Caveman: A Single Dad Next Door Romance

by Jo Raven

  Shit, I’m gonna be sick. Opening the door of the truck, I barely have the time to bend over outside before I’m throwing up the sandwich I had for lunch. The bile burns my throat, but at least after that, my stomach isn’t trying to climb its way up anymore.

  Fucking hell. I wipe my mouth and close the door. I’m a mess. First the flashback at the park, then this. This. This should never have happened. It doesn’t happen when I control the situation. If the chick doesn’t like my rules, I dump her and go look for another.

  Damn. Dakota. I can still taste her on my tongue, so sweet.

  I screwed up. Shoving her like that against the sofa, eating her up, then demanding to fuck her on the floor, and then... Then giving in, doing it face-to-face when I should have known better. When I should have known she’d wind her arms around my neck. Chicks like that. And when her hands touched the naked skin of my back and the burn scars…

  Christ. I went batshit in front of her. I knew this was gonna end in disaster. And I can’t lose her. Oh fuck, I can’t. I slam my hand on the steering wheel.

  Get real, Zane. How can you lose someone you don’t really have?

  Just because I’m obsessed with her doesn’t mean she gives a fuck. I mean, she wants me, that’s clear, but she still doesn’t know me.

  And she never will. Jesus. What was I thinking?

  Don’t get attached to her. Don’t you know any better? The more attached you grow to someone, the sooner they die. That’s Zane’s Law.

  It’s like Murphy’s Law, only bloodier.

  I rev up the engine and roll away. Driving around town may calm me down. My heart is still going uncomfortably fast, beating a tattoo into my ribcage.

  This is it, I realize as I drive through the quiet streets of the suburbs. I tried to fuck Dakota out of my system.

  And it didn’t work. Damn, why didn’t it work? The thought of fucking someone else, anyone else, makes me wanna puke again. The urge to turn the truck around and go back to her is like a physical pull in my chest.

  What the hell’s wrong with me these days?

  Not that she’ll want anything more to do with you anyway. Hell, she’s probably already running in the opposite direction.

  Damn strange how bad the thought hurts.

  I drive through the town, my motions mechanical, a headache throbbing at my temples. Could things get any worse? I can see Dakota’s frightened face in my memory, the way she cringed when I lost my shit.

  A memory of breaking things has me gripping the wheel harder. I’ll have to call Tessa and offer to pay for it. Crap, that’s all I need right now. As if Dakota knowing I’m certifiable isn’t enough. As if I can afford more damage. If I don’t find a roomie soon, I won’t be able to afford the apartment. I’ll have to move out.

  Lose everything. Lose all that’s kept me sane so far.

  I suck on the barbell in my tongue to the point of pain. The pressure is back in my chest. Don’t know what to do with myself. Haven’t done drugs in years, but the way my skin feels, stretched too tight over my bones, I sure wish I still knew a dealer.

  Emma wouldn’t like that. Emma, who dragged me away from that shit, and forced me to decide what was important in my life. Taught me how to move past the memories and live in the now.

  The now—where she’s dying. Where my world is crumpling around me. Where I’m back to square one. No, worse: where I’m down to my last fucking thread of sanity, because I’ve held hope in my hands and lost it.

  The bartender has stopped giving me dirty looks and pours me another shot without much prompting.

  He’s given up on me. He’s not the first or the last one.

  I’m on a bender, on my own, again. Not that they guys haven’t tried to get me to go out with them. I think Asher is getting royally pissed off with me, and Erin is trying to guilt me into meeting with her and Tyler, even going as far as to mention Jax, her little son, saying he wants to see me.

  Christ. I can’t meet them. Don’t wanna meet anyone. They’ll try to make me talk, and talking is the last thing I need right now. If I talk, I have to think, and if I think, I have to remember… remember that it’s all falling apart.

  I drink and pretend I can go back to where I was before my world went to shit.

  So this is how I find myself crawling into my truck on Saturday morning with a hangover from hell to drive to the hospital in Zion. I knock back a couple aspirin, dry, and stop to buy an extra-large coffee as I head out of town. The pounding in my head is deafening, so I crank up the music until the whole truck vibrates with the bass, and I can feel it in my chest, like an extra heartbeat.

  The three hours of sleep I got aren’t doing much for me as I fall out of my truck and almost land on my ass in the parking lot of the hospital. Great. Just what Emma and Matt need: a guy drunk off his ass, barely able to function, let alone help.

  “Zane.” Matt is standing outside Emma’s room, arms folded over his chest, his face haggard. It’s as if he’s the one who’s sick. I wonder if I look that way, too. We’re Emma’s mirrors.

  “You okay, man?” Matt gives me a once-over as I walk unsteadily to the door and peer inside. “She’s asleep.”

  “I’m fine.” I stare at her small face, relaxed in sleep, then at all the tubes and machines around her, and I want to puke again, only I don’t think there’s anything left in my stomach. “Fucking fine.”

  Matt nods. I don’t ask him if he’s okay. What’s the use? Why would I assume he feels anything else but despair and rage and fear? Anything else but what I feel? He loves Emma. They have kids together.

  “I’m going to grab a coffee,” I say. “Want some?”

  And that’s when he seizes my arm and says the words I’ve been trying to avoid for weeks. “We need to talk.”

  We sit in the small cafeteria of the hospital. The coffee tastes like piss, but I down it anyway, hoping to clear my head.

  Turns out Matt doesn’t expect me to say anything, which is just as well, since my brain is down to basic functions. As he talks, even that small part shuts down. He’s talking, and I’m staring at him. I hear snatches of sentences, words that make no sense.

  And then they do.

  ‘Tumors have spread. Organs are failing. Won’t be long. Nothing they can do.’

  “No,” I whisper. “Shut up.”

  “Zane. I’m only trying to prepare you, man. I got the whole talk. I’m trying to condense it here for you. I just—”

  “Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Fuck you.” I push my chair back, and distantly I hear it crash to the floor. Blindly I turn to go, get away. Another door, another attempt to escape.

  What a fucking joke.

  I stumble out into the parking lot. Matt calls my name, but I need a minute. Hell, I need a year. What does that mean, there’s nothing they can do? All this equipment, drugs, machines, trained doctors. Specialists. You hear about people saved and healed every day. You don’t hear about those who don’t make it.

  Emma has to make it. She has to.

  My hands shake as I pull out my cigarettes and light one. I draw on the smoke and close my eyes. Let this be a dream. Let me wake up right fucking now.

  The parking lot blurs but doesn’t vanish. I’m still here, still trapped. Still waiting for the final, parting shot.

  “Hey.” Matt steps out, beside me. “The hell, Zane? I was just trying to prepare you. This isn’t exactly easy for me, you know.”

  “I know.” I suck more smoke into my lungs, hold it. Predictably, it does nothing to calm me down. “Sorry, fucker.”

  It’s not enough. It never is. But that’s all I have.

  Matts sighs, rakes a hand through his short dark hair. “You need to accept it, Zane.”

  “What, like you have?” I stuff the cigarette in my mouth to stop myself from saying more, and I almost choke on my smoke.

  “Dammit.” He kicks at a pebble and takes a few steps away. “She’s my wife, Zane. How do you think I feel about it?”

  “She�
��s my sister. How about that?”

  He slumps and turns back to face me. “There’s nothing we can do, man. I have to think of the kids.”

  Right, the kids. I nod. It makes perfect sense.

  No sense at all.

  “Who’s with them?” I throw down my cigarette and step on it. “Want me to go check on them?”

  “Nah. Stay until you’re sober.” Matt gives me a flat look, and I shrink a little. Didn’t fool him, huh? “I’ll go. You can stay with Emma for now.”

  He gives me another long look before he heads toward his car. “Your friends know about this, right? Your roommate, that girl who likes cooking pasta for you, and Asher?”

  “Sure they do,” I lie easily. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Don’t know.” He shakes his head and turns to go. “Just making sure you’ve got someone to lean on, that’s all.”

  His words chill me. I’ve always leaned on Emma and Matt. I want to ask where he will be when I need him, but he’s already gone.

  Sunday afternoon finds me back on the road, heading back to Madison. Heading home. Oh yeah, right, home. Whatever.

  I should leave the apartment. Move out. Stop clinging to the past. Or something.

  I stop on the way to buy supplies. Whiskey. Cigarettes. A lighter. The basics.

  I don’t think I’ve eaten anything all weekend, and don’t think I could stomach it, either. There’s a faint buzzing in my ears that I can’t seem to shake off. For once, I’m glad I don’t have a roommate. When I slam the door of the apartment shut behind me and step into the cold living room, I feel ready to shatter into pieces, and that’s not something I want anyone to see.

  I turn on the TV, not even bothering to see what’s on, and unscrew the whiskey. Thus armed, with the bottle and my cigs, I step out onto the balcony and let the dark take me. This is where I’m supposed to be—floating in emptiness, blanking out my mind the only way I have left: drink, smoke. Rinse and repeat.

  It’s going well. At some point, I blink my eyes open to find out I’ve slid down to the balcony floor, the bottle spilling whiskey on the floor and the cigarette burning a hole through my jeans to my knee. I throw it down and brush the hot ashes off me.

  The smell of burnt flesh hits me, and I gag. The memory slams back into me—hands all over me, searing pain, gut-clenching fear. Hands bending me over, pulling my legs apart. A flash of white teeth, the red of burning embers in the dark. A filthy gag filling my mouth, stopping my cries.

  Christ.

  I gulp down more whiskey, let the soothing burn calm me. Fuck. With the pain of the burn, more senses return. I can hear someone pummeling on the apartment door. I try to ignore it, but the pummeling doesn’t stop. It goes on and on. It’s driving me insane.

  “Zane.” Someone steps out on the balcony, and I jerk back, hitting my head against the balcony wall. The past blurs into the present, and I try to get away, but I’m cornered. I prepare to throw the bottle at the guy.

  He squats down in front of me and grabs it from my hand. “Zane. What the hell, man?”

  Oh shit. “Ash?”

  Of course it’s him. Who else has a spare key? Next time I should padlock the door from the inside.

  He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. Ash is strong. He trains more than any of us, and it’s a good thing, ’cuz my legs refuse to hold me. My balance is shot to hell, and we almost go down together, but in the last second, he manages to keep us upright.

  “Dammit, Z-man. What have you done to yourself?” Ash drags me inside and drops me on the sofa.

  I lean my head back with a groan. The room spins, so I close my eyes.

  Ash mutters something more, but I can’t make it out. I want to sleep, but the burn on my knee aches, and my head is still too full of raw fear and ghostly pain.

  “Here, drink.” Ash pushes a glass into my hand and glowers at me until I gulp it down.

  “Ugh. This is water. Are you trying to kill me?” I cough and reach for the whiskey bottle he left on the table.

  “Fuck’s sake.” Ash pries the bottle from my fingers and levels a laser-sharp stare at me. “Enough.”

  He’s pissed. Of course he is. His dad was a drunk, and I shouldn’t push, but today I need to drink until I forget, and he’s not letting me, dammit. He moves away, taking the bottle with him. I should see where he puts it, so I can go get it later.

  “The hell’s your problem?” I grumble as I attempt to put the empty glass back on the table. Not sure I’ll manage. The image wavers in my eyes.

  “Are you trying to kill yourself?” Ash sits on the table in front of me, taking the glass from me. When did he come back into the room? I feel I’m missing chunks of time.

  “A burn won’t kill me,” I slur, but the memory of the pain hits me, and I shudder, my whole body shaking. My stomach churns. “Shit.”

  “Burn?” Ash leans closer again, and I lean back. Fucker should learn to stay out of my personal space. “Fuck, man, did you stab yourself with your cigarette?”

  I feel panic setting in, my heart pounding in my chest. The smell of scorched flesh fills my nose again. “Jesus Christ. Can you…?” I gesture at the burn. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard.

  He seems to understand what I need, ’cuz he’s Ash, and he knows I can’t stand burns. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He’s gone and back before I realize, holding a tube and a pack of gauze. Where did he get that? Erin, my fuzzy mind says. She must have left her first-aid kit.

  Ash rolls up my pant leg and cleans the burn. Shit, it hurts like hell. Ash spreads some cream on the area and slaps a Band-Aid over it.

  “Done. You’ll be fine,” Ash says. “Hey, Z-man, can you hear me?”

  I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak yet. I watch him as he puts the tube away and returns with a refilled glass of water.

  “How’s your sister, man?”

  Bad question. “Fine.”

  He sighs. “Seriously, man. Talk to me.”

  “She’s fine,” I say stubbornly and snap my mouth shut.

  “Have you eaten?” he asks after a long moment. “And I mean solid food, not alcohol.”

  Dakota made me breakfast. Something greasy, she’d said. And orange juice. She’d held me. It had felt good. Now she’ll think twice about touching me, because I’m a screw-up, and I fucked up. Couldn’t control myself.

  Now she’s not coming back. She’s never coming back, and I need a drink. I try to get up, only to find Ash in front of me—again. “What?”

  “Food. Eat. You’re making yourself sick.” He pushes a plate with toast and jam into my face. “You can’t live on alcohol, man.”

  “Why, have you ever tried it?”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Ash sighs and rubs his hands up and down his face. “Dammit, will you stop being a wiseass for just one moment? I’m trying to help you here.”

  “Fuck you, Ash. I don’t need you to save me.” I drop the plate on the table and make as if to stand. Only problem is, the room keeps spinning, throwing me off balance.

  “You saved me, but I can’t save you?” Ash folds his arms over his chest. “Does it seem fair to you, asshole?”

  “I didn’t save you, dammit.” I brace on the armrest, because the room is spinning faster now, and blackness teases my vision. “That day it was Audrey who found you, not me. I didn’t get that things were so bad at home. I let you down.”

  “I don’t mean you saved me on that day,” Ash snarls and gets right back into my face, because Ash can do that and not get punched, although he’s pushing it now. “I mean you saved me every single day. You talked me out of jumping off a cliff a thousand times. Took me in every time dad went on a drinking binge and started hitting me. Went looking for me on the streets whenever you didn’t hear from me for a couple of days. You had my back. You were the big brother I didn’t have anymore. My protector. My fucking family. So don’t you tell me you didn’t save me, and don’t ask me to back off.”

 
; I blink. I’m so caught off guard I just gape at him. I mean, Ash doesn’t talk much at the best of times, not even on the rare occasions when he’s drunk a beer or two. He also normally doesn’t look like he wants to beat the shit out of me, but he sure does now.

  “Have I made myself fucking clear?” Ash snaps.

  “Christ, fucker.” I let my eyes close again. “I feel like there’s a troupe of monkeys doing the Riverdance in my skull, so keep it low, okay? I heard you. I’m not responsible for your delusions. If you wanna think I saved your ugly ass, then fine, but be quiet and let me nap.”

  “Fuck you, man.”

  “Fuck you, too,” I mutter fondly and drift off into uneasy sleep.

  Monday is gruesome, as expected. Focusing on the job takes up all of my energy and then some. The headache hammers away at the back of my eyeballs. I think I’m getting accustomed to it. Then again, I only grunt when asked a question and glare at everyone until they go away, so maybe not really.

  Ash passes by at one point and starts talking, so I tune him out until he leaves. Then Tyler decides to park his ass inside my booth as I wait for my next customer and talks—about Erin? His son? The weather, for all I care. He gives up and leaves after a while, and I get on with work.

  But the guys don’t give up, do they? Rafe comes to talk to me just as I’m about to close shop, to tell me he’ll be rehearsing tonight and ask whether I’d like to watch.

  “Why?” I frown at him. My head’s killing me, and my brain is slower than a slug on codeine, but still this isn’t making any sense. I’ve never watched him rehearse before, and he’s a drummer. The noise will split my head apart.

  “Not only me,” he explains patiently. “I’m rehearsing with the whole group. Dakota will be there, man. Come on.”

  Her name does funny things to my mind, not to mention my body. But it’s too late for that shit now. I screwed up. “No can do, fucker, sorry.”

  He gives me a look like I’ve gone crazy. He’s an idiot. I’ve always been crazy, so how’s that any news? “I thought you liked her.”

  I shrug, the pain in my chest returning. “I do like her. But I don’t think she likes me.”