Peter Graham had nowhere else to go, nowhere to run to, except away from his own humiliation and disappointment and Darcy Wentworth’s crushing betrayal.
He drove all day and made it to Mississippi before he stopped for the night. He got a cheap room at a motel on the Interstate, tossed his bag onto the second bed, snatched up the ice bucket, and went back out for ice.
Once back in the room, he wrapped the ice in a washcloth and pressed it to his battered face with one hand and pried open the bottle of aspirin with his teeth. After dry swallowing a couple of the meds, he flopped back onto the bed.
Darcy hadn’t called. Not once.
Had he returned to their room and found Peter and three hundred dollars of his money gone? Did he even care? Obviously not. And why the hell did Peter care about Darcy? The man had hurt him, broken his heart, rejected him, and once again, like an old vinyl record stuck in a long-worn groove, Peter ran.
Darcy’s art workshop tour had been headed north, so Peter had headed south. He couldn’t go home. His father had made that clear when he’d thrown him out and cut off his allowance and tuition for college. Peter had used the last bit of his savings to study with Darcy at the bayou workshop in St. Jerome, Louisiana, hoping to hook up with the artist he’d fallen for over the Internet.
He was such a stupid little fool. Thank God, he hadn’t told Darcy everything.
He needed to find someplace he could get a job, and someplace that was cool with him being gay.
Not too many places like that.
He and Darcy had gone to New Orleans for a few days. They’d had a good time in the beginning of their relationship, but now, three months later in Knoxville, Tennessee, it had all gone to shit.
New Orleans had lots of bars, hotels, and restaurants. Peter could find a job there, bank some cash, and then decide to move on or stay.
And ex-cop turned private investigator, Ted Canedo, lived there.
Peter rolled onto his side and dug out his wallet. He spread out the small stack of business cards and found Ted’s, touting his PI business. They’d met at Darcy’s workshop in St. Jerome. Ted had kindly rejected Peter’s advances but had become a friend, telling him if he ever needed help to look him up.
Well, Peter figured this definitely counted as one of those times.
He would be in New Orleans by late afternoon tomorrow. Best if he called Ted from on the road. He just couldn’t face it if Ted didn’t want to see him. Ted had been so nice to him, had even tried to warn him about Darcy.
Peter fingered the card. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Ted would take him in. At least until he got on his feet. If not, he’d just live out of his car or shack up with someone. God knows, he’d done it before.
What would Ted say when he saw Peter’s battered face? Oh man, he didn’t want to hear it. But he didn’t have much pride left, and whatever Ted said, it would probably be the truth. Ted had been honest with him, at least. More than Darcy.
Why couldn’t Ted have fallen for him?
Shame burned Peter’s cheeks because Ted had seen that Peter was no more than a pretty little twink, good for nothing but blowjobs and a quick fuck against a wall.
Ted had seen through the facade Peter had perfected—a kid with model good looks, more than a little artistic talent, and an endless supply of self-confidence.
That’s why Ted hadn’t bothered with Peter. He just hadn’t been worth it.
Peter fell asleep, the ice pack pressed to his face, fully dressed, on top of the covers.
»»•««
In the morning he woke in a warm puddle of melted ice.
“Fuck.” He groaned and sat up on the side of the bed. The digital clock on the bedside table read 8:34 a.m. Time to take a quick shower, grab some food, and hit the road.
After drying off, he threw his old clothes into his bag and then pulled out clean jeans and a button-down shirt. One good thing about Darcy, he paid the cleaning bills. Better look good if Peter was going to see Ted. He stared in the dresser mirror.
There was no looking good with the huge purple and green bruise covering his eye and cheek. Or the swollen lip. He ran his hand over sore-to-the-touch ribs. The bruise looked about the same as yesterday, maybe a little greener, a little larger.
Peter dressed, checked the room for the last time, and left. By nine fifteen he was back on the road, heading down to New Orleans.
He’d call Ted just outside the city.
He turned on the radio and searched the stations until he found one playing some decent music. It took him all the way to Slidell, Louisiana, about forty minutes from New Orleans.
He pulled over at a gas station, flipped open his phone, found the card, and called Ted’s number.
A loud tone came on, and he jerked the phone from his ear as a voice said, “The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in use. Please check your number and dial again.”
“Fuck!” He checked the number and redialed.
Same noise and recording. He didn’t bother to listen to it again. He slumped forward in his seat, resting his head on the steering wheel, on the verge of giving up.
Where was Ted? What the hell had happened to him?
Peter’s eyes filled with tears at the disappointment. Now what could he do? He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp to ease the tension.
He would never go back to Darcy. Not even if he came begging. But even as he swore it, he wondered if it was just a lie he’d told himself to make himself feel better. He doubted Darcy would call the cops about the money, not if he didn’t want Peter to tell them about what had happened in Darcy’s hotel room, or at least what Peter could remember.
He sighed, wiped his face carefully with a leftover fast-food napkin, and sat back. New Orleans was still the best option. And maybe Ted was still there and had just changed his number. Maybe Peter could find him without the phone number.
Or Kristen? She’d been at the workshop also and had befriended Peter. She lived in New Orleans too. What was her last name? Fuck, he couldn’t think of it. Darcy would know, but no way was he calling that bastard.
Peter started the car and then pulled onto the highway.
New Orleans it was. Check to see if he could find Ted, and if not, he’d move on. It was a plan, at least. Once there, he’d hit a few bars and see if anybody knew Ted. Maybe he’d find some work cleaning or waiting tables.
He could always turn tricks. He’d never done that before; you can’t call having a string of sugar daddies since he was eighteen prostitution. Not legally anyway, despite what his father had called him.
“Dead last resort,” he said out loud, as if that alone would make it true. He had money enough right now, and if he was careful, it could last a while.
The miles flew past, and he entered New Orleans, switching over to the 610 into town. He exited at the sign marked FRENCH QUARTER and headed toward the river.
He and Darcy had hit several of the gay bars on Bourbon Street, so Peter had a place to start. He found a parking place on the outskirts of the Quarter and headed there.
Peter didn’t have any luck at the first two bars, but on the third, he found a bartender who knew Ted.
“I’m a friend of his.”
The big man behind the bar eyeballed him. “A friend in need is my guess.”
Peter touched his cheek. “Yeah, well.” He shrugged and pulled out Ted’s business card. “See. He gave me this, but I called the number, and it’s disconnected.”
“That’s right. Our boy Ted moved.” The man looked as if it truly saddened him.
“Where?” Peter leaned on the bar, half using it to hold himself up. His knees wobbled at the thought he’d missed Ted and might not find him.
“I heard Ted fell for some bayou country sheriff and moved there to live with him.” The bartender belly laughed over that, as if it were the funniest damn joke he’d ever heard. Peter didn’t feel like laughing.
“Bayou country?” His world had hope again. “When?”
“Oh about three months ago. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Thanks!” Peter exhaled. “Can I get a beer? Draft.” He tossed a five onto the bar.
The man poured one and then handed it to him. “Listen, are you in a hurry?” He licked his lips as he gave Peter an all-too-familiar leer. “I can get the other guy to watch my station for a few if you want to step in the back. I have a room.”
Peter brought the glass of beer to his lips and drank to give himself time to think. He could go in the back room with this guy, blow him, and be done, or just leave. He checked the guy out. Shaved head, a few tats, about thirty-five or so. Not in bad shape at all.
His dick filled at the thought of sex, but his blurry memory of that last night with Darcy and another man deflated it as fast as it had come up. Since then, sex with strangers no longer held the mystique it once had for Peter. And he’d probably have a hard time separating sex from getting his face battered and worse for a while.
“No thanks. I got to get on the road.” He finished his beer, left a buck as tip, and walked back to his car.
Peter might not be smart about the men in his life, but he was smart enough to figure out where Ted had gone. Peter locked in the destination in his mind—the little town of St. Jerome deep in bayou country. He headed for the Interstate going west, and that bed and breakfast they’d stayed at for Darcy’s workshop.
Bayou End.