by Nic Starr
It was difficult finding space on the bedside table due to the pile of paperbacks that took up most of the surface, so Mitch collected the books and deposited them on the floor, the job made easier by the dim glow from the digital alarm clock.
“I’m going to turn on the lamp,” he said in a low voice.
He angled the globe away from the bed so it cast a gentle light onto the floor, leaving the bed mostly in shadows. It didn’t take long to divest Finn of his clothes and shoes, leaving him in his boxer briefs. As difficult as it was, Mitch kept his focus on the practicality of helping Finn and avoided looking at his body, no matter how much he wanted to. Finn was obviously unwell and didn’t need Mitch studying him. However, it was hard not to notice his lean strength, all long limbs and taut muscles, as Mitch pulled the fabric from his body. He helped Finn stand and drew back the bedclothes, holding them up so Finn could slip between the sheets. Mitch couldn’t help seeing the hint of something dark on Finn’s skin, stretching from his shoulders and right across his chest. The low light made it impossible to discern clearly, and Mitch only allowed himself a brief glimpse before covering Finn with the cotton sheet.
“Thanks,” Finn murmured.
“Do you need anything else? What can I do?”
“There’s nothing you can do. Just leave me. The pills will work soon.”
Mitch could tell what an effort it was for Finn to even get those few words out. He reached down and flipped off the lamp, stepping carefully through the darkened room. He pulled down the roller blind to prevent the morning sun from waking Finn, hoping he slept that long, and shut the door closed behind him. At the last minute, he decided to leave it open a fraction so he’d be able to hear if Finn called out, if he needed anything.
Now Finn was safely tucked away, Mitch could turn on some lights. He flicked the switches in the hall and the living room before heading back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He idly traced the pattern of the old laminate benchtop as he waited for the water to boil. Once the tea was made, he took it to the living room, but it was impossible to relax. For one thing, the couch was shit, with sagging cushions and zero lumbar support, another piece of furniture that should be on the scrap heap. Why on earth does Finn live like this?
While he sipped the English breakfast, Mitch contemplated his next steps. While he’d been in the house a few times when coming to pick up Finn or dropping him home, Mitch mostly stayed in the car. He’d only had a chance to take in the house on the surface, and because nobody had lived there for years, it hadn’t been searched as part of the investigation. Now was the perfect opportunity for Mitch to do some recon while Finn was out for the count, and he wouldn’t be interrupted. There wasn’t much to search, anyway, so it wouldn’t take long.
Tea finished, he rinsed the mug in the sink and left it on the drainer with the other dishes that were obviously from Finn’s breakfast and decided he’d start with the kitchen. He made his way systematically through the cabinets and drawers, even looking in the oven and the fridge. Nothing. Next he tackled the living area, rummaging through the entertainment unit—not even a DVD collection, just a board game and a few old copies of Australian Shooter. He flicked through the pages and wondered who the hunter was, but based on the date of the magazines, they most likely weren’t Finn’s. His dad’s, maybe, or perhaps the dead brother?
Dice rattled as Mitch picked up the battered box of Yahtzee. Finn’s name was scrawled in childish block letters on the top corner of the box. Mitch traced the letters, imaging the young Finn playing this game. Was it a favorite? Did he play it with his brothers? It was hard to imagine the Cummings clan sitting around for family games night.
Mitch recalled his own childhood and the weekends his parents insisted he and his sister, Vanessa, join them for board games or cards. Vanessa repeatedly voted for Trivial Pursuit, something that always pissed Mitch off. She was a whiz with general knowledge and could beat Mitch and their parents hands down. His mum favored Monopoly, and his dad liked playing 500. Mitch always preferred outdoor games, but he wouldn’t have traded those hours he spent around the table talking, bickering, and laughing with his family for anything. He hoped Finn had experienced even a moment of this type of happiness when he was growing up.
He pushed the box back into the cupboard and stood, stretching his back and enjoying the pop of vertebrae—it had been a long and tiring day after a restless night. A quick look around confirmed there was nowhere else to search in the room, and rummaging in the two drawers of the hall console table only took a moment. That only left Finn’s bedroom and the couple of other bedrooms. The first room Mitch checked was empty, with a stale, abandoned feel compounded by the musty odor. The second room was more fruitful, filled with packing boxes of varying sizes.
Mitch grinned. It looked like the contents of the house had been packed away and stored in this room. Bingo!
But a further glance wiped off the smile, and he hunched his shoulders. The boxes were new and stamped with the details of a moving company. He was obviously looking at Finn’s belongings shipped from Melbourne. Damn!
With a heavy sigh, Mitch raised the flaps on the first box. Someone—Finn, presumably—had already removed the packing tape. He pulled out the first newspaper-wrapped item, a plain white porcelain plate. Next came other items of crockery—more plates, bowls, and mugs—all of them in the same simple design. The next box held glassware, including heavy green glass tumblers and wineglasses in various sizes. Nothing looked particularly expensive, but it was tasteful and fairly new. Fifteen minutes later he’d unearthed pots and pans, cutlery, towels and sheets, and a myriad of household appliances. There was a box full of clothes in Finn’s size, and another containing books.
There was a stab of unease as Mitch pried into Finn’s things, but he swallowed it back—he had a job to do, and the fact he liked the guy shouldn’t even enter into it. He pressed his lips together and got on with the task.
The box of books was the most enlightening thing he found. It spoke a lot about Finn that the books he read were so varied. It appeared Finn enjoyed everything from thrillers and biographies to romance. Mitch hadn’t read romance before, but he picked up the biography and found it fascinating. He looked forward to the opportunity to discuss it with Finn, to find out his thoughts, but as he looked around the box-filled room, he realized that discussion wouldn’t happen for a while because it wasn’t like Lance Armstrong was someone to naturally come up in conversation, and Mitch couldn’t let on he’d searched the room.
Mitch closed the door on the little slice of Finn’s life, but the curiosity didn’t dissipate. Why were his possessions in boxes? Finn had been in the house for a couple of weeks—you’d think he would have unpacked, at least the basics. Instead his perfectly nice dinnerware was wrapped in newspaper, and he was drinking from cracked glasses.
Mitch tiptoed along the hall so as not to disturb Finn, but stopped at the sound coming from the bathroom. At some time while he’d been engrossed in Finn’s belongings, Finn had crossed the hall, but from the sound of retching, he wouldn’t have been in any fit state to investigate Mitch’s whereabouts, anyway. Mitch didn’t want to intrude on Finn’s privacy any more than he already had, but he couldn’t ignore that the guy was so unwell. He swallowed the guilt and knocked softly on the door, pushing it open at Finn’s muffled reply.
“Are you—shit.” Mitch rushed forward at the sight of Finn sitting on the tiles.
Finn had a towel folded on the edge of the toilet seat and one arm resting on it, making a pillow for his head. He briefly flicked his eyes up to Mitch before he raised himself and heaved into the bowl. He dropped back down once the heaving subsided, but it was obvious from his unusual pallor that he still felt horrendous.
There was a washer on the edge of the tub, so Mitch dampened it, then sat on the side of the tub when he could reach Finn. He held the cool cloth to Finn’s forehead.
Jesus, if this was what a migraine was like, he wouldn’t wish one on his
worst enemy.
“ROCKY. IT’S Mitch.” Mitch dragged on his cigarette as he stared into the backyard.
“What’s up?”
“Finn’s sick. We won’t be in for a couple of days.”
“What the fuck!”
Mitch held the phone away from his ear. He gave Rocky a moment to rant before interrupting his tirade. “Like I said, he’s sick.”
“There’s shit going down here, Mitch. I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
“It’s not a choice. I’m sure he’d be there if he could.”
“Well, you can get your goddamned arse in here. I don’t pay you to be a nursemaid.”
The thought of leaving Finn unattended, especially while he was so ill, didn’t sit well with Mitch. He was staying whether Rocky liked it or not. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s not up to you,” Rocky snapped.
“What the—”
Fuck. Tread easy.
“Think about it. Someone took a shot at him on the weekend. Until you sort this crap out with the Brutes, you’re all sitting targets. Why don’t you focus on that and I’ll focus on doing my job. If I stay out here, I can keep an eye on Finn and make sure he’s safe.”
Rocky mumbled something, but he didn’t outright argue the point. Instead he got the last word by issuing orders. “I expect you back as soon as he’s on his feet. He’s needed on the books. You keep an eye out and let me know if you see or hear anything suspicious. I’ve got a plan for the Brutes, so don’t worry yourself about that.”
“Sure, Rocky. I’ll take good care of him.” Mitch rolled his eyes as he accepted Rocky’s directive, something he was bloody well doing anyway.
The instinct to take care of Finn didn’t give him any other option.
Chapter SIXTEEN
FINN STRETCHED out on the bed and blinked a few times in the dim light of the bedroom. It took a moment to focus, but once the numbers came into view, the digital alarm clock showed it was nearly six. He felt weighted with exhaustion but dragged his heavy body into a sitting position and tried to shake off the lethargy. He peered closer at the clock. The little green light was displayed against the “p.m.” Six in the evening! I’ve slept the whole day?
The memories came back in a rush: the signs of a migraine coming on, the pain gradually worsening until Finn could hardly think by the time he arrived home.
He looked around the room. The bed was rumpled, the sheets puddled on the floorboards at the foot of the bed. The bedside table held a full glass of water and a bottle of his pain medication. His pile of paperbacks was on the floor, the small tower balancing a bowl that sat on a folded towel. Finn scowled in confusion, the small movement reminding him of the faint headache that remained.
Finn picked up the pill bottle but decided he’d take some Nurofen rather than the stronger stuff he used during the onset and peak of each episode. Thankfully the migraines were few and far between, so much so that he hadn’t refilled his prescription in ages and was lucky there were enough pills to see him through. He looked at the bottle in his hand again and gave it a slight shake before opening and staring in confusion. The bottle had been opened but was nearly full.
“Oh, you’re awake.” Mitch spoke softly, but his voice still caused Finn’s heart to race as he looked to the door in surprise.
“Ah. Yeah,” Finn managed to respond, his own voice rough and his throat dry.
Mitch moved into the room. “I wondered when you were going to emerge. How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Finn took a sip of water, as much to soothe his throat as to get his jumbled thoughts in order. “Tired more than anything. Confused.” What is Mitch still doing here?
“You’ve been in bed since Monday night, and it hit you hard. It’s no wonder you feel like shit.”
Finn snorted. “Like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck. And today is?”
“Today’s Wednesday.”
Jesus, I’ve been down for two whole days.
He stood and wobbled slightly on his feet. Mitch immediately took his elbow, and in a move that felt natural, started guiding him toward the door. Finn allowed himself to be led from the room, not even questioning where they were going.
“You need to take it easy and give yourself a few days to recover,” Mitch said. They stopped at the bathroom door. “You take a shower, clean up, whatever it is you need to do. But maybe don’t lock the door.” Finn raised a brow. “That way I’ll be able to come in if you need anything, or if something goes wrong,” Mitch said in answer to his unasked question. “Just call if there’s anything I can do, okay?”
Finn nodded, unsure how to respond to Mitch’s kindness and the warmth that filled his chest. It was overwhelming to have someone show that much care and worry about his well-being. Finn blinked to hold back the tears. Mitch smiled, then headed to the living room, giving him some privacy.
Finn grimaced at the sight that met him in the bathroom as he stared at his reflection. The mirror on the cabinet door was streaked, but even that couldn’t be blamed for his washed-out appearance—pale skin, unwashed hair, and uneven stubble across his jaw. He had enough presence of mind to groan at the thought Mitch was seeing him look like this. But then memories flooded back, visions of Finn kneeling in front of the toilet and Mitch cleaning him with a damp washer. Finn leaning into Mitch’s soothing touch, seeking comfort in his arms. The flood of embarrassment wiped out the warm feelings thinking of Mitch’s tenderness elicited. God, what must he think of me? A vomiting mess, weak as a kitten, falling apart in his arms….
Finn turned abruptly, peeled off his briefs, and turned on the shower. He stepped in, allowing the water to wash away two days of staleness and wishing he could scrub away his feelings. He was a mess—wrung out, emotional, and obviously not thinking clearly. The hot water pounded on his back as his emotions swirled in turmoil.
But no one had ever looked after him like that before, not since his mum died, and that was years ago. Since then he’d managed fine on his own. So why the yearning for more of that comfort? Finn usually pushed people away, and it grated on him when he wasn’t treated like a grown man who could stand on his own two feet. So why now was he wanting someone to lean on? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop his thoughts, but immediately a vision of Mitch appeared behind his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes in a flash as frustration surged through him. He turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and briskly toweled dry—better to focus on the mundane task of getting ready and not the bullshit emotions he seemingly couldn’t control.
Twenty minutes later, clean-shaven, fresh smelling, and dressed in comfy track pants and a T-shirt, Finn entered the kitchen and headed straight for the drawer where he kept his medications. He shook a couple of Nurofen into his palm and accepted the glass of water Mitch passed to him, moving to the table when Mitch nudged him in that direction.
“It’s not much. I wasn’t sure how up to eating you’d be, whether you’d have an appetite, but it’s important you eat, given the medication.” Mitch gestured to the pills resting in Finn’s palm. “I kept it simple, so hopefully it’ll stay down.”
Mitch’s gentle smile helped clear away the brief moment of embarrassment at the reference to his throwing up. The grilled cheese on toast looked surprisingly appetizing, and Finn was suddenly ravenous. “Thanks. It looks great.”
Mitch brought his own meal to the table before fetching two mugs of tomato soup. Tears prickled as Finn thought of his mother doing the same thing—making him soup for an afternoon snack on a cold winter’s day.
God, I really am falling apart.
He looked down and focused on swallowing the pills, hoping Mitch couldn’t read the emotions that no doubt showed on his face. By the time he met Mitch’s gaze again, he felt more composed.
The simple meal was delicious, and it was only when he was half-finished that he wondered where the food had come from.
“The fridge.” He nodded toward the old Kelvinator, a
relic from the sixties or seventies. “There wasn’t much in it. And certainly no cheese. Where did this come from?”
“I did a little shopping. I left when you were sleeping, but you’d just had some pills—the last of the bottle—so I figured you’d be out for a couple of hours, otherwise I wouldn’t have left you alone.” Mitch sipped his soup. “There’s a great little shopping center down the road a bit, although I guess you know that. Chemist, butcher, greengrocer. It didn’t take long to get what I needed, and there’s plenty left over.”
“You went shopping?”
Mitch raised a brow. “Sure. How else was I going to get food?”
Finn thought of the nearly full pill bottle and the mention of the pharmacy. “And you got my migraine pills?”
“I hope you don’t mind. There were only a couple left, but there was a prescription in the drawer over there where you keep the bottle. That was okay, wasn’t it?”
Finn nodded. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just part of the service.”
Mitch winked as he stood, but Finn was immediately reminded Mitch was paid to be his driver, his protector. Maybe that duty extended to nurse, personal chef, and housekeeper? He’d been letting himself think Mitch really cared.
Stupid!
Finn pushed himself to his feet and reached for his plate, but Mitch picked it up first. “You go sit down for a bit, maybe put the television on. You look dead on your feet.”
“I’m not totally useless, you know!”
Mitch looked taken aback for moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I know.” His voice softened. “Just go take it easy, Finn. It’s only a couple of dishes, and you’ll recover quicker if you don’t push it.”
