“I found out you’ve been telling them all the same bullshit lies you been telling me,” the man ground out. “You’re doing fine, keeping busy with work and doctor’s and therapist appointments! I didn’t raise you up to be a liar any more than I raised you up to be a drunk or a drug addict!”
Rich’s temper burnt out his embarrassment as he tried to dig his fingers into his dad’s forearms. Another hard shake and Rich was teetering toward violence, ready to deck his father if he could just get the chance. The realization terrified him, and he stopped fighting, stopped kicking legs he hadn’t even been aware of moving. He loved his father—the man had always been there for him, raising him alone when his mother had wandered off to explore greener pastures.
Despite being a police officer, his dad had managed to attend every baseball game, every important event in Rich’s childhood, and he’d accepted Rich without question when Rich had nervously confessed his bisexuality, then again when he’d admitted he wasn’t bi at all, because as much as he wanted to like girls, he just couldn’t. This big, macho man had nodded and hugged Rich and told him he loved him, and always would.
“It’s the drugs and alcohol fucking with your head, making your temper volatile,” Rich heard his father explain, pulling him from his reflections.
“Think about it, Richard,” the man continued, “you know what I’m saying is true. Fight past it instead of fighting me.”
The plea hit him in his heart, and Rich sagged against his dad’s chest. So he’d try to leave off the Jack and pills, and hope he didn’t go insane. He wasn’t very optimistic that he’d succeed at any of it, even if he agreed to go to rehab.
“What place are you sending me to?” Rich mumbled against his dad’s chest, wondering if it’d be here in Texas or somewhere in New Mexico where his dad lived. He frowned at that. Why was his dad here, even? Rich had called him like he usually did, hadn’t he? He leaned back enough to look up at his dad. “Why’d you come down here?”
Leading him over to the toilet and nudging him to take a seat, the older Montoya took his time answering. Once he had the shower going and a wash cloth as well as a towel laid out, he gestured for Rich to stand. Rich did, then quickly slapped at his father’s hand as he pulled at Rich’s boxers.
“I can do it myself,” Rich sniped, then flushed to the roots of his hair. Someone had been cleaning him, taking care of him for days, when he obviously hadn’t been able to take care of himself. Withdrawal wasn’t pretty or clean at all. “Oh, God,” Rich whimpered, feeling the last of his ego wither away.
“Everyone needs help sometimes, son,” his father said in a voice filled with understanding. “But yeah, I think you can get your own drawers off this time. Probably you can even get in the shower, but you should sit before you fall once you’re in.” He turned and left but didn’t shut the door. Rich didn’t have the energy to waste on it, either. He tugged his boxers down then carefully got in the shower, easing himself to sit on the now warmed fiberglass.
It wasn’t until he finished scrubbing the stench from his body that it dawned on him his father never had told him where he was being sent off to.
Chapter Three
Rich stared at the bags piled in the trunk of his sleek little Miata. The car used to be his pride and joy—the sunny yellow color would lift his darkest mood instantly. But that was before. Since shortly after he’d returned to Houston, Rich hadn’t wanted to even look at the car. He didn’t want to be happy, something he hadn’t understood until that very moment. Well, I’m for damn sure getting that wish if I can’t get out of this. Going through with this trip will leave me as far from happy as possible.
Rich pivoted on his heel and almost plowed into his father. He glared up at the man, then quickly adjusted his attitude before he got another ass chewing. Be calm, reasonable…
“I don’t want to go back to McKinton!” Rich mentally slapped himself upside the head. Sure, sounding like a seven year old throwing a tantrum was going to prove to his father how stable he was. He glanced at the dead grass under his feet and felt a certain sense of satisfaction that he wasn’t the only one who’d suffered. Petty, and dumb to boot, considering he was the one who’d killed the lawn he used to be so proud of. Rich sighed and forced himself to look at his father. “How could you think sending me back to the place that destroyed my life”—destroyed me—“is a good thing? How’s it supposed to help?”
“Son,” the older Montoya began, then stopped and shook his head. He traced the path of the scar along Rich’s face, and as much as Rich wanted to pull away, he didn’t. Couldn’t, not when his dad looked so sad, and older, as if the days he’d spent here had aged him a decade.
“It wasn’t the place that did this,” his father finally said, “or this.” He tapped Rich’s right hand. “Or any of these.” Rich felt a soft brush of fingers from his collarbone to his thigh. “That wasn’t a place, and it wasn’t your friends. A man did this, and you have to move past it. What you’ve been doing here isn’t helping, no matter what you think. You need to be around people who care about you, and if you won’t come back with me…”
Rich was shaking his head before his father finished. He loved his dad, but staying with him at his ranch in New Mexico would drive Rich insane. More insane. Rich absolutely hated ranching, and the hogs his father loved so much frankly scared the shit out of Rich. He’d even quit eating bacon after seeing those monstrous things. No way was he going to go help slop them, or whatever kind of work his dad would think he should be doing to keep busy. Even returning to McKinton would be better than that.
His dad snorted and patted Rich’s shoulder. “Those hogs won’t hurt you none, long as you’re careful. Be good for you to face your fears.”
Rich caught himself before he could roll his eyes. “I’d rather face those fears when they’re fried and topping a burger.” Not that he’d eat it, but his dad didn’t need to know that.
The man nodded as his lips twitched. “All right, then. You’re gonna go stay with that sheriff you were partners with when you were still with HPD.”
“What?” Rich took a step back before he could stop himself. His voice was a shaky as his hands when he spoke. “I can’t stay with Laine! It happened in his house, how can you think I could—”
“Hush, son, calm down.”
Rich gulped in air, trying to stop himself from panicking. He could not step foot in that house, not when he’d nearly died there.
“Richard, he doesn’t live there anymore. That whole place was torn down and he sold the land, moved somewhere close to some other friends of his, he said.”
The soothing voice his father used calmed him more than the words themselves. Knowing he wouldn’t even have to see Laine’s old house helped, too. He really didn’t care that his dad had told Laine about Rich’s attempts to cope. Rich was past the point of caring what anyone—besides his father, apparently—thought of him. All he did care about was getting this whole deal over with if he couldn’t get out of it.
“Okay,” Rich muttered. The agreement was good enough for his dad, who sighed and pulled Rich in for a hard hug.
“You call me when you get there,” the man ordered as he thumped Rich between the shoulder blades. “Shouldn’t take you more than half a day, and you start eating. You feel as fragile as a bird, all thin bones and—”
“Fine, I will.” Rich would eat until he weighed five hundred pounds if it’d keep his dad from making him feel like a breakable wuss. “I better go.” He gritted his teeth then forced himself to try to sound sincere. “Thanks for coming down here and taking care of me.”
His father tapped Rich’s chin and shook his head. “You don’t want to thank me, and that’s fine. You will. As for coming down here, how could I not?” He shrugged as he looked past Rich. “You’re my son, and when something tells me you need me, I’m gonna come running every time.”
That wasn’t an explanation Rich cared for, and he snapped before he thought better of it. “Would have b
een nice if that feeling would have kicked in when McAlister was carving me up. Before, even.”
His father looked stricken, and Rich wanted to take back the words, but they were true. Still, he’d hurt the one man he’d always been able to count on. “Dad, I’m sorry, I…I’m an asshole, I know—”
“No,” Diego rasped. “That you don’t apologize for. I don’t know why things happen, why I didn’t know you were being hurt before, but knew I had to get here before something bad happened. I’ve never been a spiritual man, or believed in curanderos or magic or anything like that, none of the things your mama was so sure existed. Maybe if I did believe in that stuff, I would have known, just like I did this time, and that’s going to haunt me the rest of my life.”
Rich struggled to find something to say, words of absolution for both of them, but nothing seemed appropriate. His father hugged him again then slammed the trunk shut before opening the driver’s door.
“Go on, they’re expecting you.”
Rich walked to the car then stopped and touched his dad’s cheek. He waited until the man met his eyes. “I don’t blame you, you know. McAlister, and myself for being so careless that I didn’t even realize he was waiting in the motel room until it was too late, but not you. You weren’t there, and I didn’t want the hospital calling you. I just wanted to die.”
Diego’s eyes welled as Rich watched. “And I think you still do, son, but we aren’t gonna let you. You’ll see that you’re still a good man, and that people love you and need you. Stop pushing everyone away, and stop letting what happened to you control your life. You give McAlister a victory every time you withdraw. Don’t let that bastard win.”
* * * *
Don’t let that bastard win. Rich heard those words repeatedly in his head, every time he started to turn the car around. But how could he go on when he never knew if the coming night would be filled with horrors? When he could, even now, feel the tendrils of that dark presence crawl over his skin? Rich knew the invader would be back, had picked up little glimpses of evil on and off during the darkest hours of the night. Every time it had happened, that frigid cold would start spreading in his bones, and before the full mind-fuck could begin, the invader would roar with anger then vanish.
But how long was that going to last? And how was Rich ever going to have a normal life when there were two presences poking around in his head? The loud blast of an eighteen-wheeler’s horn startled Rich so badly he yelped and swerved. Righting the steering wheel, Rich tried to glare at the driver of the huge black rig on his left, but there was no use. As low as the Miata set, and as tall as that cab was, Rich couldn’t see more than the door handle without risking a wreck.
Scowling and wondering if flipping the driver off would get him flattened like a pancake, Rich floored the gas and pulled ahead of the semi. He glanced in the rearview, careful to avoid his own reflection, and his heart skipped a beat. That was a huge rig, and it looked unlike any others Rich had seen. It was black and trimmed in chrome everywhere possible, with a grill that angled out, coming to a point in the middle. The overall effect was that of a train, speeding up behind him.
Rich decided against giving the trucker the finger. There were ways he didn’t want to die, and being run over by an eighteen-wheeler was one of them. Too much potential for pain. A bullet would be quicker. He flicked another glance at the rig. Maybe a bullet wouldn’t be quicker. The tips of his toes and fingers tingled with cold, and Rich got the message. No thinking about suicide, not if he wanted to be left alone.
“You win—for now,” Rich muttered then concentrated on keeping well ahead of the semi. Why it was important to do so, he couldn’t say, only that something about having squealed and been scared by the foghorn-like sound of the damn thing spurred on the machismo Rich had thought thoroughly quashed. He realized with a start that it felt good to have the zing of competitiveness coursing through his bloodstream, even if the other driver didn’t have a clue what was going on.
His face felt odd. Rich risked a peek in the mirror and nearly swerved again. The grin stretching his lips was foreign enough to him that he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Or maybe one of his unwanted visitors was back, but no. He remembered when grins like that were commonplace for him, when he thought the world was his playground and bad things happened to other people…
Was it really such an awful thing to enjoy the moment? The top was down on the Miata, and the Texas weather wasn’t its usual hellacious self. The day was sunny but cool, the autumn air carrying only the faintest stench of the pollution Rich managed to ignore in Houston. Once he got out of the city, the fresh air had always surprised him—and still did. Rich inhaled deeply and the crisp air seemed to warm him through and through despite its cool temperature. No, he decided, maybe it wasn’t so bad to relax just a little and try not to think about anything other than this very minute.
He should have known that was the kind of thinking that’d get him in trouble. An hour later, his temporary respite from the crap his life had become went up in smoke along with the Miata’s engine. A knocking came from under the hood as Rich pulled the car to the shoulder, then further into the grass as great swells of smoke seeped from the seam of the hood.
“Goddamnit all!” Rich slammed the gear in park and shut off the car. He reached for the phone his father had insisted he take and dialed Diego’s number. The call went straight to voicemail and he left a terse message telling his dad the car was toast and he’d be late getting to McKinton. Hopefully his father would call Laine—Rich wasn’t ready to speak to his former partner any sooner than necessary, and it’d be necessary once he arrived at Laine and Sev’s place.
“If I get there.” Rich unbuckled and got out of the car, waving his hand in front of his face when the wind shifted and sent a cloud of smoke at him. “Shit!” He could hear the burbling of coolant under the hood and suspected he might have a blown head gasket or two. “Should have been paying attention to the damn gages instead of relaxing like an ignorant…” A rumbling growl and whine of breaks had Rich snapping his mouth shut and spinning around to watch as the big black semi pulled over and rolled toward him.
“Jesus!” Adrenaline, that was what it was warming him from the inside out. Seeing that great beast of a truck coming at him turned the adrenaline into terror, sharp spikes of it shooting through his veins. Rich tried to calm himself, aware that he was overreacting. It was just a rig! It wasn’t like he’d never seen one before, although this one looked different, a more modern and no doubt expensive version than he was used to seeing. There was no reason for him to freak out over it, and yet he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was in danger. It was ridiculous, really. Surely it was a lingering result of his isolation and the mess his life had become. But his heart slammed hard against his ribs as the driver stopped the semi a good half a dozen feet away. Rich watched in a stupor he couldn’t explain as a huge man got out of the cab.
No wonder he drives a big-ass truck like that! The guy had to be six and a half feet tall at least, his head shaved so that there wasn’t even a hint of hair and with shoulders broader than the length of Rich’s arm from shoulder to fingertips. His chest was heavily muscled—surprising for a trucker, Rich thought. They were usually kind of soft around the middle, in his opinion, but this guy…wasn’t. The black T-shirt he had on was stretched tight over taut muscles. Rich could have sworn he could even see the delineation of an eight-pack under there. Narrow hips and thick, strong thighs—and Rich felt the first real stirring of arousal he’d experienced in over a year. It shocked him enough that he snapped his head up and found himself the recipient of a smug grin on a wide pink mouth, emphasized by a… Rich squinted. What the fuck was that dangling from the guy’s chin?
“It’s a labret piercing,” the man rumbled in a deep voice.
Rich jerked his gaze up from the piercing, which swayed as the man spoke. His eyes locked with a whiskey brown pair, and Rich’s throat and mouth went dry. It
wasn’t the craving for a drink that hit him, though. That, he would have been able to handle. What hit him—with all the force of a bowling ball to the solar plexus—was the intense lust he felt and saw reflected back at him in those warm eyes.
“Sorry I scared you earlier.”
Rich bristled as the man grinned.
“Some idiot cut in front of me and nearly ended up fucking my grill up,” the man continued. “Woulda been a shame to mess that beauty up.” He winked and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Chris—short for Christian, not Christopher—Neeland. Looks like you could use a ride.”
Rich took the proffered hand and immediately tried to jerk his own back when a jolt like an electric shock shot up his arm. He looked into Chris’ startled eyes. “Rich. Montoya. Give me back my hand.”
Chris looked at the sexy, wounded man in front of him and kept Rich’s smaller hand enclosed in his. The man was thin, too thin, and the scar running from eye to jaw didn’t appear to be very old. Chris wanted to know what had happened to the man to make him so weary of life. That was what Chris saw in those sad eyes, and it twisted his heart in a knot. His mom had told him he’d know his partner when he saw him, and while Chris had tried to write off her promise as nonsensical new age babble, it appeared she’d been correct all along. He wanted this man, had even detoured on his way home to follow the guy, which was, admittedly, a little stalkerish, but now he saw it more as fate.
Wait Until Dawn Page 3