by Cara Dee
"Oh, no." Evangeline covers her mouth.
My heart starts hammering against my rib cage while my blood runs cold. It's funny in a fucking-kill-me kinda way how all the shit that went down between him and me becomes insignificant. The worry explodes inside me, and I gotta know how he's doing.
"Daddy?" Gabriella faces me with eyes full of unshed tears. "We have to do something."
Chapter 8
Two weeks, that’s all I got. Two weeks of feeling better, two weeks with Gabriella.
I stow my carry-on in the overhead luggage compartment, then sit down in the middle seat and yank my hoodie over my head. Gabriella's right next to me, gazing out the window, yet she might as well be miles away.
The vulnerability rolls off her, as does her never-ending attempt to slam back up her internal defenses. I told her all morning—last night, too—that nothing changes between us. And I guess I can't blame her for not believing me; I've been open about my feelings for Dylan, so she's protecting herself by shutting off.
The guilt is eating me up. She wouldn’t have that need to protect herself if I was over Dylan.
Going to Texas to see him was never really optional for either of us. We care about the fucker, and we know too much about him to sit back and let him handle this on his own. So we're stuck in our situation.
Liam sent me the link to the press conference before we left Switch last night, and I reckon it's playing on a loop in Gabriella's head like it's doing in mine. We can't unsee that—or ignore it.
At the press conference, Dylan let his spokesperson do most of the talking. He appeared lost and withdrawn, not to mention in pain. His faded blue eyes were blank and shadowed, his coppery hair a matted mess. He mumbled about hoping to return to work but made no promises. Then the team doc took over to debrief the press about Dylan's injuries, which he sustained in a car accident almost three fucking weeks ago. A fellow swimmer, who'd driven the car on their way to the pool, broke both arms but would make a full recovery eventually.
The same can't be said for Dylan. Ligaments torn, crushed kneecap, and a concussion have likely put an end to his career as a professional swimmer. I did a quick internet search and know he's undergone surgery twice.
"He looked depressed, didn’t he?" Gabriella murmurs. "God, why didn’t he call us?"
I blow out a heavy breath, having asked myself that question a hundred times in the past twelve hours. He hasn’t reached out to anyone, not even Chelsea.
Three weeks since the accident. Not a word. I had no clue. He's been in pain while I've been…fuck. And there's some more guilt.
"Do you think he's alone?" she asks.
"I don’t know, princess." I hope not. He can't be completely alone; he's been living with his grandparents. No idea about friends, though.
The plane taxis out onto the runway, and I grasp Gabriella's hand, weaving our fingers together.
"You know I need you, right?" I gotta get this out before shit gets worse.
"What do you mean?" She swallows and stares at our hands.
I lean on the armrest, speaking so only she can hear. "I won't beat around the bush or talk in circles, Gabriella. I know you're afraid to get left behind. You think I want Dylan more than I want you, which—" I let out a hollow chuckle, my gut twisting. "It's ridiculous. That’s not how I function. There is no him and me anymore, and even if there was…"
She peers up at me, her expression closed off. "Yes? Even if there was, Cade?"
I shake my head. "I care about his well-being. Despite everything he pulled on me, he's a good kid—a sweetheart. But it's you I feel slipping through my fingers right now, and it fucking hurts."
Her face falls. "I'm sorry. I'm terrified of—ugh." Her bottom lip trembles, and she takes a deep breath. "You're the last person I want to hurt." She hugs my bicep and rests her cheek on my shoulder. "You're right. I'm scared of losing you."
"It won't happen as long as you don’t shut me out, baby." I kiss the top of her head, lingering. "I need you by my side for this."
She nods and hugs my arm tighter. "I promise, Daddy."
That’s one weight on my shoulders easing off slightly, though it's far from gone.
*
"Let me guess. No answer." I jimmy with the AC, stuck in traffic, and Gabriella ends the umpteenth call to Dylan's cell. "We'll be at the house soon enough." According to the GPS, anyway.
Thank fuck I never threw away Dylan's address. Of course, when he taped the address of his grandparents on my fridge, it was just a place he sent postcards, letters, and photos of San Francisco. Now he lives there, and he's done avoiding us.
"Do you think it'll be hard getting him to come home with us?" Gabriella asks.
I side-eye her, frowning. "We're doing what, now?" All of a sudden, I'm not sure we're on the same page. "Hon, I wanna make sure he's doing okay. That’s it. I don't think he'll go anywhere with me unless it involves a gag and duct tape."
"Well, what's wrong with that?" She squints at the beaming sun. "I don't trust anybody but you to get through to him. You know how stubborn he is."
As flattered as I am, her plan is a bit…out there.
"You were willing to help me," she points out. "Like, platonically. You wanted me to stay with you so you could help me. Wouldn’t you do the same for Dylan?"
I make a face, wondering how goddamn bizarre that would be. In a house without privacy, I'd have my current baby girl and the guy who basically dumped me…? Then with the guilt and the uncertainty in the air—no, thanks.
"Let's keep thinking, princess."
*
Texas is hot as balls.
We make it out to suburbia in the afternoon. Sweat is trickling down my back, and a persistent Little is certain that only we can take care of Dylan. There's lists, even. She rattles them off over and over as her reasons for why we should leave Texas with him next to us.
"He loves everyone at Switch! We're his family!"
If that were true, he's not showing it very well.
"He gets vulnerable like I do, and you're a Daddy Dom. He needs someone with experience."
There are plenty of Daddy Doms right here if he's looking for one of those.
I ignore the stab in my chest at that notion.
"He's going to need support when he tries to figure out what to do now."
He walked away from the support in San Fran.
"This is it." I park outside a one-story ranch house with a white picket fence and a perfectly manicured lawn. "I hope someone's home." There's no car in the driveway, so if no one's here, we'll have to come back later.
With my stomach in knots, I haven't eaten anything today. My nerves are shot, and I don’t have a fucking clue of what to say. Still, I leave the car without thinking twice. 'Cause if I don’t get this over with quickly, I'll change my mind and get my ass on the next flight back to California.
"I'm so nervous." Gabriella darts after me and clutches my hand tightly. "I gots to find my warrior face for this crap. Like, pretend he didn’t crush me when he decided I wasn’t his friend anymore."
I don’t know whether to laugh or to comfort her.
Fucking feelings. Fucking…giving a rat's ass.
Part of me wants Gabriella to be right. It'd be nice to drag Dylan home with us so I could simultaneously beat his ass and take care of it. Him. Christ. Ground him, get it through his thick skull how much he's hurt his friends, make him see… All while ensuring he won't take the same road as Gabriella did after John.
I can't deny Dylan has the same tendencies to self-destruct when everything goes to piss.
Steeling myself, I give the door a knock and then take a step back. I wipe sweat off my forehead and remove my shades.
"Sticky." Gabriella tries to blow cool air into her top. "Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up…" Her mumbled chant fades away as the door is opened, and we see Dylan on crutches and balancing on one leg.
I swallow whatever shit bubbles up—emotions or vomit, what
ever—and Dylan's eyes grow wide. Fuck, fuck. I didn’t prepare myself for this, that much is clear now. My grip on Gabriella's hand tightens, and she sniffles and whispers his name.
"What, um—" Dylan's voice falters. Before he averts his gaze, I see those blues well up. He focuses intently on the door and leaning against a crutch. "Y'all shouldn’t have come," he croaks. "I g-gotta rest—"
Dylan stumbles, and Gabriella and I act out of instinct and rush forward to grip his elbows. The familiar scent of his aftershave invades my senses, making it even more difficult to speak.
My girl's crying silently and failing to hide it, I can't form a fucking word, and Dylan's clearly not in a good place. This is gonna rock.
"Let's get you inside." Gabriella wipes her cheek on her shoulder. "Where are your grandparents?"
"Florida," he mumbles. "Their fussing got too much." He grunts, reluctant to let us help him. "I want to be alone, please."
"No," I manage to say.
We guide him into the living room, a space filled with family photos, books, and several of Dylan's trophies. He's fairly close with his parents too, but he chose to live with his grandparents when he wanted to focus on swimming. Coming from an army family, his folks move around too often for him, so it worked out with him staying in Texas. Until part-time studies and curiosity toward BDSM brought him to San Francisco.
Dressed in only a tee and sweats that cling to his narrow hips, it's easy to see he's lost weight, which bothers me a shitload. If his grandmother and grandfather ain't around, I doubt he's taking care of himself the way he should.
"Do you have a cast?" Gabriella steps aside while I lower Dylan to the couch. It's already set up as his temporary bed, complete with magazines strewn about, his GameBoy on the table, water, snacks, and—fuck. An old shirt of mine that he used to wear or snuggle with when he didn’t spend the night at my place.
He offers a small nod and taps twice on his right knee.
"I'm guessing you're supposed to keep it elevated." I grab a couple pillows and tuck them under his leg. With nothing else to do, I retreat and sit down in a chair, having no idea what to say.
I reach for Gabriella, wanting her close to me, though my eyes don’t stray from Dylan. Surveying the damage, I soak up every visible inch, from cuts and bruises that are fading from his accident, to the definition of tight muscles after hard training. Despite his sharp jaw and taut form, he comes off as younger than his twenty-six years. It's his light eyes and dimpled smile, although I haven't seen the latter in months.
Gabriella sits down on the armrest, and instead of fidgeting or wringing her hands, she plays with the hair at the back of my neck. She won't look away from Dylan, either.
He, on the other hand, looks anywhere but at us. Lying flat on his back, he stares at the ceiling, his Adam's apple bobbing with a swallow.
"So, are you two, um, a thing now?"
Gabriella and I exchange a quick glance.
I clear my throat. "Yeah, we're…" The hell do I say? Calling it a plain D/s relationship feels like downplaying the possibilities, except those are the exact terms I gave Dylan.
No matter what I tell him, I'll sound like a fucking idiot. There's nothing wrong with me and Gabriella being together, so why does it feel like I've been cheating on him?
Gabriella's eyes flash with mirth at my fumbling. "It's new, and we're not sure what to call it yet."
Dylan nods. "Congrats." When his chin quivers and his eyes well up once more, I'm ready to rush forward again. In the end, he covers his face and turns toward the back of the couch, and I'm outta the chair before I even know it. "I don’t know why you came, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd leave."
"Not gonna happen." I drag him up enough to leave room for me. He puts up a good fight, not that I budge. Sitting down in the corner, I hug his upper body to me just as he loses his struggle and cries.
That sets Gabriella in motion too, and she kneels in front of us.
"Talk to us," I whisper. "You're a fucking mess, little pan."
He keeps his hands over his face, though he's stopped fighting me. He lets me hold him and sway him a bit. "I can't do this," he whimpers. "You can't be here."
"We're not going anywhere," Gabriella says vehemently, stroking his hair. "You've been such a douch—"
"Gabriella."
"He has to know!" she argues. "If we don’t get to the bottom of everything, we can't work stuffs out."
"You think I don’t know what I've done?" Dylan struggles to sit up, and he glares through his tears. "Trust me, Gabby, I know exactly what I've ruined."
Gabriella bites her lip. "Why wouldn’t you return our calls?"
I'm itching to jump in, but maybe this is one of those times I should let them do this their way. They function similarly and have always spoken the same language.
Dylan swings his legs off the couch and winces when his right foot hits the floor. "I don’t want to talk about it, okay?"
"You have to." Gabriella stands up and folds her arms over her chest. "Didn’t our friendship mean anything to you?"
"Don’t you freaking dare," he growls. "You have no clue just how much it meant—"
"So tell me!" she snaps. "I deserve an explanation, Dylan! I don’t even know what I did wrong. We didn’t fight. One day, you were just gone!" Her face crumples at that, and I can't keep my mouth shut anymore.
"She's right, Dylan. If there's even a small part of you that wants to work this out with Gabriella, you gotta be honest and explain why you shut her out."
He shakes his head and looks away. "Doesn't matter. You'll only hate me if you knew, anyway."
"I'm not sure it can get any worse, Dylan," I drawl. The bitterness is seeping out again, at a shitty time where we should be focusing on his physical recovery.
"I'm sorry," he croaks. "I know I messed up." He covers his face again and leans forward on his knees. "I didn’t mean to, I swear—it just hurt, Cade."
There's only so much suffering I can take before I fold. Shifting closer, I put my arm around him, and Gabriella kneels by his feet again, placing her hands on his legs.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, too," I murmur. "I'm not innocent in this."
Dylan had to suffer for how my previous relationship ended. I did a decent job of denying my feelings, and when I noticed he was getting attached so quickly… I didn’t trust him. So I created new limits as a shield. That’s on me. I wasn’t honest, either. I hid like a fucking coward, pretending the limits stating that we should focus on the D/s aspects were for his—or our—protection. When in reality, I was just jaded and fearing he'd do what my past ex had done.
It's frustrating, knowing what I want, having it, only to set it up for failure.
"It took me a long time to see I was wrong there." I rub his back as he wipes at his cheeks with his arm. "You didn’t seem to have any issue slowing down, so I figured I'd done the right thing."
He shakes his head. "What did you expect me to do? The man I was in love with was more interested in my kinks than my hobbies." Having it confirmed he was in love with me is a punch in the gut. I only suspected he was headed that way. "I didn’t wanna look like an idiot, Cade. I did that enough as it was."
Jesus. All the miscommunication and confusion are giving me one hell of a headache, and I can't help but doubt myself as a Dom. Dylan—and Gabriella, for that matter—ain't the only one with insecurities.
It's different here, too. With Gabriella and Dylan, the connection has run deeper. I may be an experienced Dom and down for a lot, but some things are new for me, as well.
Safe to say, my whirlwind relationship with Dylan wasn’t healthy for either of us. We agreed on casual, when all we needed was complete honesty and more boundaries. I reckon we invited Gabriella to play with us too quickly, as well. I'll chalk it up as two of the hottest evenings I've experienced, at the same time as it added to the doubt of not being enough. What a shitstorm.
"I miss you, Dylan." Gabriella takes his hand and holds i
t in both of hers, pleading silently. "You were my best friend and my brother. Then you left."
"I'm sorry for not being there for you." Dylan screws his eyes shut. "I was so ashamed."
I release a breath, sick and tired of everything that’s gone unsaid.
"Why were you ashamed?" she asks.
He doesn’t wanna talk about it. Easy to tell. It's possible he's less eager to discuss it with me around, too. Given that he looks to be in pain from his leg, I take the cue to give them some privacy.
"Where are your painkillers?" I rise from the couch. "I assume the doctor's given you something."
He wipes his nose. "Kitchen, next to the microwave. Thank you."
I incline my head and escape the room.
Chapter 9
Once in the kitchen, I slump back against a counter and scrub my hands over my face. It's been a while since I was this mentally exhausted and wrung out.
It's painful seeing Dylan again, even more so now that we've witnessed the state he's in. Remorseful, embarrassed, lonely… That will take a toll on any person who gives a shit.
Four pill bottles sit by the microwave, all with Dylan's name on them. And as if it wasn’t bad enough already, I check the meds to find one antidepressant—fairly mild dosage, but nonetheless—and one for anxiety. I'm guessing that one's related to the accident. Dylan's troubles come out in nightmares, and he gets worked up pretty bad.
The dates on the bottles tell me he's been taking the antidepressant for three months.
"Goddammit, Dylan," I sigh and massage my forehead.
I can't go so far as to say Gabriella's right and we need to bring him home. Maybe I'm in denial—I wouldn’t be surprised anymore. Staying like this is outta the question, though. Outside of our lifestyle, he's a bossy little fucker. Assertive. Stubborn. He doesn’t take orders from anyone, and he's able to push away those who wanna be there for him.
I can only imagine the effort it took to send his grandparents on a damn vacation shortly after his accident. It says a lot about what he's capable of.
On my way back to the living room, I pause and take cover in the hallway when I hear Dylan and Gabriella speaking quietly. She's still on the floor, there for him while he cries into his hands.