by Ally Blue
Rafael’s eyes opened. He peered down at Nat with lust and tenderness battling for territory on his face. His lips quirked into a wicked smile. “You look good kneeling at my feet like that.”
The quaver in Rafael’s voice—like he was barely keeping himself together—did all kinds of interesting things to Nat’s insides. Grinning, he flipped open the button on Rafael’s jeans and tugged down the zipper. “Hold on to your socks, little boy. The big, bad Wolfman’s gonna eat you up.”
Rafael’s mouth opened. Whatever he might’ve said dissolved into a breathy aaahhh when Nat yanked his pants and underwear down over his hips and swallowed his cock in one smooth move.
In the past, Nat had never been the one to take the lead in sex. Too much trouble for too little reward. Now, with Rafael, he found he liked being the aggressor. Liked the way Rafael moaned his name, the way he trembled and pulled Nat’s hair every time he deep-throated Rafael’s prick.
It felt good. It felt powerful, counterintuitive as that sounded when he was kneeling naked in the dirt and Rafael stood above him still mostly clothed. But he couldn’t deny it. He tasted sweet surrender when Rafael shot down his throat with an echoing cry, and he knew he’d crave that feeling every day for the rest of his life.
He swallowed, again and again. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a mechanical trill. Nat’s sex-fogged brain decided to ignore it, and it quit after a few seconds. Rafael’s hips stopped moving too, and his dick started to go soft. He drew back to study Rafael’s face. His cheeks were pink, his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed, and Nat’s heart turned over.
Wrapping his arms around Rafael’s hips, he rested his cheek on Rafael’s flat belly. “You taste so fucking good.”
“Mmm.” Rafael unclenched his fists from Nat’s hair and petted his head in long, soothing strokes. “Do I get to taste you now?”
The mental image nearly made Nat come all by itself, he was so on edge. “You bet your cute little butt you do.”
Rafael laughed. “Lie down on that fallen tree, and spread your legs.”
Oh, damn. Pulse racing, Nat hurried to do what Rafael said. He sat on the enormous tree trunk, then lowered himself carefully onto his back. The wood was damp and a little cold, but the heavy growth of moss kept it soft and protected him from splinters. And it was as wide as a sofa. All in all, not a bad bed.
He hooked his hands under his knees, pulling them up to his chest and opening his thighs wide. “Come and get me, Hollywood.”
And there went that sweet blush again, coloring Rafael’s cheeks hot pink and clashing adorably with the sinful promise glittering in his eyes. Grinning like a demon, Rafael stalked forward, hiked up his pants, and planted himself on the fallen tree between Nat’s legs. He ran his hands up the insides of Nat’s thighs, then back down again, until his thumbs brushed the underside of Nat’s balls.
Nat drew in a hissing breath through his teeth. “Jesus. Stop teasing and touch me already.”
One neatly groomed brow lifted. “Like this?” Rafael curled his fingers around Nat’s shaft, bent, and licked a wet stripe across the head of his cock.
Goddamn if that didn’t blast all the words right out of Nat’s brain. “Uhhh,” he moaned, one hand hanging on to his leg for dear life and the other groping for any part of Rafael he could reach. His fingers skated through Rafael’s too-short-to-grab hair, clipped his ear, and ended up grasping at empty air.
Rafael, evil creature that he was, laughed. “Try not to kick me when you come, Wolfman.”
A tiny corner of Nat’s mind argued, silently, that he’d never kicked anyone during sex in his life, and why did Rafael think he’d start now? But the protest died before it got a good foothold, on account of Rafael’s lips sliding down his cock, all the way to the root, throat squeezing the head in a way that had Nat seeing stars.
When Rafael pulled off long enough to slick a couple of fingers with spit and push them up Nat’s ass, Nat gasped and flung his feet into the air. Good thing Rafael’s down there instead of up here fucking me, or he really would have gotten kicked. Nat let out a laugh that morphed into a keening cry when Rafael’s clever fingers nailed his gland. “Oh, oh fuck. Fuck.”
Rafael hmmed with his mouth full, his throat vibrating around Nat’s prick, and that did it. Nat came so hard his vision sparkled at the edges, his hands digging into his thighs—no kicking—and soft little uh-uh-uh noises bleeding from his mouth.
The orgasm shook him, wrung him out, and left him sprawled limp and sated on the dead tree. He blinked blearily at the green canopy overhead while Rafael lapped up the last splatters of semen like it was ice cream or something. Nat giggled. Fucking giggled. Which was so wrong it made him giggle even more.
Rafael lifted his head, amusement curving his lips—all red and swollen from sucking Nat’s cock, Jesus—into a crooked smile. “What’s so funny?”
“You. Me. Us, here.” Nat swooped one arm in an arc overhead, indicating the forest and the current situation in general. “I dunno. I think maybe coming makes me get silly.”
Chuckling, Rafael took Nat’s hands in his and tugged until he sat up. “Silly Nat is cute. I like it.” He peered at Nat with vulnerability shining in his eyes. “I like that you feel that comfortable with me. I know you don’t let everybody that close, and, well, I like being the person you let in.”
Something sharp and sweet spiked through Nat’s chest. Because words had never been easy for him, he draped his legs over Rafael’s, wound both arms around Rafael’s neck, and kissed him. You’re important to me, he said with the press of his lips and tongue. No one else has ever been this close.
Rafael’s right hand spread between Nat’s shoulder blades, the left cupping his skull like he was something infinitely precious, and Nat thought maybe he’d gotten his point across.
A muffled brring cut the quiet. This time, without the urgency of sex clouding his head, Nat allowed himself to recognize his cell phone. Apparently they weren’t quite out of range here.
Nat broke the kiss. “I should answer that.”
“Definitely.” Rafael touched Nat’s cheek and flashed a wide, bright smile as he reached for the pile of clothes he’d left on the forest floor.
Nat’s answering smile died when he saw the name that popped up on his phone’s screen. He swiped it on with suddenly clumsy fingers, his pulse whooshing in his ears. “Mrs. Hawk?”
“Nat. Thank God.” Her usually calm voice had a panicked edge, and Nat’s stomach knotted. “Where are you?”
“I’m . . . hiking. With a friend.” He glanced at Rafael. A worried crease dug between his brown eyes. He mouthed, What’s wrong? Nat shook his head. “What’s going on? What happened?”
“It’s your dad, Nat. There was an accident. He’s on his way to the hospital in Port Angeles right now. You need to get over there. It’s bad.”
Numbness spread from Nat’s core through his body, paralyzing him. “What happened?”
“There was a fire. I guess your dad fell asleep. I saw smoke coming out around the edge of the kitchen door and called 911, and, well.” She drew a wobbly breath. Blew it out. “He’s alive. But he’s not good.”
Oh God. Nat ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Where was the sitter?”
“Sitter?” She sounded confused. “No one else was there.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. His dad must’ve sent another one home. Nat’s throat constricted.
Mrs. Hawk was talking again. “Nat, honey, you get on over to the hospital, okay?”
“Yeah. I will. Thank you.” He ended the call and sat there, staring at nothing, feeling bruised inside.
“Nat?” Rafael cupped his face in both hands, studying him with concern. “What’s going on?”
“That was Mrs. Hawk, my neighbor. She said there was a fire at my house, and they took my dad to the hospital.” Nat heard his own voice as if from a great distance. “He must’ve sent his sitter home again. Why does he keep doing that?”
“Oh my God, Nat.”
>
He stood, letting Rafael’s hands fall away from him. “I have to get dressed. Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin our picnic.”
Rafael’s eyes widened. “What? God, no, that’s . . . Don’t even worry about that.” He jumped off the log, picked up Nat’s T-shirt, and shook leaves off it while Nat stepped into his underwear. “I’ll drive you, okay? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
His first instinct was to protest. But he really, really didn’t want to face whatever was about to happen by himself. “That’d be great. Thanks.” He pulled on his jeans, zipped and buttoned them on autopilot, then took his shirt from Rafael and slipped it over his head.
For whatever reason, the reality of what was happening didn’t hit until he’d finished lacing his shoes. Then it slammed into him like a truck. He grasped Rafael’s hand and fought back the terror squeezing his lungs. “Mrs. Hawk said it was bad, Rafael. What if . . . What if . . .”
He couldn’t say it. But Rafael understood, because he was that sort of guy. He wove his fingers through Nat’s, steadied Nat’s body with an arm around his waist, anchored his mind with a calm, unwavering presence. “Don’t. Let’s see what the situation is first. Okay?” He kissed Nat, soft and sweet, easing some of his fear. “I’m with you, whatever happens. Remember that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”
Tears stung the backs of Nat’s eyes, but didn’t fall. He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. Rafael grabbed the backpack and slung it onto his shoulder, and the two of them took off back down the slope as fast as they could manage through the thick undergrowth.
They’d almost reached the trailhead before Nat thought to check the call he’d ignored while he’d been blissed out sucking Rafael’s cock. Dread churning in his gut, he thumbed on his phone and checked his call log. And stopped in his tracks, fighting the urge to drop to the ground and curl into a guilty ball.
The call he hadn’t answered was from his father.
The next couple of hours of Nat’s life passed in snapshots. Green leaves, birds chattering, thunder, a brief, cold squall, Rafael taking his truck keys and driving him to Port Angeles. Surprise that Hollywood drove a stick. Fierce gratitude that he did.
The police called on the way to the hospital. They wanted to talk to him. The feeling was not mutual, and Nat said so in no uncertain terms. What could they tell him that he needed to know right now? And he sure as shit didn’t have any information that would help them.
And here Nat still was, who the fuck knew how long after. A couple of days, he figured, or near enough, going by the nursing shift changes, the number of doctor visits, and the fact that Rafael had gone away, come back, and gone away again since the whole ugly business started.
Yawning, Nat rose from the recliner at his father’s bedside, stretched, and rubbed the grit from his eyes. The glass-enclosed cubicle was dim, the only light coming from the machines: IV, ventilator, the lights on the hospital bed. A curtain across the door blocked the brightness of the nurse’s station.
Somewhere beyond this little room, an alarm chimed. It was answered by running feet, voices, more light. People taking care of business. Yanking some flagging life back from the brink, maybe.
Don’t think about it. Just don’t.
He rested his elbows on the hospital bed’s side rail and watched his dad’s face, like he’d done for however long he’d been here. His father looked old, skin gray and crepey, colorless lips slack around the plastic tube snaking into his lungs, hooked up to the ventilator that kept him alive.
His eyes didn’t move under the lids threaded with tiny blue veins. He didn’t make his usual fearful little noises, and his arms and legs didn’t jerk like they normally did when he slept.
No restless dreams for Jerome Horn. Not anymore.
Pain, fury, and guilt swelled in Nat’s gut, the way it had over and over since he’d first arrived in this little glass cubicle. He curled forward, head in his hands, fighting the tears he refused to let fall. Rafael had told him not to give up, and he would damn well not give up. Not as long as his father kept breathing.
Well. As long as that fucking machine kept breathing for him.
And how long are you gonna let that keep happening, Nat? Huh? How long are you gonna keep him alive, because you’ll feel like it’ll be your fault if he dies?
“Shut up,” he whispered to the increasingly loud voice in the back of his head. He knew his dad’s wishes. Better than anyone, since his uncle and his sister had long ago washed their lily-white hands of any responsibility for the family’s resident addict. And for all his self-destructive tendencies, for all the shit he’d been through in the last few years, Nat’s father had never lost his unquenchable desire to live. Nat wasn’t going to be the person to decide his dad could not, should not, or somehow wouldn’t want to live anymore, simply because he’d accidentally overdosed.
It had been an accident. Nat wasn’t sure of much in his life anymore, but he had zero doubt about that. The voice mail his dad had left that day was short and vague, but the meaning became obvious in the glaring light of hindsight. “I left the pan on the stove, Nat. It’s smoking. But I’m so sleepy. Can’t move.”
Nat closed his eyes, remembering the sound of his father’s rough, labored breathing, followed by those last, slurred words that would haunt him for the rest of his days. “Think I took too many pills. ’M scared.” Then a clunk, and silence for another minute and a half until the phone cut the message off.
The fire fighters who’d managed to save his house—the only damage was the burnt stove and one scorched kitchen wall—had found the Robaxin bottle on the coffee table, next to a whole six-pack of empty beer cans. Judging by the number of pills left versus how many ought to be left, the doc thought Nat’s dad must’ve taken at least six or seven at once. Maybe more. And probably triple the prescribed dose of the tramadol Dr. Takoda had given him to replace the Vicodin. That plus the booze had been too much for his system to handle on top of the smoke inhalation. If Mrs. Hawk hadn’t spotted the smoke coming from the half-open kitchen window and kicked in the back door . . .
Christ.
Opening his eyes, Nat straightened up and paced to the window. It was four in the morning, according to the clock readout on the heart monitor. The streets of Port Angeles were deserted except for the occasional car slicing through the rain. Droplets glittered in the streetlight glow. The view mirrored how Nat felt: lonely, gloomy, empty. Hopeless, no matter how hard he tried to believe everything would turn out okay.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket, startling him. He pulled it out and rolled his eyes when he saw the text from his sister, asking how their dad was doing. Anger twisted his insides. She’d flat-out refused to fly to Washington to visit her comatose, critically ill father. Why in the hell was she pretending to be interested now?
Fuming, Nat stabbed at her tiny picture and hit the phone icon. She answered on the second ring. “Nat? I didn’t figure you’d be up yet.”
Why’d you text me at 4 a.m. then? “Dad hasn’t woken up. The doctor doesn’t think he ever will. Everybody here’s trying to talk me into taking him off life support and letting him die.”
When he paused, the familiar pain kicking him in the lungs, she jumped in. “I’m sorry, Nat. I know this must be hard for you.”
It was all Nat could do not to scream at her. The only thing that kept his voice low was knowing for a solid fact that he’d get thrown out of the ICU if he lost control. And he would not let that happen.
“You don’t know shit.” He paced the tile floor, trying to burn off some of the rage boiling inside him. “You haven’t laid eyes on either of us in thirteen fucking years. Not even after Dad’s accident. No, you couldn’t be bothered to help out. Too damn busy with your fucking shop and Colin’s fucking art.” He put air quotes around the word with his free hand, never mind that Abby couldn’t see it. “Meanwhile, guess who was back here in that shitty old house, watching Dad waste away and turn into a fucking pill addict? Me,
that’s who. Because you were too fucking selfish to ever help, even a little bit. And now you’re gonna fucking text me to ask how he is?” He snorted. “Please. Don’t pretend you give a shit.”
Abby was silent so long he thought she’d set her phone down and walked away. He was about to ask if she was still there when she spoke again, her voice low and cold. “Dad treated me like crap my whole life. You know that. Mom too. She always defended him, but I saw how he talked to her. Like she was less than him. Like everything she had or did was by his leave, you know? She used to work, d’you remember? She was a bank executive. And he guilted her into quitting because she made more money than him.”
Nat swallowed nausea. “I don’t remember any of that.”
“I figured. You were only six when she left the bank. And you were always Dad’s favorite. His son.” She sighed. Her voice softened, turning sad. “And you know how Dad was after Mom died. Acting like it was my duty to stay in Bluewater Bay and take care of the family. Like what I wanted didn’t even matter. I couldn’t stay, Nat.”
“Yeah, I know.” Nat dropped into the recliner. “I get it. I do. But can’t you at least put all that aside long enough to fly out here and help me deal with this?”
She went quiet. Nat clenched his free hand in his lap. Come on. Don’t make me face this by myself.
“I can’t,” she said, barely audible over the constant noise of the machines keeping their father alive. “Even if I could afford the plane ticket and the time away from work, which isn’t a sure thing at all, I don’t think I can stand to look at him again. He’s been out of my life for a long time, and I want to keep it that way.”
“Even if he dies? Even if you never get another chance to reconcile?” Nat struggled to get the words out past the aching tightness in his throat. “C’mon, Abby.”
“I don’t want to reconcile with him. And I don’t care if he dies.”
Nat flinched at her harsh words and harsher tone. Leaning forward, he rubbed at the dull pain in his chest. He wanted to beg her to help him. To not leave him to handle their father’s death alone like he’d had to handle everything else since the logging accident. Maybe a little guilt would change her mind.
