Two things became incredibly clear to Michael Pearce as he regained consciousness: first, his left cheek was stuck to the faux leather cushion of his living room’s sofa, probably from drool; and second, he was clutching a half-chewed rawhide close to his chest like a safety blanket.
The first thing kind of made sense. In the two weeks since Kenny had left him and taken their dog, Rosco, with him, Michael didn’t always sleep in their bedroom. At first, it had hurt too much to sleep in their room, which had still smelled like Kenny’s cologne. Now Michael was just used to the couch. But he usually remembered a pillow and blanket. What had he done last night to fall flat on his face?
Oh yeah. The finalized divorce papers had shown up. The booze came out. Michael had gone out and found company, fucked his sorrows away, and then drunk more before passing out in the living room.
Classy. Real classy, asshole.
He peeled his face off the couch cushion and attempted to sit up. His stomach sloshed dangerously, and he contemplated whether the bathroom or the kitchen sink was closer. Fortunately, last night’s booze fest stayed put for now. He stared at the rawhide and more bits of last night came back to him. Stumbling home wasted. Tripping and falling on the expensive Persian rug, kind of hoping he barfed all over it because Kenny had picked it out and Michael had never liked it. Seeing the rawhide under the couch. Missing his dog so much he’d started bawling.
Apparently, he’d crawled onto the couch and cried himself to sleep with the rawhide in his hands. Definitely not his finest moment. Oh well. Not as if it was the least dignified thing he’d ever done in his forty-one years on earth. He and Kenny had hosted some insane parties in this house over the years, but that was all over now. Most of Michael’s friends here in Austin had been Kenny’s friends first, and they’d all taken Kenny’s side during the separation.
Didn’t matter that Michael’s creativity and experience had made them their fortune. Money they spent lavishly on this fucking house and their fucking friends. Money Michael no longer had access to, thanks to his idiot, in-love self not paying attention to the contract he’d signed with Kenny when their app first took off. A contract that cut Michael out of the profits if their partnership ever dissolved.
Which it had, about a month ago, when he caught Kenny cheating on him. For as much as Michael had loved Kenny once, and for as amazing as it had been being rich after growing up on a failing ranch, Michael missed his dog the most.
He put the rawhide on a side table and stood, his target the bathroom and a nice hot shower to wash last night’s funk off his skin. He also kind of had to pee and his mouth tasted like ass—and not in the good way—so his toothbrush was a priority. Naturally, his cell phone rang somewhere in the house.
Michael always thought of not answering a call—or at least looking at the number—as leaving work unfinished, so he abandoned the bathroom trip in favor of searching out his phone. He found it on the floor of the kitchen. County Hospital, with a Texas exchange. His old home county.
With a wiggle of dread in his gut, Michael answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Michael Pearce?” a feminine voice asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Mr. Pearce, my name is Susan, and I’m a patient advocate at Claire County Hospital. I have you listed as Elmer Pearce’s emergency contact.”
Oh God, the old man’s kicked it. “Yes, I’m his son. Is he dead?”
“No, he’s stable at the moment. Mr. Pearce, your father had a stroke early this morning. He was found by a neighbor and rushed to our emergency room, where we were able to stabilize him. He’s been briefly conscious, but we still don’t know the extent of the damage from the stroke.”
Michael stared at a pretentious portrait he’d never liked, but Kenny had insisted they buy. Honestly, for a flaming gay man, Kenny had the worst taste in home decor, but Michael had indulged him. Why hadn’t he taken the damned painting and left Rosco?
“Mr. Pearce?”
“What? Sorry.”
“I understand this can be upsetting news.” She rattled off a few things Michael’s hungover brain couldn’t make a lot of sense of, until she got to: “He has some paralysis on his right side, so he will need help at home once he’s discharged. At least for a little while.”
His gut clenched and he moved closer to the kitchen sink. “Paralysis?”
“It’s not uncommon with stroke victims, but as I said before, it’s early hours and we’re still assessing him. He can, of course, receive visitors. I can give you the address if—”
“No, I grew up there, I know where it is. I’m, um, in Austin, so it’ll be a while before I can get up there.”
“Of course. He’ll likely be out of the ER and in a room by the time you arrive, so you can ask at the main desk.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
He ended the call and put his phone on the counter, brain whirling with too many things he needed to do. Pack a bag. Figure out how to get there. Flying into Amarillo was obviously faster, but by the time he found a flight with enough time to get through TSA, he’d probably be just as well off driving the eight or so hours to his home county. He’d have his own car, instead of driving around in his father’s dusty old truck.
A dusty old truck Michael had tried to replace more than once over the years, but Elmer wouldn’t take his money. And not because the money had come from a gay dating app. Elmer was just too proud to accept financial help from anyone, even his own estranged son. So he made his metal folk art and clung to a huge piece of land he really didn’t need, out of stubbornness and spite. And Michael had stayed in Austin, living the life he thought he wanted to live.
Until everything had come crashing down.
Michael gazed around the huge chrome and white kitchen and no longer saw himself in it. Having and spending money was wonderful when you were used to being poor, like he’d grown up back in Weston. Having a refrigerator that talked to him seemed like the best thing in the world. Every new gadget, every great invention was scattered around this house. A house Kenny had abandoned for another man with even more money and an even bigger house.
Michael hadn’t wanted to contest the divorce. Between the cheating he could prove and the intellectual property theft he couldn’t, Michael simply wanted things over as quickly and cleanly as possible, so they’d filed no fault and let their lawyers divide up their (shockingly meager) assets. Michael got the house and half their joint account, which hadn’t amounted to much in the way of cash after the mortgage, car payment, and lawyer fees. And with the way Kenny had fucked him over on the business side of things, his personal account wasn’t going up anytime soon. Not until he sold the house.
Maybe a week or two back home in Weston, taking care of his father for a while, was what he needed to clear his head and stop cuddling with a dog’s rawhide toy. Take a break from the life he thought he wanted and get his priorities back in order. His only real issue, though, was money. Until the house sold, he had a couple of hundred in his personal account to last him. It would get him to Weston, though. And stretch further there than here in the city.
If worse came to worst, he could get a job. A regular, working-class job and forget his lavish, rich man lifestyle for a while. Figure out who he wanted to be in this new chapter of his life. Maybe even rebuild his relationship with his father. If such a thing was possible.
After a quick shower, two rounds of puking, a piece of dry toast, and throwing a bunch of clothes and toiletries into three suitcases, Michael packed up his Audi and hit the road. He’d left a handful of sentimental items behind, including a bottle of one-hundred-year-old Scotch given to him as a gift two Christmases ago, but once the house sold he’d either be back in Austin for good, or he’d fly down to clear things out. Whatever. He’d think about it later.
All he could think about right now was his dad. A man he hadn’t seen in twenty years and rarely spoke to, but still loved and admired for his tenacity. His ability to live life as he saw fit, no matter what others thought of him. Growing up, Michael had tried not to care how others perceived him, but that had led to a lot of bullying in high school for being gay. He’d wanted to be accepted and wasn’t, so he’d fled to a big city as soon as possible. Made a lot of money. Made a lot of friends.
Friends who’d dumped his ass the moment he lost both Kenny and the fame and notoriety that came with their app’s success.
Assholes.
With two ginger ales from a local convenience store and a box of saltine crackers, Michael hit the highway and drove north. He drove past exit signs, trucker plazas, dry land, green foliage, hills and flatlands, and all manner of things. One pit stop when the ginger ale needed to be released, and he tempted his still-queasy stomach with a plain hamburger that stayed down.
Hangovers were the worst any day, but on a day spent driving? Ugh.
Signs for Amarillo began popping up, and on the outskirts, Michael took the exit toward the county hospital and Weston itself. His eyes were sandy, his back hurt, and all he wanted was a nap, but he got his tired ass to the hospital around five that evening. Parked. A lady at the front desk told him where to go.
It was a small hospital and he found Elmer’s room pretty easily. The first bed was empty, but Elmer snored away in the second. The wires and leads disturbed him less than seeing the way his dad had aged in the last two decades. More wrinkles on his face, more gray in his hair. Michael’s heart ached for his dad and for himself, because they’d both lost so much. And that loss had separated them for a long, long time.
Existing together with that pain had been too hard, too stifling. Separation had been for the best—or so he thought.
Seeing Elmer again in person shifted something inside of him. Even if they never forgave each other for the awful things they’d both said that last, fateful night, Michael would make sure his dad got through this. He’d come out of it the same independent, stubborn old man he used to be, period.
Michael would do everything he possibly could to make sure that happened.
Josiah Sheridan unlocked the front door of the house, heart galloping in his chest, even though his was the only car in the driveway. More than once over the last year or so, Seamus had parked his car elsewhere in order to surprise Josiah, usually when Seamus thought Josiah had done something wrong and needed a lesson. But Josiah had been on his best behavior these last few months; he’d been careful ever since the big blowup the night Brand Woods was stabbed.
As the county sheriff, Seamus McBride couldn’t have just walked away without stepping in, no matter how much he disliked the Woods family. Even though Josiah was a CNA and had an ingrained need to help people in trouble, Seamus hadn’t liked him meddling.
He’d shown Josiah how much the next day.
But Brand was alive, recovered, and apparently living with one of the other hands on his family’s cattle ranch. Josiah was secretly happy for the pair and wished them all the best. Openly, he pretended to dislike their “chosen lifestyle” as much as Seamus did, because that’s the lie they told the world. Even though Seamus had been regularly—and not always permissibly—fucking Josiah for nearly two years now, Seamus was firmly planted within the “gay is evil” Sunday crowd.
Some days Josiah longed for the freedom to simply be himself, but he had nowhere else to go and no money to get there.
He went down the hallway to the guest room he still kept his things in for appearances’ sake and changed from his scrubs to shorts and a T-shirt. Seamus didn’t like him sitting around the house in his scrubs. “They make me think of sick people,” he’d often said, “and I don’t need that after a long shift.”
Josiah didn’t particularly need most of Seamus’s shit after a long day at work, either, but Seamus was bigger, stronger, and knew where to hit so Josiah didn’t have visible bruises. It was safer to keep his snark and complaints to himself. After a quick glance into their bedroom, the bathroom, and the tiny closet of a room Seamus used as an office, Josiah relaxed a bit. No Seamus.
As the sheriff, Seamus’s hours were sometimes all over the place, since he was always on call for emergencies, which worked well with Josiah’s own flexible work hours. Today had been his last day tending to Mrs. Wellington, who was being moved into a nursing home as they spoke. Her family had decided it was best for her final few months of care, since she was dying from cervical cancer and had signed a DNR.
Josiah eyeballed the cabinet where Seamus kept his favorite liquors, tempted to take a shot of whiskey in Mrs. Wellington’s honor. He cared about all his patients, but the end-of-life ones got to him the most. He was simply glad she had a lot of family around to support her in her final days and weeks.
Not like me. If I was dying tomorrow, no one would be there.
Those thoughts didn’t hurt like they used to. He’d simply adapted to being isolated and lonely, and to putting up a front for his clients so they didn’t see how desperate he was to get out. To get away and start over. To be someone else, anyone else for a little while. To know what it felt like to be truly wanted and loved.
He hadn’t felt like that since Andy. A lifetime ago.
Unwilling to wander down that particular stretch of memory lane right now, Josiah checked on the slow cooker meal he’d prepped that morning. He’d mastered those kinds of foods so there was always a hot meal waiting for Seamus, even if he got home before Josiah. It saved bruises later. The food looked undisturbed, so Seamus hadn’t been home recently, and it was already close to seven. Josiah scooped out a bowl of meat and potatoes, and he ate alone at the kitchen table in the silent house. Silent save the faint tick of the kitchen’s wall clock. For as lonely as he was most days, even with someone else in the house, Josiah treasured these quiet moments alone.
He ate his dinner, then put his bowl and fork in the dishwasher. Drank a glass of water, even though he really wanted one of Seamus’s beers. Eyeballed the liquor cabinet once more before going into the bathroom to shower and clean himself out. Seamus was erratic in when he wanted sex, but he was also, well, anal about cleanliness, and it was easier to stay ready than to worry about Seamus using the enema shower attachment on him.
After getting squeaky clean inside and out, he checked his phone. A text from his boss about a possible new client, a stroke patient who’d be in hospital for a few more days but who might need extra care family couldn’t provide. Josiah texted back that he was interested, especially now that his schedule was open. Seamus frequently said that Josiah didn’t have to work, but Josiah loved what he did. He needed the distance and distraction from the nightmare of his home life too much to give up his career. And he refused to be wholly dependent on Seamus if he ever hoped to escape.
For now, he was stuck here and it was no one’s fault but his own.
With nothing left to distract himself, Josiah settled in the living room and kept streaming an Australian medical show that had aired over a decade ago. He couldn’t even remember how he’d stumbled onto it, but he’d been intrigued by a show in a setting where patients just...received care. No worries about insurance or bankruptcy or co-pays. Plus, the accents were sexy as hell, even on the female characters.
He was about to learn the diagnosis for one particularly tricky patient when tires crunched the gravel outside. Lights flashed in the windows before shutting off. Dread tightened Josiah’s stomach. Seamus was home. He paused his show and fled for the kitchen, got a bowl and fork, and he was scooping food into it when Seamus strode inside.
Once upon a time, Josiah had considered Seamus handsome. Now his smiles always seemed sinister, his touches one small squeeze from painful. To the residents of this county, he was a hero and the man in charge of keeping them safe. To Josiah, he was a walking time bomb.
“Smells good,” Seamus said. “You eat?”
“A little while ago. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home.”
“Okay.” He calmly put his service weapon in the lockbox he kept inside one of the cabinets, every motion smooth and without malice. As if he was in an actual good mood for a change. “Give me a beer.”
Josiah deposited both the bowl of food and a chilled, open beer on the table at the same time as Seamus sat to eat his dinner. A very late dinner, but Josiah wasn’t going to mention it. He hovered nearby, unsure if Seamus wanted company or to be left alone. Some nights he simply couldn’t read the man or his intentions. Not in the last few months. Not since the stabbing. It was almost as if Brand Woods openly living his life in a gay relationship was personally offensive to Seamus.
Or it made him feel trapped in his own environment. Josiah had been out of the closet for years before Seamus shoved him back inside and slammed the door. Locked it. And he wanted to get back out again, but deep down he knew that wouldn’t happen while he lived here. While he let Seamus...use him. Seamus had to come to terms with his own sexuality and stop hiding. But Josiah had a funny feeling that was never going to happen.
Right now, they shared the same closet and it was slowly suffocating him.
A stifling closet was, most days, better than the street, though.
“Do you need salt or pepper?” Josiah asked after Seamus took his first bite of dinner. Seamus preferred to season his own food, so Josiah was sparse in adding too much of either when he cooked. Having to chew on a mouthful of black pepper for thirty seconds because he’d accidentally overspiced a steak was an experience he would never, ever forget.
“No, it’s good,” Seamus replied. “Get yourself a drink.”
That was not a question, so Josiah fetched himself a glass of water to sip while Seamus ate. “I might have a lead on a new job coming up. Elmer Pearce had a stroke early this morning, and he’ll likely need home care for a while. Hayes asked if I’d be interested.”
“And you said yes.”
Again, not a question. “I did. I’ve met Mr. Pearce, and now that Mrs. Wellington is going into a nursing home, my schedule is clear. I’d like to take the job.”
“Nights or days?”
“I’m not sure. Everything happened today, and Hayes is coordinating with a social worker. Apparently, Mr. Pearce has a son who is coming into town but I don’t know how long he’ll stay.”
Seamus forked a bite of meat. “Okay. Keep me informed.”
“I will.” The low-key reaction surprised Josiah and lowered his alertness level a few degrees. “How was your day?”
“It was a day. Broke up a brawl over at the Roost this afternoon, which is why I’m so late. Ramie insisted she hadn’t overserved either of them, so they probably just got into it over a woman. Got ’em both cooling off in lockup overnight.”
Ramie was one of the main bartenders at the Red Roost, and she knew better than to overserve her guests. A night in the drunk tank would probably do those two brawling idiots a world of good. “At least no one was stabbed this time.” As soon as the statement slipped out, Josiah regretted the reminder of that night.
Seamus didn’t seem angry, though. He simply kept eating, paying more attention to his phone than to Josiah, so Josiah sipped his water and watched his “roommate” eat. He wasn’t sure what to call Seamus anymore. Roommate was real to the rest of the world. Lover had been right for a very brief period of time before Josiah realized Seamus didn’t actually love him. Seamus used him for his own needs, Josiah’s needs be damned. Once in a while, Seamus was sweet and doting like a proper boyfriend, but it never lasted.
I’m an object, something to use, and I need to get out before he destroys me. But I have nowhere else to go.
No family, no real friends to rely on. He’d kept up a very casual text friendship with Hugo Turner ever since Brand was stabbed, but that was it. He was isolated here, exactly how Seamus liked him. Existing without really living.
“If Elmer ends up needing care,” Josiah hedged, “do you mind if I take the job?”
“No, I like the man. And it’s not too far from home. I can think of worse people to care for.”
Josiah swallowed back a comment about judging who deserved health care based on their background or whatever and sipped his water. No sense in provoking a fight, especially when Seamus seemed to be in a good mood. “Do you want coffee? I can make a pot.”
“Coffee sounds great. Make enough for yourself.”
He wasn’t a huge fan, especially this late at night, but Josiah did as asked. He waited by the brewing pot while Seamus continued eating, and he had two mugs on the table by the time Seamus’s bowl was empty. “Do you want more?” Josiah asked.
“No, that’s fine.”
Josiah exchanged the bowl and fork for the mug of coffee, still slightly unnerved by how calm Seamus was tonight. No yelling, no blustering, no demands. He reminded Josiah of the man he’d first met two years ago. The man he thought he was renting a room from. Nothing like the man he eventually turned into. The man Josiah both cared about and feared.
“Sit,” Seamus said. “Drink your coffee.”
The quiet demands sent Josiah into autopilot. After putting Seamus’s bowl and fork in the dishwasher, he sat across from him with his own mug of black coffee. Josiah used to prefer sweet drinks with syrups and whipped cream to black coffee, but Seamus had disabused him of that habit quickly. Cheap and simple were two of Seamus’s favorite words.
Didn’t matter that he had both of their incomes at his disposal.
“Do you want a toothpick?” Josiah asked.
“Sure.” Seamus was busy reading something on his phone, so Josiah took his time getting a toothpick from the box in the cabinet. Walking back to the table with it. Placing the toothpick next to Seamus’s coffee mug. Sitting in the chair opposite Seamus at the round table.
Josiah sipped at his coffee while Seamus drank his, did something on his phone and picked at his teeth. Familiar things, sure, but it was all almost too easy. Too quiet. Josiah was braced for an explosion of some kind.
An explosion that never happened. After finishing his coffee, Seamus quietly went into the living room to watch TV. Josiah cleaned up their mugs, wiped down the table, put all leftovers away, including a portion for Seamus to take for lunch tomorrow, and then set the dishwasher to run. After thirty seconds of talking himself into it, Josiah followed Seamus into the living room.
Some science fiction movie they’d seen before was playing on the television, which relaxed Josiah even more. Old favorites meant Seamus was in a good mood, unlikely to lash out or demand anything from Josiah tonight. When Seamus raised his arm and beckoned Josiah to join him, Josiah did, settling on the couch next to his...boyfriend? Roommate? He never knew what word to apply to Seamus.
Whatever the label, they existed together in peace that night.
Precious, fleeting peace Josiah clung to for as long as possible.