just—" Something like shame welled up inside him as Sam scrubbed at the back of his neck again, "I don't want to be touched like that again—not by him, not by anyone."
In his peripheral vision, Sam saw Jazz turn to look at him.
"He did what?" Jazz asked, lowly.
The question twisted in Sam's stomach like the blade of a knife. He couldn't even think about what had happened between him and Ray or what went down in the barn afterwards. Talking about it was out of the question.
"I don't want to be touched." Sam repeated instead, voice unsteady.
Jazz was silent for a long time, before he turned back around in his seat. When he eventually spoke, his voice was rough but composed. "Sam, I can't promise that no one'll touch you—it's necessary sometimes, during the fits—but no one'll touch you like that. Not without your permission."
Sam swallowed against the knot of emotion that suddenly thickened his throat. He wanted to believe Jazz—paltry though the reassurance was in the grand scheme of things—but his earlier misgivings niggled at the edge of his mind.
Truth or lie?
Did it even matter?
"Kid, that's not…" Jazz cleared his throat, "You ain't got nothin' to be ashamed of. Okay? Whatever happened between you two, that ain't your fault."
Sam abruptly rolled onto his side, before pressing his face into the seat. The leather was warm against his skin. Jazz seemed to take the hint, because he didn't try to draw Sam back into conversation. After a few moments, the seat slowly reclined of its own accord until Sam was lying almost recumbent. Sam shifted around, trying to get comfortable, before tucking his hands between his knees. He knew that sleep would be a long time coming, but he closed his eyes anyway. It seemed better than the alternative.
At his side, Jazz drove on in silence.