“You’re not gonna do this to me,” Rich mumbled as a vague notion of driving himself to the liquor store popped into his mind. Bracing himself on the cabinets, he stood. His head spun and black-gray dots speckled his vision. Blinking didn’t help, he discovered—it only made the dots spin and flicker into varying shades of light and dark.
Fuck it, then. I’ll walk to the convenience store down the street. They wouldn’t have any Jack or any other hard liquor, but they’d have beer and some kind of pill he could pop along with it that would surely fuzz his brain up good. He didn’t want to call a cab and wait like he usually did when he needed something.
Rich took a step and nearly gave up. It had been like trying to walk through three feet of wet cement. He could barely find enough strength to move. A second step didn’t prove to be any easier to take, and the third had him halting completely as his heartbeat escalated until it felt like he’d swallowed a dozen hummingbirds and they’d lodged in his chest.
“What do you want from me?” he cried, wiping his clammy hands on his jeans. A new tendril of panic took root and blossomed inside him. He couldn’t survive without self-medicating. The booze and drugs were all that made it possible for him to deal with the bizarre horror movie his life had become. Rich swiped at the sweat pouring from his brow. His forearm slid across his skin, doing nothing to stop the flow of moisture. He tried again, this time pulling up his T-shirt and mopping his face with it. He grimaced as he caught a whiff of himself. Rank didn’t even begin to describe it. The T-shirt reeked of body odor and vomit.
Withdrawals, he thought dully as his body began shaking, working its way up to double digits on the addicts’ version of the Richter Scale. His stomach clenched painfully as the pounding in his head increased. Rich pressed one hand to his belly and the other to his brow. “Shit,” he hissed, sliding down the wall, his vision dimming as his thoughts churned into a blend of nonsensical tripe. He welcomed the darkness that swamped him, toppling willingly into it. It didn’t matter if it was temporary or permanent, it was an escape for now, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter Two
Rich came to with a pounding in his head that resonated with the pounding on the front door. He whimpered as he pried his eyes open, then gagged as he drew in a breath. How long had he been here, unconscious on the kitchen floor? Long enough that his body had tried to flush out the toxins he’d kept it supplied with. Long enough that his muscles screamed in protest when he tried to roll over and push himself upright. Rich didn’t even want to know what the wetness was his palm landed and slid in.
The banging on the door grew louder and he dimly became aware of a man’s voice shouting his name. Rich cringed as his brain put a name to the voice. He didn’t want his father to see him like this, didn’t want his father to see him at all. Hell, he couldn’t stand to look at himself. How could anyone else?
“Richard, open this door or I’ll break it down!”
Rich had no doubt his father would do just that. The problem was Rich couldn’t seem to find the strength to move. He swatted at something his hand brushed against as he tried once again to get his arms under his body to shove himself up. Rich glared at the offending item, frowning when he saw that it was an empty water bottle. He didn’t remember buying any bottled water, much less getting up from the floor and drinking any. His palms slid through puddles of…he didn’t want to know what, especially since he landed flat on his chest in the mess. Rich grunted as his chin whacked the floor, but he managed to roll to his back. The ceiling spun and rippled until he blinked it into focus.
“Rich, oh, son.” A sob from the doorway startled Rich more than the words. He’d kind of thought those were just in his head. He craned his neck so he could see his father standing in the kitchen entryway. Despite his own confusion over how the man had got inside, Rich noted the tears on his father’s cheeks. He couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, to see the disappointment and pity he was sure he’d find there. His father was a retired Houston police officer, and he’d know what the mess Rich was lying in was from.
“How long?”
Rich swallowed and closed his eyes as his father walked toward him.
“How long have you been lying here? What have you been using?”
Rich heard his father’s knees pop and knew the man knelt nearby. A cool, rough hand slicked the hair back from Rich’s brow. The soothing gesture reminded him of how his father had taken care of him when he’d been a child, sick with the flu or some childhood malady. Tears stung Rich’s eyes as he cleared his throat. No one had touched him in so long. No one had been allowed to.
“Don’t know,” Rich croaked in answer to the first question. “Whiskey, some prescription pain meds,” he managed for the second.
His father grunted, then Rich was lifted by two strong hands under his arms. He opened his eyes as the world tilted and spun. His father stood and brought Rich up with him, holding him up until his toes barely touched the floor. Rich couldn’t avoid looking in his father’s dark brown eyes then, eyes so like his own. Except his father’s reflected a wealth of love and compassion Rich hadn’t been expecting. There was no condemnation in their depths, no judgment in his father’s expression. Something terrible rose up in Rich’s chest, then burst free in a strangled sob. He clung to his father, and for the first time since he’d been abducted and tortured by the mad man who’d cost him everything, Rich cried, secure in his father’s arms.
* * * *
Diego Montoya tucked his son into bed and brushed a damp lock of hair off his brow. Though his touch was gentle, Diego railed in silent fury at the sick bastard who’d hurt his boy. Rich had been such a bright light in the world, dedicated to his job as a Houston police detective and to having fun, enjoying life. Then he’d gone to McKinton to help his former partner, Laine Stenley, catch the man who’d killed Stenley’s lover years ago. Rich had ended up a victim of the killer’s, tortured and sliced open in too many places to count. How he’d survived was a mystery.
But this, Diego knew as he looked down at Rich’s pinched features, this wasn’t surviving. He traced a fingertip over the faint silvery scar that ran from the outer corner of Rich’s left eye to the hinge of his jaw. The doctors had done a good job stitching him back up. The scar itself wasn’t so bad, but there were more, and the ones Rich carried inside were worse.
Diego cupped his son’s right hand. The index finger had been severed at the second knuckle. There was nothing the doctors could do to reattach it since the missing piece hadn’t been found. Diego couldn’t stand to think of what the killer had done with it. He wished the fucker was still alive. Diego would love nothing more than to tear the bastard apart, slowly. Forget justice and courts. There was no justice for that asshole’s crimes. Not even an eternity in the fires of Hell were cruel enough for him.
After placing a soft kiss on his son’s forehead, just as he used to do when Rich was a boy, Diego stood and made his way into the kitchen. The entire house was filthy, a reflection of his son’s depressed state, but the kitchen floor where Rich had laid in his own filth for who knew how long was especially nasty. Diego found a mop but the sponge was dried out and cracking. It fell apart when he wet it. Sitting it by the overflowing trash can, he looked around the kitchen. Dirty dishes, but not many. As thin as Rich was, he probably ate very little, if at all. No paper towels, no dish towels.
Diego’s fury pulsed white hot inside him. Where were Rich’s friends? Had he pushed them all away as Rich had done to him? And what about the man Rich had helped in McKinton, where the fuck was he? Didn’t Stenley give enough of a shit to check on Rich, see how he was doing? Rich had almost died trying to help that man. Diego suddenly had a new outlet for his anger, but first he had some cleaning to do. Maybe by the time he was done, he could speak to the man without threatening to kill him.
* * * *
Laine Stenley moaned as his lover swallowed around his cockhead. Severo could give a blow job that’d suck the chrome off a bumper. Laine
fisted his hands in Severo’s long dark hair and pumped his hips, wedging his cock just that much deeper in his lover’s throat. Every nerve in Laine’s body was hypersensitive. The feel of the charm on Severo’s necklace brushing over his balls sent shivers from his groin to his chest.
“Fuck yeah, baby, take it all,” Laine murmured as Severo swallowed again. “Gonna come,” he warned as his sac drew up. Severo hummed and bobbed his head, keeping the suction tight and his tongue flicking every hot spot along Laine’s length. A slight pressure against his hole had Laine spreading his legs a little wider. A slick finger slid into his opening and he screamed and bucked, his body bowing as cum spewed from his dick. Ass play—at least, his ass getting played with—was a new and tantalizing addition to their lovemaking, and it drove Laine right out of his mind.
Laine vibrated with pleasure as Severo swallowed and sucked, massaging Laine’s shaft until every last drop of spunk was gone. The finger in his ass pumped a few times, then brushed over his gland, and Laine damn near came off the bed, it felt so good. His dick slipped from between Severo’s lips with a lewd slurp and he glanced down to find Severo grinning smugly up at him.
“Like that, do you?” Severo asked, wiggling his finger. Laine gasped and his entire body jerked as electric sparks shot from his rectum to the top of his head. “Yeah, you do. Gonna make you come all over again, just from doing this—”
“Fuuuuck!” Laine shot up until he was nearly sitting as Severo rubbed his gland harder. “Sev, baby, please!” Stop, don’t stop, Laine didn’t know what he wanted, his body was filling with so much ecstasy he thought his head might pop off.
Severo chuckled and fisted his own thick cock. “Lay back down, lover. Gonna come all over you, mark you with my scent, rub it into your skin until it’s mixed into you forever.”
Laine was stunned enough by this new burst of dominance in Severo that he flopped back on the bed with his mouth agape. Severo’s pale eyes gleamed through the narrow slits of his lids. There was a determination stamped into his expression Laine had never seen before, and damned if it didn’t excite him every bit as much as the finger buried deep in his ass. Severo was his, from the top of his silky hair to the tips of his elegant toes, and now Laine would be his as well. This time, Severo only intended to come on him, but as a second finger worked into his hole, Laine was left with no doubt there would soon be something new added to their lovemaking. He’d never bottomed before, but the way Severo looked at him, the way his fingers were twisting and stretching Laine’s anus, he knew that was going to change.
And while he’d never wanted to let another man have him in such a way before, Laine wanted to give himself to Severo. He was just a bit surprised Severo wanted to fuck him, as Sev had always professed to be a strict bottom.
“I want all of you,” Sev whispered as he pumped his cock. Laine wasn’t surprised his lover picked up on his thoughts. Sev knew how to read Laine like no one else ever would.
Laine opened his mouth to reply but his words turned into a long moan as Sev caressed his gland. Laine fisted his hands in the sheets as he ground his ass against Sev’s hand, trying to get more—more fingers, more pressure on his prostate, just more.
Sev’s wicked, sexy laughter along with a third finger being pressed into Laine’s opening had Laine teetering right on the brink of his second climax. The burn and stretch of his ring around Sev’s fingers brought a fiery pain that mingled with a promise of intense pleasure. Laine heard a whimper and was shocked to realize it was his own.
“That’s right, honey,” Sev rasped. “You look so fucking hot with three fingers stretching your ass. I’m not gonna last much longer. Grab your dick and jerk yourself off, come with me.”
Laine let go of the sheet and brought one hand to fist his cock and the other up to pinch his nipple. Sev began thrusting his fingers in hard and fast, brushing over Laine’s gland with each stroke, and Laine barely got one slide up and down his dick, one twist of his nipple, before Sev tapped his fingers firmly and shoved Laine right over the edge. Laine cried out with each jet of seed that splattered him, Sev’s mixing with his until his chest and belly were striped with cum.
“God, look at that.”
Laine cracked open eyes he wasn’t aware he’d closed and watched Sev rub their mixed juices all over his torso. It’d be a sticky, flaky mess, but damn, Sev looked turned on all over again, and Laine loved feeling like a marked man. Sev twisted one of Laine’s nipples, sending a zing of pleasure-pain straight to Laine’s balls. “Fuck, I’m getting hard again already,” Sev said.
Laine found enough energy to arch an eyebrow at his younger lover. “Twice in a row is about it for me, but if you—”
The phone beside the bed rang, and Laine snarled at the interruption. He started to grab the phone, but Sev stopped him with a shake of his dark, sexy head. “Got cum all over our hands,” Sev pointed out. He wiped his hands on Laine’s thighs, grinning evilly as he did so, then he crawled up and over Laine and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
Laine saw the change in his lover’s body immediately, the loose, relaxed muscles tensing even as Laine heard a deep male voice demanding, loudly, to speak to him. Sev turned back to him, worry etched into his features, and held out the phone.
“It’s Diego Montoya, Rich’s dad, and he sounds like he wants to kick your ass.”
Laine nodded and reached for the phone. He couldn’t blame Mr. Montoya—Laine wanted to kick his own ass for ever letting Rich get hurt in the first place. He deserved whatever anger Rich’s dad wanted, or needed, to toss at him. Laine took the phone and pressed it to his ear.
“This is Laine Stenley, Mr. Montoya.” Instead of the cursing and anger Laine expected—or, to be accurate, along with those things—Laine discovered just how horribly he’d fucked up by letting Rich take part in bringing down James McAlister, the man who’d stalked Laine years ago and who’d killed Laine’s former lover. Mr. Montoya told Laine, although he might have phrased it differently, exactly how Laine had ruined Rich’s life.
* * * *
“What the hell happened while I was out of it?”
Rich’s cheeks burned with humiliation when his father gave him an arch look.
“You mean, what happened while you were going through involuntary detox for the past three days?”
Rich wanted to bury his head back under the pillow, but he forced himself to remain sitting up, his back against the headboard and his gaze locked with his father’s. The need for a drink, a few shots of Jack or a couple of pain pills, made him twitchy and his mood sour. He hadn’t wanted to detox, that was true enough. Without the pills or the booze, the images the invader speared into his brain could be overpowering. And the next time it happened, Rich would need those crutches to deal with it. No one had the right to deny him what comfort he could find, not even his father.
Who was in the middle of throwing Rich’s clothes into a suitcase. What the hell was going on? Rich’s stomach dipped. He used drugs and alcohol to cope, but his father didn’t know the why of it. Rich hadn’t told anyone about the awful things that had been shoved into his head, the visions and memories of a sociopath who, even in death, was finding a way to get his twisted jollies.
Rich heaved himself off the bed and took a shaky step, stopping when he thought he might fall. He bent sideways and braced himself with one arm on the mattress as he glared at his father. “Why are you packing my shit? If you think you’re gonna send me off to rehab or something like that, forget it. I won’t go.”
Diego Montoya snorted and flapped a hand at him. “Look at you. You’re nothing but bones. I could drag your ass to rehab with one hand tied behind my back. And you cuss at me again, I’ll put you over my knee and bust your butt like I did when you were a kid.” He turned away from Rich and continued emptying his drawers into the luggage.
Rich glared daggers at his father’s back, then glanced down at his own body. Clad only in boxers, Rich could see every rib clearly, the sharp po
ints of his hips, the knobs of his knees. His belly was the only soft spot, pooching out the faintest bit. The six-pack he’d once been so proud of was long gone—the only demarcations left on his stomach were those carved there by James McAlister, the fucker who’d almost killed him. Rich shoved the thought aside as he resumed glaring at his father’s back. Big, broad, brawny—his father was all of those things, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do what he’d threatened. Rich could do without such a blow to what little remained of his pride.
“Fine. I apologize for cursing.” Which only his dad was allowed to do—how had he forgotten? It was disrespectful for a child, adult or not, to curse to or around their parents, according to the elder Montoya. Rich was too used to being on his own to think he would remember that particular rule for long. He tried standing again, and this time gave himself a moment before shuffling toward the bathroom. “Can you at least tell me where I’m going?”
His father ignored him and finished packing while Rich stood propped in the bathroom doorway and watched. Once the suitcases were full and set by the bedroom door, his dad walked over to him and took his arm in one big hand.
“You need to shower, then eat something. I’ll help you shave that rat’s nest off your face before you eat, though,” the elder Montoya said, pointing to the straggly beard on Rich’s face.
Rich tried to pull away and promptly started to tip backwards. His father grabbed his other arm and gave him a little shake.
“That’s enough, son. Look at me.”
Rich reluctantly dragged his gaze up to meet his father’s, unsurprised at the anger in the man’s dark eyes.
“You are not going to kill yourself, you hear me?” his father snapped, giving him another shake that made Rich’s eyes cross. “You’ve pushed everyone away who could help you, everyone who cares, who loves you, including me. While you were lying in that bed, screaming and puking and shaking so hard I thought you’d break in half at times, I was calling people, pissed off because no one was here for you, no one seemed to care. You know what I found out?” Another shake, and this time Rich couldn’t bite back a snarl as he clutched his father’s forearms.
Wait Until Dawn Page 2
