First Rodeo (The Cowboy and the Dom Book 1) Page 5

  Sam was fairly sure he wasn’t even tipsy anymore. He’d had a couple of shots at noon to help him maybe sleep. Now it was four in the afternoon, and he was still awake.

  He thought he was awake.

  Maybe he was asleep and he didn’t know and he was dreaming about sitting here on the floor and wishing he could rest.

  God, what fresh hell was that?

  “Why can’t I sleep, James? Why is this so fucked up?” He wasn’t helping. Officer Colletti made that clear enough.

  Actually the man had offered to throw Sam in the drunk tank for a night to give himself some peace.

  Fucker.

  “I don’t know what to do, man. I keep on trying, but this ain’t like home. There ain’t a good-ole-boy network that I can tap into ’cause I’m one of the O’Reilly boys. This ain’t the same.”

  James had come here and made a life. A real life, with friends and neighbors and coworkers. Sam was so fucking proud and jealous at the same time. His life was the one that had been handed to him: Here is the ranch, here is the town and the family and the same room you have had since the day you were born. This is yours, and you have to take it because you have no other purpose.

  “Oh, stop it. Christ, you’re a self-indulgent prick.” The sound of his voice snapping out surprised him. Okay, so he was awake.

  And if he wasn’t, the door buzzer from the seventh level of hell would have taken care of that for him. This time he really was going to beat that thing with a broom handle.

  If he could get up off the floor.

  The buzzer went off again in short little pulses that stabbed into his brain like…that guy in that hockey mask…Jason.

  The buzzer went off again.

  “Leave me alone!” he screamed, but the effort to do that had him crawling across the floor to slap that fucking thing hard. “What the fucking hell do you want?”

  “I…uh. To apologize?”

  “You’re forgiven.” Who was that? No one had done anything to him that warranted an apology, right?

  “Are you…? Can I come up? Are you drunk?”

  Was he? Nowhere near enough. He knew the voice now, though. James’s lover. Mr. Fucker. The sad guy with the gorgeous jaw and pretty eyes. “Sure, honey. Come on. I’m decent.”

  Or he would be once he threw a shirt on.

  He let Thomas into the building, then went to find his cleanest dirty button-up and run his fingers through his new beard. Momma would be so pleased.

  There was a knock at the door. It sounded friendly enough, unlike that godforsaken buzzer. “Hey, it’s me.” Mmm. The voice was smooth too, like caramel.

  He unlocked the door and offered Thomas a nod. “Hey, man. Come on in. Give me a second to move this shit. You want a beer?”

  He grabbed his blanket and pillow and tossed it down the hall.

  “No, thank you. I hope I didn’t wake you up?” Thomas was looking around curiously. What was up with that?

  “Nope.” He wished. “I was navel-gazing. Have a seat.”

  Okay, you be nice to this guy. He’s all wigged from missing James and mourning. You be decent and polite and all. No losing your temper. Zen. You are the Zen. Like yoga and namaste and pastoral and shit. Fucking ohm.

  “Thanks.” Thomas settled into the couch like it knew him. “I don’t want to take up your time…” The man looked at him, brown eyes thoughtful. “Actually I do. I was rude to you the other night and disrespectful and…wrong—just being very honest. I don’t want to make any excuses. I just I want to apologize to you. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries. This whole thing sucks, and shit gets intense. No hard feelings.” He meant it too. He’d figured out that most folks around here didn’t just beat the fuck out of each other and let it go. Thomas had to let his evil out somehow.

  Thomas nodded. “I appreciate that. So, I thought about everything you said, and that phone call from Ji—Bowie, and I guess I’d like to know if there is anything I can do to make this easier on you.”

  “Well, unless you happen to know who killed James, which seems unlikely…” He found a grin for Thomas, a wink. “Seriously, I’m not even sure what I’m doing, but thanks.”

  Like he’d ask this guy for help. Shit. He wasn’t a bad guy, at least he tried not to be, and this man was hurting, and he wouldn’t make it worse.

  “Okay. Well, maybe there is something else I can help with?” Thomas stood, stepping closer. “What can I do? You look so tired, Sam. This city can be hard on new faces. It’s nothing like home, I know. I remember what James used to say about things not making sense. People, transportation, food, work. It’s ironic, right? Feeling alone in a city packed with millions of people.”

  He caught himself nodding because Thomas was saying what was in his heart. No one touched him here. Everyone knew him at home—everyone. Buddies slapped him on the shoulder, waitresses hugged him, Momma kissed him every morning. These last few weeks had been the longest he’d ever been alone, and he was starving to death for someone to see him, meet his eyes.

  What? You’re going to add your load to his? Buck the fuck up, man.

  “James managed okay, huh?”

  Thomas nodded slowly, and Sam could see the wheels turning. “James found…like-minded friends. And learned some very effective coping skills.” Thomas took another step toward him, reaching out to rest a hand on his upper arm. “I’d like to be a friend to you, Sam. Help you sort some of this out. And really, you’d be doing me a favor. I’m a little aimless myself right now.”

  “I don’t want to be something that hurts you. I’m sorry I look like him.” Sam didn’t think he did, really, any more than he looked like Bowie. He was the little one, wiry where James had been lean. Scarred and tanned where James had been finer, pointed and angular like Papaw where James and Bowie had Daddy’s wider features.

  “It’s a little startling when you’re in your hat and your face is shaded. And there’s no denying the resemblance in your eyes, but you don’t look like him so much as…remind me of him. But Sam, tacos remind me of him. And beer. And the Sunday crossword. And truthfully, the more I get to know you, the more I see how different you are. Don’t ever apologize for being you.”

  He waved the words off, making sure to use the hand that Thomas wasn’t touching, because that felt so solid. “It’s cool to see how you loved him.”

  “I did. I’ll always love him. And I feel the same way when I see you. You admired him, you were proud of him, and it’s obvious how much you loved him. You miss him.…You’re allowed to miss him.” That hand moved up his arm to his shoulder and caught there. “I can’t explain how much I appreciate that you see that hole in me, in my life, and I want you to know that I see it in you too. I want you to honor that. Acknowledge it. That, I can help with for sure, right? I understand.”

  He swallowed hard, trying to make himself breathe, but fuck, he wanted to… No, cowboy up. He felt himself shaking, and he couldn’t stop it, and all he could do was pray Thomas ignored it. “Th-thank you, man. That’s…” Quite possibly the kindest thing he’d heard in a long time. “…dear.”

  “Oh, Sam. You’re trying so hard, aren’t you? To hold it together, to do what’s expected? You can let it go for a minute. I will catch you. Just let it go.”

  He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t. It hurt so bad. He hurt so fucking bad, and if he had any sense at all, he’d excuse himself and go into the bathroom and bash his head into the tile until all this shit stopped. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move.

  Sam stared at Thomas, utterly fucking panicked.

  The man stood steady as a rock, eyes on his. “Trust me,” Thomas said softly, all authority and strength. “Breathe in and let it out. You’re safe, Sam. I promise.”

  “I’m sorry.” He drew in a shuddering breath, and the exhalation huffed out like he was a little kid who’d been caught by a baseball. “God, I’m sorry.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Why? What are you sorry for? Tell me.”

 
“Huh?” The answer to “I’m sorry” was “It’s okay.”

  “I’m not clear what you’re apologizing for, Sam. Why are you telling me you’re sorry?”

  “For all this…” Hysteria. Drama. Emotion. Stupidity. “Shit. I’m just real tired, I think.”

  “Don’t ever apologize for being you.”

  Hadn’t the guy already said that?

  Thomas put an arm around his shoulders. “You do look pretty tired. Why don’t you lie down and get some sleep? You look a little like my nephews who know damn well it’s bedtime but always fight to keep their eyes open.”

  He found himself sitting on the couch, not entirely sure he’d gotten there under his own power. “This is where you’ve been sleeping? That’s your bedding?” Thomas retrieved it for him.

  “Yeah. I bought a pillow and comforter.” Thank God for Amazon. He leaned into the pillow, his head so heavy he couldn’t hold it up. “I’m not being a good host.”

  “Nonsense. You forget I’ve spent many more nights here than you have.” Thomas covered him with his blanket like he was a child and rested a warm hand against his cheek. “Can’t handle his bed yet?”

  “Haven’t gone in his room. Seems disrespectful.”

  “I understand. Get some rest.” Thomas stepped back from the couch. “You can’t do right by him if you don’t do right by yourself. Sleep.”

  “I want to. God, I want to.” He turned his head because his eyes were watering now, leaking. What would Bowie say to him? Such a baby. Always the baby.

  This time if Thomas noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it. “I’m just going to use the bathroom, and I’ll let myself out. No worries.”

  “No worries.” He heard the bathroom door close, and he melted into the sofa, the sounds of someone else familiar, welcome, and easing him right down.

  If he dreamed this time, he didn’t care.

  Thomas braced both hands on the bathroom sink and stared at himself in the mirror, just breathing.

  Breathing in, breathing out, in…and out.

  He felt…good. Lighter. Stronger.

  He’d said something that Sam appreciated, other things that had made the man thoughtful, and finally something that had struck a raw, terrifying nerve. He saw all of it on Sam’s face. He was confident he’d read everything well, given Sam what he needed in the moment.

  And he’d managed to set his own emotions aside and not push Sam too far.

  He knew tonight would be pure hell. Subjugating his own pain for Sam, giving of himself, being what the man needed and not getting the break, the gift he craved from Sam in return would haunt his dreams, rip and tear at his soul. It was the price he paid for being what he was. It was like detox. Right now he felt like he could fucking fly. The dreams that woke him later would threaten to drown him.

  But he’d built a solid foundation for Sam, and he’d set his lover’s brother on a path to complete truth, real freedom, and ultimate trust.

  He pushed off the sink and rubbed his face. Okay. This was a good beginning. But God, they had so much work to do, assuming Sam would let him. It was going to be a road as rough as it was rewarding.

  He left the bathroom quietly and went into James’s room, completely out of habit, and was reminded instantly how fleeting hope and joy could be. Reality was a bitch. He sat on James’s bed, not feeling the kind of disrespect that Sam felt at all, or the depth of sadness he had expected either. He belonged here. He believed that with his whole being.

  He reached for James’s journal, a book he’d reminded James many times that he had every right to read and yet never had. He opened it, telling himself he’d only admire the neat penmanship, he’d only read a sentence or two, he’d just read one more page.

  He did close the book finally, but held on to it, thoughtfully considering its contents. He took it with him as he left the room, admired Sam, who was peacefully sound asleep on the couch, then set the journal on the coffee table and let himself out, making sure the door locked behind him.

  One of James’s neighbors, a long, lean man with a junkie’s stare and a shaky hand came up to him. “Dude. Dude, did they re-lease Tex’s place?”

  What the hell was this about? “No,” he said flatly. “Excuse me.” He tried to step around the man, but the guy stood square in his way.

  “There’s someone in there. A squatter?”

  “What? No. It’s all perfectly legal, thank you for your concern. What apartment are you in again?” He recognized the guy, or thought he did, but it would be worth warning Sam about him at some point.

  “Right there.” He pointed next door. “He needs any handyman work, I’m totally available.”

  “You knew James?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he was a good guy. He—he was nice. He liked to talk.”

  That was true enough. James could talk to anyone. He knew a little bit about essentially anything.

  “Did you—” Ask. What can it hurt? Just ask. “Did you happen to see anything the night—”

  “Whoa, man. Are you a cop? Shit.”

  “No. No, I’m not with the police at all. I was his lover.”

  “Oh. You’re Thomas?”

  James really did talk. “Yes. I am.”

  “Oh. Oh man. Oh man, I’m sorry, man.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The guy had started to tremble. Vibrate. “Skip.”

  “Thank you, Skip. I’ve got to run. You take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t forget, if he needs any handiwork…”

  “I will be sure to let him know. Thank you. Please excuse me.” He was fairly sure Sam was at least as handy as James was. This time he simply put out a hand and shifted the man aside to walk past him.

  He needed out. He needed to process.

  He grabbed his phone, texting Clint. You have a minute?

  It took seconds for the answer to come. I have many. Coffee?

  Yes. Coffee. Starbucks? Your place? Home? And by home, he meant the club; that was understood.

  Come home. We’ll chat. Clint would have a room for them, coffee, a safe space for him to let go.

  Give me 20. Thanks, Clint.

  He got right on the subway at 14th and headed uptown. By the time he arrived at the club, his high was fading, and he felt like he might be rebounding as the adrenaline dropped.

  It was also possible that perhaps he simply needed that coffee.

  8

  It took Sam ten days to read the journal.

  Ten.

  Ten days of wondering if he should. Ten days of staring.

  Ten days of telling himself it wasn’t any of his business and of following James’s daily steps and of helping with math homework.

  Ten days of dear texts from James’s Thomas. Just checking in. Did you manage to sleep? Would you like to come to dinner Saturday?

  He answered every text but turned down supper. He couldn’t face that. He’d been a fucking tittybaby when Thomas had shown up, and he couldn’t look the man in the eyes. Christ, he’d cried.

  Eventually he was going to have to man up. He knew this, but he’d been…he’d acted a fool.

  Finally he’d sat down to look at the journal and…

  God, he didn’t know what to do.

  Did he call Bowie and ask? Did he throw the journal away so no one knew? Did he take it to the police?

  James was…had been…the things he’d written.

  Oh God.

  He’d been awake all night, reading, then researching this club, this whole thing.

  Sam would have gone to the police first thing, but…but he could see—read, whatever—how much James had been into…this thing.

  Headspace.

  They were O’Reilly boys—did they have headspaces? Was that genetically even a thing?

  And there was the care that James had, the joy.

  The idea that his big brother had sex—ever, much less weird sex—made him want to gag. His brothers used their dicks to write their names in the dust. That was it. Sa
m had no doubt that was what Bowie would say about him too.

  Why on earth would anyone write this down?

  Why would anyone let someone…? His brain skittered from the thoughts.

  He’d researched, and he wasn’t sure what was worse—the wild things he’d seen or the terribly intimate things James had written down.

  Sam didn’t know how to process any of this, didn’t know how to swallow around how this made him feel. Didn’t know how to stop thinking about it.

  He sure as shit didn’t know how to hide the shame he felt when he’d sprung wood. Christ. It was like he’d taken three too many Reds and the heart was buzzing in his chest.

  When his phone buzzed with a text from Thomas, Sam didn’t even read it. He just called.

  “Why on earth did you leave that here for me to see?”

  “Good morning, Sam. You’ve read James’s journal?”

  “That…that’s not for me to have read. That’s personal shit. Deeply. You wanted me to read it?”

  “Yes. And you wanted to read it, clearly. What drew you in?” Thomas’s tone was even, his voice smooth. He didn’t sound the least bit ashamed of himself.

  “I didn’t. I—you should have it. Take it. With you. I could mail it.” He wasn’t going to answer that question. No way. There was no answer to that question that wasn’t obscene—from prurient curiosity to— No. Nope. Stop it. No more thinking. He was Bowie’s baby brother. He could totally have no thoughts.

  “Sam, if you hadn’t wanted to read it, you wouldn’t have. We needn’t say another word about it, but you—and I—both know it’s that simple, don’t we? I appreciate the offer of the journal. That would be a lovely gift if you’re sure you can part with it. Why don’t you meet me for drinks tonight at the club?”

  “What? No. No, I have…I couldn’t. I should go.” His cheeks were on fire. “You can have it. Seriously. This wasn’t meant for me to see.”

  That thought stopped him, settled him all of the sudden. Everyone discovered secrets when someone died, and he wasn’t sure what Thomas wanted him to know, why Thomas wanted him to know, but it wasn’t for him to see. “This was something for a lover, not me. James wouldn’t have let me see it.”