all-American poster child and Tate-the-tattooed-twitch—it seemed unlikely, but Brian hadn’t seen that. He’d seen that they were more alike than different.
Maybe they were.
“So what are we going to name him?” Tate asked after a minute.
Brian scratched the rat under the chin and tutted to him some more before answering. “How ’bout we name him after you this time?”
“You’re going to name the rat Talker?”
“Naw.” Talker looked up to see Brian’s fierce grin, unblemished and untainted by the last month. “We’re gonna name him Harry. Big Harry Nads.”
Talker snickered. “After me?”
“Yeah, Talker. Man, after what you did to keep my ass out of jail, I don’t know who else we’d name Big Harry Nads. You think?”
Talker blushed and looked down at the rat again. “Well, it is a sweet ass,” he murmured, and heard Brian’s chuckle, “but I’m not that brave.” Brian’s kiss on the fuzz growing in on the top of his head felt like a benediction.
“You survived all that, Talker. You tore yourself open when you were already falling apart, and you did it for me. You’re fucking fearless.”
“God, I love you.”
“I love you too. So—Big Harry Nads?”
Tate smiled shyly into the world created by Brian’s chest and his faith and the love that seemed to have survived in the core of them, and nodded. “Yeah. Big Harry Nads the rat. He’ll fit right in.”
The moment was quiet, and the music started up in Talker’s head again. He started singing, “‘Dance, then, wherever you may be….’” And Brian started humming it too.
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About the Author
Amy Lane teaches high school English, mothers four children, and writes the occasional book. When she’s not begging students to sit-the-hell-down or taxiing kids to soccer/dance/karate—oh my! she can be found catching emergency naps, grocery shopping, or hiding in the bathroom, trying to read without interruption. She will never be found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at all. She writes in the shower, while commuting, while her classes are doing bookwork, or while she’s wandering the neighborhood at night pretending to exercise, and has learned from necessity to type like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested and crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved mate, Mack, to keep her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty-plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.
Visit Amy’s web site at http://www.greenshill.com. You can e-mail her at
[email protected] .
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Copyright
Talker’s Redemption ©Copyright Amy Lane, 2011
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared