Bonds of Denial (Wicked Play #5)

by Lynda Aicher

  The sudden rapping from below made him flinch. They’d go away, just like they had every other time. He crawled back between the messy blankets, kicking his legs until his feet were covered.

  The clicks of his front door opening and closing should’ve had him jumping from his cocoon to discover who the intruder was. He didn’t move.

  The carpeting muted the person’s movements. They could take whatever they wanted. It was just stuff.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” Tony’s deep, accented voice rumbled through the bedroom. He’d always wondered what a Brooklyn boy was doing in the Midwest, but he’d never asked. Hank’s muscle man didn’t engage in conversation unless it was to threaten someone.

  “Hank’s pissed. You haven’t replied to him.”

  Good. Fuck him. The blankets were yanked off him in one clean swoop that sent a chill of air over his skin. He still didn’t move.

  “Fuck. Man, you stink.”

  He did?

  “Come on.”

  The next thing he knew he was being lifted and dragged to the bathroom. “What the fuck?” he mumbled, but he didn’t have the strength to resist. He stumbled into the shower stall. The cold tile hitting his chest got a wince from him, but nothing more. Was this where Tony did his dirty work? It’d make the cleanup easier.

  The icy spray of water hitting his back finally got a reaction. He yelped, shuffling to the far wall to get away from the cold. “Shit. What are you doing?” The water splattered over his legs and feet, numbing them like his insides.

  “I told you, you stink.”

  Carter lifted his gaze and finally looked at the other man. The burly guy stood outside of the stall like a guard, ensuring he didn’t leave. His thick arms were crossed over his wide chest, making his girth bigger—as if he needed it. His wide-set eyes were narrowed, pulling a series of wrinkles over his high forehead that encompassed a look that practically begged Carter to defy him.

  “Your suit’s getting wet.”

  Tony shook his head and reached into the shower to turn the handle. Warmer water rushed out to sap some of the chill from Carter’s bones. He’d been shivering but only now realized it.

  “Wash yourself.” The curt demand was followed by the slamming of the shower door.

  Why? It was too hard to puzzle out the logic, so he simply followed orders. Did Tony like his kills clean first? Getting rid of DNA or something? Did Tony kill people? He’d never heard of other escorts disappearing, but then, he’d kept his distance from most of them.

  He stood there for a while before the warmth of the water lured him under the spray. He ducked his head and let it pour over his skull and down his back. The water ran down his face and around his mouth in rivers that were choking and cleansing.

  The rest of the process happened automatically. He went through the motions of washing because he was supposed to.

  Tony was leaning against the doorframe when he stepped out of the shower. He hadn’t even noticed the man was there until then. He picked up the towel Tony must’ve put out and dried off.

  Carter looked up. “What do you want?” He dropped the towel, turned around and braced his hands on the wall. “This?” He looked over his shoulder, spreading his feet wide. It was what most guys wanted from him when they knew what he did. Why would Tony be different?

  Tony shook his head and walked away. Carter dropped his forehead to the wall and waited. He was probably getting supplies.

  “Jesus Christ.” A wad of material hit his back and slid to the floor. “Put some clothes on.”

  Carter turned around to find Tony gone and a pair of gray sweatpants at his feet. He slipped the soft cotton on and found the T-shirt that’d been hidden beneath them. He tugged that on too and stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Teeth,” Tony ordered from his perch in the corner chair, his finger pointed at the bathroom.

  Carter turned back around and did as he was told. He kept his gaze down the entire time. The second time he stepped out of the bathroom, Tony didn’t say a word, so he trudged back to his bed.

  “Fuck, no.” Tony thrust up from the chair and stalked over to grab Carter’s arm. “When’s the last time you ate?” He pulled him out the door and down the stairs. Carter didn’t resist.

  “What day is it?”

  Tony hauled him to the kitchen and shoved his ass down on one of the bar stools that lined the peninsula bar. “Friday.”

  Carter scratched his jaw, surprised to find a bit of stubble. “Monday. I ate on Monday,” He was unable to do the math.

  Tony glared at him before he opened the refrigerator door. He grabbed a cup of yogurt out and slammed through drawers until he found a spoon. “Here.” He banged them both down in front of Carter. “Start with this.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t answer stupid questions.” Tony went back to the fridge and proceeded to pull more items from it. He paused to take his suit jacket off and lay it across the back of the couch. He rolled up his sleeves as he returned to the kitchen. “Eat.”

  “You fattening me up before you beat me?” He didn’t answer, so Carter pulled the foil lid off the yogurt and dipped the spoon in.

  He emptied the contents of the yogurt cup and looked up to find a glass of milk sitting in front of him. He pulled it over and sniffed it. Satisfied that it wasn’t spoiled, he took a drink. A sandwich was the next item to slide across the counter to rest in front of him. He followed the path of the plate to find Tony munching on his own stuffed sandwich.

  “Help yourself,” he mumbled.

  “Thanks.” The word was spoken around a mouthful of food.

  They ate in silence, the food going down his throat in untasted bites. As a last meal, it left a lot to be desired. The turkey on whole wheat filled his stomach, but that was about it. He managed to finish half of it before he pushed the plate aside.

  “You done with that?” Tony pointed at the uneaten sandwich. Carter nodded, and the man swooped it up. Four bites later, the sandwich was gone. He wiped his hands off and ran the napkin over his mouth before he grabbed the plates and set them in the sink.

  “How’d you get in?” It just now dawned on Carter to wonder about that.

  “The deadbolt wasn’t latched. The flimsy nob lock wouldn’t stop a baby.”

  Huh. Guess he’d never locked it after Rock left. “Why are you here?”

  Tony turned from the sink to lean against it. “I told you. Hank’s trying to reach you.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve been MIA for four days.”

  Carter shrugged. “I’m done.” He held Tony’s gaze. “Are you going to beat me now?”

  “What?” Tony scrunched up his face in a scowl and crossed his arms again. “I probably should. It might knock some sense into you.”

  “So you’re not going to beat me?”

  “What good would it do?”

  “None.”

  “So what’s the point?” He looked at his nails. “I just got a manicure. A beating would fuck it up.”

  Carter scoffed out a laugh and rested his head in his hands. “Can I go back to bed now?”

  “Hank said you still owe him a month of service.”

  “Twenty-one days,” he corrected. “So what? I don’t care anymore.” He rubbed his eyes. The sting on his palm had him looking down to see that the cut was red and angry. Huh. It should probably hurt more.

  Tony stomped from the kitchen on a sigh. He mumbled something about babysitting service as he left the condo, but Carter didn’t catch it all. He returned a minute later, a first-aid kit in his hand. “Give me your hand.” Tony stood across the counter, waving his fingers for Carter to comply. He did at once. It was easier to just go along with the man. Tony studied the cut for a second before he dug into the contents of the kit. He grabbed some paper towels off the roll and stuffed one under Carter’s hand. “This is gonna hurt.”

  The warning was brief and didn’t cover the flash of fire that streaked across Carter’s palm
. “Holy fuck.” He tried to jerk his hand away, but Tony held his wrist firmly to the counter.

  “One more dose,” Tony said before pouring more peroxide over the cut.

  Carter hissed through the pain, uncaring if he sounded like a wimp. “Why in the hell are you doing that?” he growled.

  “It’s infected.” Tony grabbed a tube of antibiotic ointment and rubbed some over the cut before winding a bandage around his hand.

  Carter stared at the white wrapping then raised his head to stare at Tony. The man cleaned up the towels and neatly put the items back in the little kit. “Why?”

  Tony glanced at him. “You might not care now, but you will someday.”

  “Care about what?”

  “Yourself.”

  Tony set the kit by the front door, and Carter could only watch him in stunned silence. He came back, turning his sleeves back down and buttoning each one around his wrists before he picked up his suit jacket and slipped it on.

  “So you’re not going to force me to work?” Carter watched for Tony’s reaction, but the man only shrugged.

  “What good would it do?” He looked up from straightening his sleeves. “Hank has nothing on you. Your contract is basically done. You have no family or exterior motivators to hold over you. Honestly, I think he was worried about you.”

  The sarcastic laughter burst out of Carter. “Right.”

  Tony snorted. “Okay. That’s a stretch.” He came back to the kitchen and tossed an envelope at Carter. “I found that on the porch.”

  He caught it out of reflex. The heavy cardboard smacked in his hands and he winced as it hit his sore palm. He flipped the envelope over, glancing at the return address. Open Eye Gallery. He set it down.

  “You’re not going to open it?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Don’t wait too long. It looks like something good.”

  “And you care why?”

  Tony sighed and stared at the ceiling. “Fuck if I know. Do whatever the hell you want.” He turned around and headed toward the door. “I’ll tell Hank you’re alive and your phone’s broken.”

  Carter’s gaze cut to the pile of battered technology lying on the carpet by the stairs. Yeah. He’d need a new one.

  The front door slammed closed. A gust of cool air wafted down the hallway to chill his bare toes. The silence settled around the room in an odd vacuum after Tony’s departure.

  With nothing else to do, he stared at the envelope. He’d sent several inquiries to local galleries last month after joining the Northeast Minneapolis Arts Association. NEMAA hosted a weekend-long art show every May, and he’d thought about showing some of his pictures at one of the galleries. Could he handle another rejection right now?

  His refrigerator kicked on, the automatic ice maker refilled, a car drove past outside and still he stared at the envelope. In a sudden burst, he ripped the easy-open tab off and yanked the contents out. His pulse raced for no reason as he tossed the empty cardboard aside.

  The small stack of papers was topped with a letter, which he scanned, reread more slowly, then finally read again to be certain he understood it correctly. The gallery wanted to feature his Lost Opportunity series at no cost to him as the centerpiece of their Urban Living exhibit during the art show weekend.

  Really?

  He flipped through the rest of the papers. There were numerous sets of instructions, legal papers, contracts and details for making it all happen. Someone liked his work. Not a friend or lover, but an art gallery. It was his chance to make his dream happen.

  His hands started to shake and he set the papers down before he crumpled them. He stared at the small stack of potentially life-changing documents and tried to process it all.

  Now what?

  He grabbed the papers and took them with him to the couch. He sank into the softness and laid his head back, thinking.

  They gallery was asking for matted, framed prints of the images he’d sent via email. They needed an answer. The logical response was obvious. Before he could change his mind, he picked up his tablet from the coffee table and opened his email. A quick scan down, and he found the email from the gallery. It contained a summary of the information in the envelope they’d mailed.

  He exhaled and quickly typed a response, agreeing to the show. He had two weeks to drop the pictures and contracts off at the gallery. Pushing Send, he watched his reply disappear. Committed. Instead of celebrating, he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his bed.

  It took another minute to clean the junk mail out of his inbox. His breath caught when he saw a message from Rock sent on Thursday. Pain exploded in his chest and his hands started to shake again. Damn it.

  After so many days of silence, he couldn’t imagine the note would be kind. He’d used Rock and shoved him out the door. His actions were unforgivable.

  He clicked it open, scanning the short note. I had to go home for a family emergency. You didn’t answer my text. We’ll talk when I get back—Rock.

  He stared at the email. Was Rock okay? It had to be bad for him to go home when he hadn’t been back in years.

  The note was so terse, but what had he expected? Rage? Accusations? Definitely. He deserved them. But this was nothing. Emotionless. There was hope there, though. One he was afraid to grasp.

  We’ll talk when I get back. Was that any different than the we’re done here he’d left on?

  Carter hit Reply and typed in one word—Sorry. He hit Send and watched it go. He owed the man more than that, but it was all he had right then.

  He closed the tablet and set it aside. Talk about lost opportunities. He’d slammed the door on any chance of a future with Rock. It didn’t matter if it was self-sabotage or pure stupidity that’d played a part in his actions—the end result was the same.

  He should go upstairs to his office and work on the photos. Instead, he sat there, staring at the blank television screen. The gallery show was another chance at a different future. But he’d already destroyed one chance. Would this one be any different?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rock leaned on the doorjamb, the faint sunlight flittering into the room through the thin slits in the shades. Dust motes danced in the streaks of light, defying his mother’s daily cleaning regimen or perhaps encouraging it.

  His dad lay in the big bed, appearing smaller than ever. It was odd, because his entire life the man had always been large and intimidating. He was having a hard time adjusting his memory to fit the man before him. First Sergeant Ronald James Fielding would despise the image he presented right now. Weakness was never allowed under any circumstance.

  He chuckled to himself. He had no doubt his dad would be barking orders to new recruits within the month. Double bypass surgery wouldn’t keep him down. The man would rather drop dead with a thirty-pound pack on his back, running twenty miles in the Georgia sun, than be confined to a desk job. Or worse, retire.

  He glanced around, a sense of nostalgia dragging him down. It was a different room and house, but the furniture and decor hadn’t changed since he was a kid. The pink flowered bedspread folded neatly at the end of the bed was his dad’s concession to his mother. The furniture was sturdy oak with no frills that had survived more moves than anything made today could. Even the smell, a mix of lavender and Old Spice, was the same.

  Everything about his parents’ bedroom said nothing had changed since he was a kid. Not their lives or their attitudes. It’d been four years since he’d been home—here. The fact that it might be his last trip home weighed heavily on his heart.

  Despite the harshness of his childhood, it hadn’t been bad. He was raised with order and structure, but there’d been love there too. Holidays filled with family, both related and made at each base where they were stationed. They’d always been cared for, which was more than a lot of kids got.

  But he couldn’t go on being who they wanted him to be. It was past time he was himself—his true self. They could love him or hate him for it, but that was
their choice. He couldn’t control that. Never could. He could only control his own actions and behavior.

  His dad stirred, the blankets shifting down to show the bandage on his chest. He’d been napping since they’d brought him home that morning. The belligerent man had insisted the trip hadn’t worn him out, but in the end, the pain drugs and his body had convinced him otherwise.

  A gray beard stubble covered his cheeks and neck, matching the gray stubble on his head. Always a proud wearer of the high and tight, he’d gone to a bristly bald style when his hairline had started to recede. For a man who was closing in on sixty, he was in better shape than most men in their twenties. The doctor said that was one of the reasons the heart attack hadn’t caused more damage.

  “What are you staring at?”

  The gruff question pulled Rock out of his thoughts. His dad was glaring at him from under heavy brows and grooves chiseled into his forehead. The first sergeant had spent years aiming that exact look at kids so green they still smelled like the farm.

  He stepped into the room, ignoring the scowl. “Do you need anything?”

  “I need to piss. You gonna hold it for me while I go?” His dad tossed the blankets aside and tried to rise. He cursed, and Rock resisted the urge to help. He’d only get cuffed for offering. After a few seconds and a lot of low grunts, his dad shuffled to the attached bath, slamming the door closed behind him.

  “Was that your dad?”

  He turned to see his mother standing in the door. “Yeah.” He nodded toward the bathroom.

  She followed his gaze and frowned. “Let me know if he needs anything.” Her sandals were silent as she retreated. The practical rubber soles wouldn’t dare to click on the hardwood. His mother fit his dad. The whole saying that opposites attract had never applied to his parents.

  The bathroom door opened, and his dad’s glare cooled the room temperature better than the air conditioning. “You still here?” He scratched his nuts through the thin boxer shorts before slowly lowering himself into the rocking chair in the corner. There was no way the first sergeant would willingly place himself in the weaker position by lying back down.