Chapter One

To describe that night seven years ago as ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ didn’t even come close to what Eric remembered. Rain had fallen in thick sheets and the wiper blades of his old Ford had barely made a difference. Dark clouds had blocked out the moon and the stars and the car’s headlights had done little to illuminate the dark highway. The storm had knocked out the power for what had been the third time that month and, as always, nobody had seemed in a hurry to get it fixed. There had been something in the road, maybe a deer or a dog. The animal had run out from nowhere and he’d swerved. He hadn’t thought he’d hit it and certainly nobody had told him he had. Maybe if it hadn’t been raining things would have been different. There had been so much rain. His car had skidded and hydroplaned across the road and into the other lane. The rest of the story blurred into white and red. There were gaps in his memory and all he remembered were the screams, the bright headlights of the truck and the blood on his hands.

“Eric?”

Eric Fox leaned forward and focused on the floor. He held his hands in the space between his knees and rubbed them together as he bounced his legs up and down. Composing himself, he raised his head and eyed the lady therapist sitting in the chair opposite him. Despite what many people believed, he wasn’t crazy. He didn’t need some shrink to rationalize his behavior. He’d fucked up. Simple as that. The past was the past and it was nobody’s business but his—his and the bottle of Jack.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” she said and lowered her notebook. Her eyes were rich brown in color and held questions, lots of them. “You know anything we discuss here is confidential.”

“Sure, unless you consider me a danger to myself or others, right?”

Madeleine Keaton gave a short nod. She was here to assess him and see if he was a risk to himself or anyone else. He wasn’t. She’d realize that and then this little venture could come to an end.

“Well, I’m not. It was a mistake. It’s the business, right? Sex and partying?” He frowned. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t mean any of it, and if I was anyone else, no one would care. But I’m not, I’m me, so instead I have the press at my door, and men and women lining up to sell my dirty little secrets.”

“Is that how you see your relationships with them?”

There it was again, the topic of relationships. In the hour session, Madeleine had already prompted discussion of his family, friends, colleagues and lovers. The woman seemed obsessed with attaching blame. There was no one to blame, just his own stupidity, every single damn time something went to shit in his life.

“No. I’m not ashamed. I’m not some confused kid.” He was a twenty-five year old man living in LA. He had slept with men and women, and refused to be put into a box—gay, straight, bisexual. What the hell did it matter anyway? As long as he was happy, right?

I am so fucking happy.

Male or female, he was attracted to both, but he had to admit he did have a type—dark, tanned, athletic. With a heavy sigh, he tried to push away the memories of the man he’d just described. The man his lovers mirrored—the first person he had ever loved. Tension swept through him as he was brought back to that night seven years ago. They should never have been out on the road. The weather had been crappy and it had just been some stupid high school dance. But he had insisted. He’d wanted to have fun and dance and hold hands. He’d wanted to say, “Fuck you,” to anyone who gave a damn about two boys doing all those things. As it turned out, it had been a mistake. He’d been an idiot.

Clearing his throat, he met the therapist’s curious eyes. She’d have a field day with all that. He tried to imagine her concocting some theory about his behavior. Something about him trying to relive his first love through strangers, but never quite finding what he needed—the same emotional attachment. Tiredly, he rubbed away the twinge in his chest. She wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

CJ.

He smiled at the memory of the man, or rather the boy as he had been back then—eighteen years old and the most beautiful soul Eric had ever been fortunate enough to meet.

Madeleine had seen the smile. “What are you thinking?”

CJ was the first guy Eric had ever had feelings for. Senior year had been the one time Eric had truly felt close to someone. For eight months, life had been perfect. CJ was maybe the only person who had ever gotten to know the real Eric. Yeah, Eric had screwed his way through life and LA for the last seven years, but nothing and nobody had ever come close again.

“If you want me to help you, you need to start trusting me.”

Trust. He didn’t trust anyone anymore. People were always waiting for him to fuck up so they could say, “I told you so,” and stab him in the back.

“Eric?”

Eric glanced from Madeleine to the clock above her head. “Time’s up,” he said and got to his feet. His agent had insisted he get himself straightened out. Apparently, no studio would touch a suicidal drunk. He was a drunk, yes, but suicidal? As he’d told the cops and doctors, it had been a mistake. After a little too much Jack and partying, he had been rushed to the ER at five in the morning, gotten his stomach pumped and had been spoken to by the head psych. And, as he’d been told in no uncertain terms, whether he was suicidal or not, he was a twenty-five year old with the insides of a man in his fifties. Drinking day in and day out wasn’t doing him or his liver any favors.

“Next week. Same time,” Madeleine stated in her silky and professional tone. Despite the shrink thing, she was kind of hot. Her hair matched her eyes and was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail. To Eric’s disappointment, there wasn’t a hint of cleavage. Her silk blouse was buttoned to the collar and tucked into her bootleg-cut dress pants. The hint of three inch heels, however, peeped enticingly from beneath the black material, and Eric was halfway to interested in the seemingly straight-laced Doctor Madeleine.

Eric pressed his lips in a line and shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “If I’m in town.”

“You’re going away?”

LA wasn’t doing him any good. He needed to get away and think things through. His agent was right, he did need to straighten himself out, but he needed to do it his way. “I’m thinking of heading back home.” The idea had him breaking out in a cold sweat, but he had to give it a shot. He couldn’t carry on like this forever.

Madeleine offered encouragement. “Support of a family unit is important during recovery.”

Support? “I haven’t been home in seven years.”

Looking over her shoulder, Madeleine checked the time. She no doubt would want to delve into the reasons behind his sudden urge to head home. “You’re in my appointment book and you have my number.”

Eric gave a slow nod. “Sure and thanks.” He wasn’t sure he should be thanking her. His head was now more messed up than ever. Talking had simply stirred up feelings and memories he’d tried hard to bury. But instead, she’d picked and scratched away at him, determined to break through the steely surface he’d created, and damn it all to hell, she’d actually managed it. He was pissed, but he couldn’t decide if it was with her or himself. Seven years of guilt and regret had leaked into his heart and it hurt like fuck.

“Goodbye, Mr Fox.”

Eric flashed his most confident smile. The Fantastic Mr Fox.

* * * *

“Feet.”

Eric opened his eyes. “What?”

“Feet,” Marcus said. He threw a magazine at Eric’s chest then tapped the vacuum cleaner head against his leg. “The car’s coming in an hour. This place is a mess.” He rammed the vacuum against Eric’s leg. “I don’t know how you live like this.” He pushed again, eliciting a grunt from Eric as his feet were knocked from the coffee table.

“Just leave it, man. I don’t care.” He pulled his legs up onto the couch and maneuvered himself around to lie down. What was the point? What the fuck did it matter if there were dirty dishes in the sink or clothes strewn across his bedroom floor?

“I do,” Marcus insisted and turned on the vacuum. He wore a determined expression as he ran the cleaner over the rug and hardwood floor. Eric often wondered if the man was a machine, some cyborg sent through time to torment the shit out of him.

The low hum of the vacuum did nothing for Eric’s mood and he watched through narrowed eyes as Marcus continued to clean his apartment. He swore the man had OCD.

“Nobody cares!” he called over the sound of the vacuum, but Marcus either ignored him or didn’t hear. “Nobody fucking cares,” he repeated in a low voice and stared past Marcus and out the large floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the apartment. The LA sky was clear and cloudless, and he wished he could drown himself in the endless blue. Not properly, just for a little while. Just long enough for the world to spin a couple of million times and everything to be forgotten. He realized the plan was doomed to fail. Even if everyone else moved on, he was stuck, stuck in his miserable, pathetic existence. It took Eric a moment to notice the room had fallen silent, and he lifted his head to find Marcus staring at him, hand on his hip as he gave a despairing look.

“Please tell me you packed,” Marcus said. His voice was edged with impatience but also concern. He’d watched Eric slowly spiral these last few months, and Eric knew Marcus felt in a small way responsible that maybe if he’d been a better friend or been more professional or one of many other things that wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference.

“Eric?” Marcus worried his bottom lip and came to sit on the couch beside him. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Your folks? Home?”

It’s a fucking awesome idea. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He closed his eyes as he slid lower on the couch and tried to get comfortable.

Marcus Denton was his PA and paid for friend, his only confidante here in LA. Eric could never fire him, he knew too much.

“You haven’t seen your folks in nearly two years and you haven’t been home in seven. The other half of the baggage you carry around with you on a daily basis, and try to drown in whiskey and vodka, is sitting at the end of a two hour flight.” Marcus was as blunt as a butter knife, but his words were still cutting. Eric, however, liked and appreciated his straight-to-the-point and abrupt PA.

Opening his eyes, Eric was greeted by Marcus’s furrowed brow and fiery stare. “There is no baggage,” Eric said, though he wasn’t entirely sure if that was the truth or a lie. In all honesty, after the first year in LA, he’d stopped asking, and his parents had stopped telling. He had no idea if his so called baggage even lived in Oakland Falls anymore. Seven years was a long time. People moved on and got on with their lives, mostly. Eric had certainly tried, even if it had been a resounding epic failure.

Marcus’s shoulders slumped. “You are such a liar.”

Eric gave a crooked smile. “You still love me, though, right?”

For years, Eric’s agent, Artie Godfrey, had suggested he get himself a PA—someone to take the pressure off and help organize him and his life. It hadn’t been until his second year in LA, when Eric had landed himself the role of a secondary character in the hit movie series The Devil’s Men, things had really taken off. Scripts were actually sent to him, and with publicity, guest appearances, photo shoots, auditions, even general everyday tasks, he just needed someone else there. While interviewing for a PA, Artie had suggested picking someone he was unlikely to fuck. He didn’t need to complicate his life further. Several applicants in and there he was, Marcus Denton, five-nine, blond, blue-eyed, skinny and gayer than a rainbow. Perfect.

“Love you? That depends. Did you sort your luggage?”

Crap. He’d had other things on his mind. “Let’s just put it out there. What would you see happening if I said no?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Marcus leaped off the couch with a string of expletives. “Why do I bother?” His voice rose in pitch as he stormed across the apartment and into Eric’s bedroom.

Eric flinched as there was a series of thuds and slamming of drawers and closets. He strained to hear as Marcus continued with his rant. With a sigh, Eric rubbed at his face. Was Marcus going to be like this for the full two weeks? Foolishly, he’d invited Marcus to join him on his little vacation. He hadn’t imagined for one minute the guy would say yes. But it seemed, for some reason, Marcus actually gave a fuck. Before he knew it, Marcus was his flight buddy and was going to be accompanying him back to Oakland. God knew what his parents were going to make of his high strung PA.

Here he comes.

“And another thing,” Marcus said with a grunt as he heaved the oversized luggage through the doorway. “I don’t plan on flying nine-hundred miles to hide out at your parents’ house.” He disappeared back into the bedroom before emerging with a bag Eric assumed was to be his hand luggage. “You and I are going outside, getting some air and doing something positive with our time.” He dropped the pack beside the couch and sat down. “It’ll be good for your profile.”

Eric frowned. Profile? That was Artie talking. “And how do you propose I do that?” This should be interesting.

Marcus shifted his weight and pulled folded papers from the back pocket of his jeans. “Artie had me Google some project ideas.” He held the printed pages out in Eric’s direction. “I want you to have a serious think about it.”

Taking the pages, Eric unfolded the two pieces of paper and stared at the list of good causes and charities within twenty miles of his home town. “Right,” he said as he skimmed the list. There were a dozen or so ideas on each page.

“I tried to find ones that might interest you. So we have animal shelters, youth projects and local drama groups. I was looking for things you could get involved with and be proactive.”

Artie was an asshole and so was Marcus for buying into this crap. “You’re being serious?”

Marcus took the paper from Eric and nodded. “Yes. It’ll do you some good. Wallowing around like the world is against you will get you nowhere.”

“I’d rather go to rehab,” he said dryly, though Marcus didn’t seem to appreciate his attempt at humor.

“Okay, but how long before you’re right back where you started? I agree you should probably go to meetings, do your twelve steps or whatever the hell it is, but to really get through this, you don’t go and hang out with a bunch of screwed up celebrities. You grow a pair and deal with this head on.” Marcus took a deep breath. He seemed like he had wanted to say that for a while.

Eric reached out and took back the list of projects. “Better?” he asked.

Nodding, Marcus looked toward the bedroom for what Eric assumed was an escape route if the conversation went south.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

Marcus briefly but suspiciously met Eric’s eyes. He leaned in and inspected the top page with Eric. Guardedly, Marcus spoke. “Personally, I think you should choose a youth project. Get out there and show yourself to be a positive role model. Some of these kids need that.”

Eric scanned through the brief descriptions of the first few projects he came across. He could probably try his hand at most of them. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll do it.” He respected Marcus’s opinion.

Marcus smiled and squeezed Eric’s leg as he stood up. “Good. Now go and make us both a sandwich while I finish packing.”