by K. A. Finn
‘God I hate you.’
‘Right now the feeling’s mutual. What do you want!’
Dara leans over and wraps his hand around Tate’s neck.
‘I want you to suffer, Tate. That’s all. Think you can do that?’
He tries to swallow past Dara’s grip. ‘Does it look like I’m having fun?’
Dara squeezes a little harder. ‘I mean really suffer, Tate. What I want is for everything and everyone you know and love to disappear.’ He clicks his fingers in Tate’s face. ‘Just like that. I want you alone. I want people to say the name Tate Archer and remember a failed musician who threw it all away for his next drink or his next fix. And I’m going to make sure that happens.’
Tate wants to come back with something, but he’s all out of replies. Dara’s seriously crazy and that makes him dangerous.
‘That’s shut you up, hasn’t it. Now you’re wondering exactly how far I’m willing to go with this. Would I keep you here so you miss your court appearance? I’d imagine the authorities would be less than happy about that. Maybe so much so they’d move past the fine and take you in. That would be fatal for your career, wouldn’t it?’
Tate tries to take a deep breath but Dara’s weight on his neck isn’t helping.
‘Here’s another scenario for you. You’re found in your car at some deserted beach somewhere. Maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink. Maybe you’ve relapsed. Maybe you’ve taken things too far again. It’s a strong possibility, isn’t it? I mean you’ve been under so much stress lately and it’s not like you don’t have a history.’
Tate glances up at the tube strapped to his arm and Dara smiles.
‘You’re catching on.’ He gets up and disappears from the room for a few minutes. When he comes back, he’s holding something that scares Tate more than being stuck in a room with his crazy-ass cousin.
‘Don’t, Dara. Please don’t do this.’
Dara smiles and looks down at the syringe. ‘Full of manners now aren’t you. I had hoped you’d take this step yourself, but I don’t think you will, not without a little nudge.’
Tate thrashes in the bed, pulling at the chains.
‘I swear to God, I will fucking kill you, Dara!’
‘Do you know what I think? I think you’ll thank me.’ He picks up the end of the tube and slides the needle in. The bed groans and creaks under Tate’s attack but like Dara, the damn thing just ignores his protests. He watches in horror as Dara empties the syringe into his arm. He pats Tate on the cheek and laughs when Tate jerks his head to the side.
‘Fuck you.’
‘I know. Have fun.’ He turns off the light, plunging him into darkness then shuts and locks the door behind him.
Frustration firmly takes hold of Tate. He shouts and pulls against the restraints until he runs out of energy and lies still. All he’s managed to do is tear his wrists and send his headache into a stomach-churning somersault.
Tate closes his eyes and tries to calm down. He can already feel the welcoming pull of the drug and he realises he missed it. His body missed it. And that terrifies him. He’d struggled to break free of it the first time. Each painful minute of his withdrawal had felt like a week. It was excruciating, humiliating, and fucking miserable, but he’d got through it. For what? Just to be forced back into that hell again by someone he’s known for decades.
Dara.
He’s been kidnapped by his cousin. His cousin is keeping him chained to a bed in his grandparent’s house. Whatever way he says it to himself, it sounds fucking ridiculous, but nothing about this makes any sense. The scary part is if he’s found in his car like Dara described, no one would be surprised. It’s not like anyone would believe him if he told them Dara kidnapped him. He barely believes it himself so why would anyone else?
He closes his eyes and tries desperately to think about Chloe. At least he contacted the paper before Dara got to him. That’s one consolation. Whatever happens he won’t be dragging her along with him for the ride.
He tries to open his eyes again, but it’s a lost cause. So instead he gives in lets the drug take him away from the nightmare.
30
‘He’s a big fucking guy. He can’t just vanish.’ Gregg smiles apologetically at Chloe. ‘Sorry about cursing.’
‘I’m going out with Tate. Curse all you fucking want.’
Gregg grins at her and nods his head. Chloe takes out her phone but there’s no new message from Tate. No missed call. Nothing. Dillon and Luke had gone back to Tate’s house just in case he decided to go there instead. Tidying the place after the Garda search would take a few hours anyway so they were going to get started on that while they waited for news.
‘Where would he go if he wanted to be alone?’
Gregg slumps onto the couch and sighs loudly. ‘The beach, but he’s not there. Up the mountains on his bike but that’s still at his house. Lock himself in his studio but that’s a no too. Realistically he could be fucking anywhere. If he absolutely doesn’t want us to find him all he has to do is keep driving. He’s got the whole of Ireland to hide in.’
‘Does he own any other properties?’
Gregg shakes his head. ‘Nope. Just the house in Blackrock. I checked and the bus we use for touring is still locked up and empty. He’s vanished.’
‘What time is his court case tomorrow?’
‘Ten.’
Chloe knows the answer but asks the question anyway. ‘What happens if he misses it?’
‘They’ll either issue a warrant for his arrest or go ahead without him. Both would probably result in us not seeing him for a while. Best all round we find him before it comes to that.’ He gets up and drags a hand through his blond hair as he paces again. He seems to be doing that quite a bit the last few days.
Bria joins them and flops down beside Chloe. ‘Well that was fun. An hour-long chat with Mum and Dad. They’re freaking out. I think I’ve managed to convince them to stay put until we hear from Tate, but I’m not sure how effective I was.’
‘I presume they haven’t heard from him?’
‘No, they haven’t. Shane tried to call him while they were talking to me, but it went straight to voicemail. I’m really worried, guys. They last time he disappeared he...’
Gregg crouches down in front of her and takes her hands. ‘Hey, he’s not going to do anything stupid, okay. Not after everything he’s done to get better. He’s probably broken down somewhere and his phone is dead. It’ll be something or nothing.’
Bria smiles and nods, but Chloe sees the look on Gregg’s face as he stands up. He doesn’t believe a word of what he just said. ‘I think I need to call in a favour.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Chloe asks.
‘The only thing we know for sure is that he left here in his car. I’ll call one of my old colleagues. He owes me a favour so fingers crossed he can discretely look for his truck. The last thing we want to do is broadcast the fact he’s missing.’
∞
Tate wakes up with a start when he’s slapped on the face. He opens his eyes and groans when he sees Dara crouching down beside the bed. He sits down on the chair and puts the bag of chips on his knee.
‘How are you doing?’
Tate doesn’t bother replying. He’s done participating in whatever the fuck is going on with Dara.
‘So, you with me yet?’
Tate doesn’t know where the fuck he is. His body won’t do anything he wants it to do and he swears his head is bouncing off the beams in the roof. The unpleasant aftereffects are bad enough without the accompanying exhaustion. He can barely keep his eyes open and Dara’s droning in the background is just adding to his frustration.
He grabs Tate by the jaw and turns his head around. ‘Are you listening to me?’
Tate’s eyes close again. Fuck Dara. All he wants to do is sleep and wake up when this nightmare is over.
Dara jostles his head. ‘C’mon. Look at me.’
Tate glares over at him which just make
s Dara laugh.
‘You know what? I much prefer you this way. You’re far less annoying when you’re off your head. I may not have been driven to these lengths if I knew this side of you.’
‘What...’ Tate struggles to get his thoughts in order. ‘What was you? Did you do it all?’
He chews on a chip before he answers. ‘Yes. All me. The photo in the post I handed you at Christmas. All the reports. Leaking your dirty overdose secret to the press. The bottle of rum to celebrate your exciting win. That little story about meeting Chloe in rehab. All me.’
‘She didn’t deserve that.’
Dara laughs loudly. ‘I completely agree. She didn’t. From what I could tell she was a good one. Not like the dozens of others you’ve no doubt used and abused over the years. Personally, I reckon she owes me a big thank you. I just showed her what being with you will do to her. Better she gets away from you now before you get bored and turf her aside.’
It’s a complete waste of energy but Tate savagely jerks against his bonds. It does fuck all to get his fists any closer to Dara, but it does make him jump and drop his chips on the floor. Better than nothing. At least it wiped the smug smile off the bastard’s face. In spite of the absolute shit situation he’s in he can’t help but laugh.
Dara retaliates by punching Tate in the jaw. He kicks the bedframe then sits back on the chair and looks down at his ruined dinner.
‘Why do you always have to steal the limelight, huh? Why can’t you ever just blend into the background? I mean it was a continual thing when we were kids. It didn’t matter what I did or how hard I worked I couldn’t get out from your shadow.
‘And you want to know the worst part? I was falling short of someone who wasn’t even related to any of us. I seriously don’t get it. I played by the rules. I worked hard. Didn’t get in trouble. Top of my class all the way through school. All the way through college.’
Tate tries to pay attention to what Dara’s saying, but he’s seriously struggling. He’s exhausted, his head is fucking killing him, and he’s craving something he thought he had broken free from.
He grunts as Dara grabs a handful of his hair and turns his head around.
‘And then there’s you, Tate. A re-homed stray. Always in trouble. Detention every week for fighting or talking back, or whatever else you did to draw attention to yourself. Okay, so you’ve got a masters in music, but seriously how hard is that to get? It’s just part of the whole look at me thing you do. You did everything you possibly could to stand out, to show off. I mean look at you. All those ridiculous tattoos. We couldn’t be more different if we tried, yet I always fell short. Do you remember the party your parents held for you when you won those awards?’
Tate looks at him but doesn’t reply.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Do you know what my father said to me that night about you? He said that you’ve had a tough year and I should show you some compassion. Can you believe that? You do everything wrong. You drink, you take drugs, you hurt your family and everyone who stupidly gives a damn about you. And that deserves compassion. That there sums up everything I hate about you. Everything I detest about you and what you’ve done to me. You must know what that feels like now though.’
Tate frowns at him. ‘What?’
‘Oh don’t go all coy with me. I know you were less than happy about me riding Jove while you were... indisposed. Like I know you were less than happy about me helping out around the farm. I could see it clear as day on your face. You were sitting beside your lady friend trying to be all gracious thanking me for my help, but I could see how much it pissed you off.
‘You probably wouldn’t be happy to know I also helped them clean up your bachelor pad after you let your junkie friends destroy it.’
Dara laughs when he sees the shock on Tate’s face.
‘Oh yes. I got to see your work first-hand. You see, I’ve been sticking close to your parents for months. How do you think I got a set of keys to your truck? I made a copy of their set. Same goes for the code to your gate. I couldn’t get my hands on your house keys unfortunately but getting the drugs into your car worked just fine.’
‘You used them to get to me?’
‘Of course. Obviously they thought I was being all helpful and friendly. Same with Dad. He’d happily tell me anything he heard about you from his dear sister.’
Tate feels sick and it’s got nothing to do with the drugs. Dara got into his life through his parents. That explains why the letters came when things were finally going his way. His mum had told Dara’s dad and then he sent a letter.
His cousin is seriously fucked in the head. Tate snorts which doesn’t go down well with Dara. He grabs a handful of Tate’s hair and pulls his head up.
‘Sorry. I missed that.’
Tate licks his dry lips and smiles at him. ‘I’m flattered I occupy so much of your time. I feel kind of bad though. I can honestly say I don’t think about you from one painful family gathering to the next. Are you even listening to the crap you’re spouting? You’re whining on about favourites, about who was better at what. It’s fucking ridiculous. I don’t know how the fuck you go from jealous kid to psycho dick. You’ve got some serious fucking issues.’
‘I have issues? Wow. You’ve got some brass neck. You forget I know where you came from. I know you killed your mother.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘Yes you did. I’m sure you read the report. You were found next to her body. She was dead and there was blood on your hands. She’s dead because of you.’
Tate closes his eyes again. ‘It was thirty fucking years ago. Who cares?’
‘You do or else you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did when I gave you the photo. Only you know what really happened that night. I’d say given the way you’re dealing with everything since you got that touching photo you have a fair amount of guilt eating you up. That must be painful to live with.’ Dara takes a long breath and squeezes Tate’s arm. ‘Your father wasn’t a nice man, was he? What he did to you... I have to admit I got a little choked up when I read the doctor’s report.’
‘Fuck you, Dara.’
‘After reading that... I’m not surprised you needed to resort to drugs to deal with it.’
Dara pushes to his feet and stretches. ‘Well, I think it’s time to put more manners on you. I’ve got another fix in the kitchen with your name on it. Do you want it?’
He desperately wants it. ‘No.’
‘I don’t know why you’re fighting it, Tate. You’re an addict. Just accept what you are.’ He pats him on the shoulder and smiles down at him. ‘Hang tight. I’ll be back in a minute.’
As disgusted as he is with himself for admitting it, he desperately wants more of what Dara is offering. He throws his head back against the bed, hitting it off the headboard. The metal frame rattles under the abuse. Tate twists his head around and smiles to himself.
With the light off he had completely forgotten about the one flaw in the bed. The decorative metal rods in the bed-frame screw in and out. He continuously played with them when he stayed over. So much so, the threads had become worn over time. It was something he got in trouble about too many times to count when he was a kid.
Tate quickly unscrews one of the rods and slips the chain off the end before fixing it back onto the frame. He gets the other one done as he hears Dara outside the door. His ankles are still locked in place but it’s a start.
Tate keeps his eyes locked on Dara as he slowly wraps the lengths of chain around his hands. As Dara reaches over to give him another fix, Tate hits him.
After being chained up the blow doesn’t pack its usual punch but the addition of the chain around his hand does the trick. He connects with the side of Dara’s face, sending him spinning into the wall. Not waiting for him to recover, Tate grabs him by the neck and hauls him onto the bed, using his weight to keep him pinned to the mattress. Tate slams his fist into Dara’s jaw spraying blood across the wall. He hits him again breaking hi
s nose.
Dara gropes blindly at Tate, trying to push him off but Tate isn’t budging. Dara’s fingers tear at Tate’s face and arms, but he really couldn’t give a fuck. Dara bucks under him and gets in a lucky jab to his ribs. He scrambles out from under Tate, but Tate pulls him back onto the bed and elbows him in the ribs. Dara curses and lashes out trying to make contact wherever he can.
Dara rams his elbow into Tate’s side. The blow hits soft tissue, sending the pain through his body. As he’s trying to clear his head, Dara punches him in the face and scrambles over to the syringe of heroin on the floor a few feet from them. Tate tries to stop him but the chains fixing his ankles to the bed keep him just out of reach.
Tate sprawls back in the bed and breaths heavily as he watches Dara pick up the syringe and collapse back against the far wall. Dara’s laugh is a little crazed as he gingerly touches his broken nose.
‘Valiant effort.’ He takes a few deep breaths then pushes his hair back from his face. ‘You broke my nose, Tate. That wasn’t a clever move.’
Tate laughs. ‘Felt pretty fucking good. You’re not exactly a worthy rival, Dara. Drugged and chained up and I still kicked your ass. You’re fucking pathetic. But you always have been. You’re a spoilt fucking brat, Dara. I detest people like you. Entitled pricks who have everything handed to them on a silver platter and still find something to bitch about. You’re not worth bothering with.’ Tate closes his eyes and turns his head from Dara. He needs the fucker to come closer and Dara may be many things but he’s not stupid. He won’t budge if he thinks Tate is still a threat.
‘Tate?’
He doesn’t get a response and after a few minutes, Tate feels him pull on the tube in his arm. Tate lunges and rams his fist into the side of Dara’s face, destroying any cartilage he hasn’t already smashed up. He drags himself on top of Dara and grabs the end of the chain attached to his wrist. He drapes it over Dara’s neck and leans on it. Dara’s hands scramble to push Tate off, but he’s too heavy to push away.
