Riptide Publishing
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Burnsville, NC 28714
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
All Wheel Drive
Copyright © 2017 by Z.A. Maxfield
Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
Editor: Sarah Lyons
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
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ISBN: 978-1-62649-570-8
First edition
July, 2017
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-571-5
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Healey Holly is battered, depressed, and looking to go to ground in his childhood home. He wants to rent the garage apartment, but it’s Diego Luz’s place now, and the last thing Diego wants is to share it.
Diego is recovering too—from the accident that put him in a wheelchair and the death of his mother shortly after. The garage apartment is where he’s keeping his mother’s things, and as long as they’re up those stairs and he’s down on the ground, there’s no way he can deal with his loss. And that’s just how he likes it.
Healey believes in science. Diego believes in luck. It will take a blend of both, and some prayer thrown in besides, for these two to learn that it’s the journey and the destination that matters.
For Marlin, always. I never knew we were so lucky until I did the research for this.
Here’s to another thirty-four years.
Thanks to John Adamus, for all the awesome.
And for Steven Spohn. Game on.
All Wheel Drive
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Also by Z.A. Maxfield
About the Author
More like this
The man at the door was a mess.
Diego’s first look through the peephole showed a sort of monster silhouette—a weirdly shaped humanoid dragging a wheeled duffel bag.
In the porch light’s acrid yellow glow, the very shape of him set off a boogeyman, stranger-danger skin-crawl. Ruthlessly, he suppressed any instinct for self-preservation and opened the door wide, but his visitor was just an ordinary man with a mass of healing facial wounds, one arm in a cast, and the haunted look of a recent combat veteran. Diego didn’t recognize him, but there was nothing to be scared of. Whatever had happened to him was potentially frightening, but he was only a guy.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I called about the room over the garage?”
“And I told you when you called: I’m not renting it out. I need it for storage. How did you even know—”
“I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind. I grew up around here. I remember the family that used to live here, and I feel like—” The man stopped. Gathered himself. “I need a room for a little while, and if you’re only using it for storage . . .”
Sorrow limned what few features Diego could guess at behind the bandages, healing abrasions, and the shiny pink newness of burns. Dude had shaved his hair on the sides but the top was long, the result being a man-bun swirl of wavy brown hair that looked greasy. How was this guy even keeping himself clean? Despair, and something infinitely worse hung around him like a toxic cloud. Hopelessness.
Diego recognized the man’s helpless anxiety and anguish all too well.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“John Smith.”
Irritated, Diego eyed him sourly. “I take it you ain’t filling out a rental application?”
“Sure. I’ll fill one out.” It was hard to watch a smile crack those dry, scabbed lips, but it was a nice smile. A friendly smile. Dude wasn’t using it very often, obviously. “I’m thinking of taking up fiction writing as a career anyway.”
“You make it so hard to say no.”
Diego started to close the door, but that soft cast shot out, and Diego didn’t have it in him right then to add injury to . . . injury.
“You want to try and convince me some more?” Diego asked sarcastically. “You want to add you’re also a known terrorist carrying small pox?”
“Two thousand cash a month. Six months tops. It’s a room with a toilet, a sink, and a shower, right?”
“How do you know that? How’d you even get my number?”
Dude’s eyes widened. Then narrowed. “Never mind how I know. My Uber driver left me, and I’ll have to walk all the way to the nearest motel. Where is that, anyway?”
“Three thousand,” Diego countered, “and you move whatever shit’s up there down to the garage.”
“Done.” The dude frowned. “Wait. What’s up there?”
Diego shrugged. “Stuff from my mother’s place, probably. I told the company that moved me to put whatever wasn’t marked for immediate use up there. And since I can’t exactly fly up there to take a look around”—he thumped the wheels of his chair—“I don’t give a shit. Haven’t missed a thing, so whatever’s up there can’t be too important. You move it, hand me thirty Benjamins, and we’re good.”
“Yeah?”
Was that relief on his face? Diego didn’t smile back. “Trial basis. Fo
r a month.”
“Fine.”
“Too much drinking, drugging, loud sex? Not fine. Loud parties? Not fine. No one better bother me, leave trash around, or even look at me askance. No redneck music. In fact, give me your number.” He took out his phone, opened the contacts, and let his new tenant type it in. “I control all of the music around here, or you can leave right now. I can’t walk up those stairs but I can light the place on fire from below and rebuild. If you piss me off, I’ll shoot you and tell the police you frightened my permanently-seated ass, and we’ll see who they blame.”
“Askance? Is that a thing now?”
Oh, there it was again. That elusive spark of humor. “It’s always been a thing.”
“I’ll be sure not to do it.”
“All right, then. I’ll get you a key.”
“No need.” Dude reached gingerly into the pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out a fat wad of cash and a Costco card. “That lock’s always been a piece of shit.”
Diego took the cash, counted it out. “This is only two grand.”
“I’ll get you the rest tomorrow. I’m good for it.”
Diego nodded, wheeled backward, and gave the door a shove to shut it. It banged in the dude’s face, but that was partly the wind. Dude couldn’t blame him for the wind, could he?
So. Now he had a tenant for a bit.
He could have said no.
He could have said hell no.
As soon as the dude got a look at his room, he’d probably come back down. If he caused any trouble, Diego could give back the money and boot his ass. If John Smith gave him any attitude, Diego could call the cops. But that would be a lot of bother to go through, when spending the night in a dank-ass garage apartment with no bed, no food, and a single hanging overhead lightbulb was punishment enough.
A quick look at the time told Diego he’d better call it a night. While he went through the motions getting ready for bed, the part of his brain that remembered the haunted look in his new tenant’s eyes—the part of him that recognized and responded to and acknowledged the unfairness of things and the failure of good people to alleviate human suffering in the long run—listened with half an ear for the sound of boxes being shuffled around.
The man couldn’t move things in his condition. He’d have to ask for help, at which point Diego planned to drive him to the nearest bed-and-waffle-buffet motel. Such a thing would probably cost less than the three grand he’d promised Diego anyway, and sure as fuck nobody’d be feeding him here.
Diego definitely did not think about dust or spiders or other critters. He was not imagining a room he’d never even been in but could visualize from realtor’s photos—wood-paneled walls and vinyl flooring in sickly, faded shades of brown and orange and yellow. But he’d never wanted a tenant. He hadn’t sent anyone but the movers up there after he’d come to Bluewater Bay. Hadn’t cleaned the place. Hadn’t advertised it.
It was almost a public service letting the dude get his fill of it. Returning home after a traumatic event might seem like a good thing to a guy like that. There was a lot to be said for nostalgia. But an old childhood hangout wasn’t the place for someone so physically banged-up, and he’d soon realize it.
What he needed was his family. Friends. Tribe. What he was looking for was safety. Diego could tell him that safety was an illusion, but it looked like he’d already gotten the news.
Even as he grew sleepy, Diego kept an ear tuned for unusual noises.
John Smith’d be back if he couldn’t get the door open. He’d knock if sleeping on the floor beat to hell like that was as fucked up as it sounded.
Diego drifted off to sleep wishing he was the type of guy to treat a man’s pride like it wasn’t as important as his body.
Home.
Not home.
Images of playing in the front yard, of water balloons and grilling burgers and infinitely happier times, scrolled through Healey’s exhaustion like a thick fog. He climbed the stairs too slowly, dragging his duffel up each step with a bang. His body felt leaden. Gravity was deliberately fucking with him. Even his heart felt hollow.
Nash isn’t here, he reminded himself.
No one is here.
What you’re looking for doesn’t exist anymore.
Maybe it never did.
Still, he turned the key in the lock. His key turned silently, the same key he’d used since they’d had the official apartment dedication before he left for school. When the wooden door opened, it connected with a box, sending cardboard scudding over dusty floors.
Thud.
Scrape.
Healey flicked on the single overhead light. Closing the door behind him, he shivered. He got out his pen knife and pried away the baseboard where Nash’s bed used to be.
Nash’s secret stash contained an unopened fifth of Jack and a picture of the two of them, standing in front of their bikes. On the back it said, When you’re riding lead, don’t spit.
Good man. It was just like Nash to leave a present for the next guy.
“Bubba.” He toasted his brother because it was only proper while he surveyed Nash’s old bachelor pad.
The liquid burned his chapped lips and scorched his throat going down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before capping it, then turned to look at the rest of the place. Except for the Jack, Nash was no longer here. Healey didn’t know what he thought he’d find. A scent maybe. Or a feeling that spoke of being home. Of being in the last place of intersection between himself and his identical twin.
Until high school, he and Nash had always wanted the same things. Their lives, their hobbies intertwined. But Nash was physically restless, and Healey excelled in school. Nash got a garage apartment and an export auto repair shop, and Healey got a full ride to Stanford.
As far as Healey knew, neither of them regretted their choices. Except now, when Healey regretted everything.
But . . . regret.
Regret was as worthless as wishes. And all the prayers Healey tried went unanswered.
Seeing the new owner explained why the house sold as fast as it did. Diego Luz needed the ramps and wider doorways and lower counters they’d installed for Shelby.
But Shelby was in Spain and no part of the house belonged to them anymore.
New owner though. He was hot. And not just because he was fit. His muscle shirt wasn’t too douche-y; neither were his faded, soft-as-fuck-looking denim jeans. Black Vans. His arms were ripped. New owner was very fine, and he probably knew it, not that it mattered.
A brief stab of guilt, followed by sadness, rocked him. He missed Ford—his best friend. His first serious lover.
He glanced at his messages to torture himself some more.
Email message from Ford. Subject line: Urgent legal matters
Heals,
We had some good times, right? I loved you. I really did. But you know it can’t work with someone like me. You know that.
You’re going to be named in the lawsuit. The dudes from the accident will name everyone as co-defendants: the school, my doctors, you, my parents, and everyone in my fucking life.
Our lawyers say that’s normal and you shouldn’t worry. My dad has offered to hire a lawyer for you, but I think you should find your own attorney as soon as possible. My dad’s lawyers will throw you under the bus if they can. It’s not personal with them. It’s never personal.
I set this in motion and I cannot stop it. Do whatever you have to do. Sorry.
You don’t know how sorry.
Ford
He and Ford’d had some good times. And so very, very many bad ones.
Most of which, if he were honest, had been entirely Ford’s fault.
In freshman year, when they’d met, Ford had seemed perfect. Work hard. Play harder. Nothing was off the table when it came to having fun, as long as they advanced to the next level at school. His occasional bouts of moodiness seemed related to the amount they drank—Healey was his number one partner in crime.
&nb
sp; After a few months of this, they decided they weren’t doing themselves any favors, so Ford agreed to cut back. But as days, weeks, a whole quarter passed where Ford could barely get out of bed, Healey got worried. Ford’s family grew alarmed during the holidays, because his behavior at home had changed so drastically, and then Healey’d gotten the awful call: A suicide attempt. A hospitalization. Trial and error with medications. Fine tuning.
After that, Ford’s friends jumped on his “team.” Healey answered to Ford’s doctors, his family. He’d carried Ford’s banner through senior year, been part of Ford’s day-to-day support system ever since. He’d laughed with Ford. Cried with him. Held him through nights when Ford had given up hope.
They’d stumbled past the finish line together—Healey graduating with a PhD, Ford with an MBA. Along the way, Healey’d gotten so caught up in being part of the two of them, he’d lost his sense of self.
He’d lost his instinct for survival.
Healey and Ford’s last great adventure—a quick road trip to Vegas to blow off steam after graduation—had almost cost them their lives.
He shouldn’t be here.
He should be in school where he thrived.
Back in time.
Back to the beginning.
So much had happened that his brain—the one thing he could normally rely on when life hurt—couldn’t even process it.
The room was a tangle of boxes and photographic equipment. What looked like wrapped canvases. He peeked, because he couldn’t help himself. Colorful, abstract wooden sculptures, shrouded in old, paint-stained printed sheets, leaned against the wall like sarcophagi. It was an interesting mix of things.
Kinda creepy.
After managing to foot-push a few boxes of junk out of the way, Nash laid his duffel bag down like a pillow and fell into an exhausted, slightly loopy slumber.
The scrape of the old aluminum slider—the door from the kitchen to the patio out back—woke Healey. How weird. He could still identify the origin of every sound in the old house.
He listened, rising quietly, straining to see out the window. Low cloud cover obscured the stars and moon, made haloes of the streetlights. There was the sound of wheels on the wooden ramp from the patio to the garden, and then the grinding gears of an automatic garage door opening in the space beneath. A car started up.
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