We Found Love (22 page)

Chapter 21

Three Months Later

T
HE
SUN
was moving toward its downward slide to the west. That didn’t mean it wasn’t still hot as hell in Louisiana, humidity and temperatures at their peak in the time of year that hung precariously between summer and fall. Hunter usually loved this nonseason season, but after a full workday of wiping the sweat from his brow and suffering stinging eyes when he forgot, his mood was tanking quickly.

“You twisted, rude bitch!” Hunter bellowed, slinging down his socket wrench with a clatter. He didn’t even give a shit it’d fallen down into the engine of the shitty ’94 Ford Tempo he’d been tuning up. Not only was the car a piece of shit—
who knew any of these still ran at all?
—but his sweaty hands had slipped and banged his knuckles for the umpteenth time. The spark plugs didn’t want to give, and that was all he had left, all he really
could
do for the rust bucket.

He shook his hand, scowling when he noticed his knuckle was bleeding pretty profusely. Not that that was new, it was just the last straw for this workday. He walked over to the sink in the shop and ran some cold water over his hand, cussing under his breath to the beat of whatever Alan Jackson or Kenny Chesney song it was that blasted from the country music station playing from the shitty office radio. A hand holding the first aid kit appeared beside him. He glanced at his brother over his shoulder.

“What’re you still doin’ here, Hunter?” His brother’s frown was another thing that wasn’t new about this day. Travis was a bear of a guy, husky. He and Hunter were the same height, and while they had similar features, Hunter’s face was softer, even with his scruffy cheeks, than Travis’s. Looking at them, you’d think Travis was a generation older than Hunter, rather than just four years. Though Hunter assumed some of those lines around his brother’s mouth, the ones from frowning too much, had been Hunter’s fault.

Travis had always been more serious than the rest of his family. Even in family portraits, Hunter was the lighthearted, smiling kid, middle child Travis was somber and hulking, while their sister, Heather, the eldest, looked arrogant. Still was. She was twelve years older than Hunter, so they’d never gotten along, Hunter an inconvenience when she was a teenager.
“The baby gets away with everything… I always have to babysit….”

He supposed she’d been right, once he’d turned into a raging alcoholic, to get nasty about him being spoiled, but there’d been no love lost between them…. Ever. Ditto with Travis and Heather. The eight years between them had been the official great divide. She’d been the only one who got significant time with their daddy when he was alive. He’d fallen from the oil rig he worked on in the Gulf when Hunter was only a year old. Their mama said thirteen-year-old Heather had never recovered and never been pleasant after that.

Hunter understood, but that didn’t mean he excused. He also wasn’t looking for excuses. They were just too different.

But Travis had always been Hunter’s protector, his best friend. When he found out Hunter was gay when they were young, he’d kept the secret. He was the one who’d driven to New Orleans and picked Hunter up off the bathroom floor the night he’d found Cory’s body.

Hunter had been a fool to think the man would give up on him. Travis has said as much when they’d done a family counseling session, one Heather’d refused to attend. Travis had actually cried. Hunter felt like a complete tool when his brother said, “I lost my mama and almost lost my brother in the same day.” Then he’d turned and pinned Hunter with the saddest gaze he’d ever seen. “Though I feel like I lost you the day we lost Cory.”

Talk about a punch to the gut. They were getting there, though. He was working in the shop, though his brother only let him handle the bullshit jobs like tune-ups, oil changes, and flats. Which was three-fourths of their business. That’s why Hunter was so fucking done today.

He glared at his brother. “I’d have been gone an hour ago, but that Tempo is so rusted inside I can’t get the fuckin’ head cover off. How that thing’s still runnin’ is beyond me.”

His brother’s frown twitched slightly, his version of a smile. “Well, you’ll be glad to know you’re off the tune-ups for the next couple days.” Travis opened the first aid kit and held up a Band-Aid and some antiseptic.

“Oh?” He perked up, taking the proffered antiseptic. He poured it over the cut and watched it bubble before dabbing it off with a paper towel, grumbling about tetanus.

“Had a request. Guy I graduated with. You worked on his ’97 Camaro ’bout a year ago. Apparently he did a number on it, insisted it come to you. His brother’s having it towed in tonight.”

Hunter’s eyes rounded with surprise. “You mean Bubba?”

His brother’s brows scrunched together. “Bubba?”

Hunter huffed a tired laugh. “Oh yeah, uh, Shane.”

“One and the same. Didn’t know you and him were friendly.”

“I met him at Hartfield.” His brother’s discomfiture at the mention of Hunter’s hospital stay was obvious as his frowning became distinctly sad and he shuffled from one foot to the other, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“I knew he had some problems. Didn’t realize they were like… that, though.”

Hunter’s temper tried to flare. He could still hear the word
crazy
banging around his brother’s brain. Bubba wasn’t crazy, neither was Hunter…. Neither was Riley.

“He’s fine,” he snapped.

Travis harrumphed. “Wait ’til you see what he did to that beauty of a car of his.”

Hunter reeled. “Is he okay? Did he get hurt?”

Travis waved off Hunter’s concern. “He’s good. A little banged up, just drove too fast. Told him we couldn’t do much with the body, but you’d get her purrin’ like a kitten in no time.”

Hunter preened under what amounted to a rare compliment from his brother. He wanted to go home right now and tell Riley all about it. He wrote to Riley daily, like a journal, telling all his ups and downs, and sent a big pack of letters every Monday. Riley was more circumspect in his letters. He talked of his therapy, how much he missed Hunter. They weren’t allowed to see each other, old patients unable to visit patients they met inside. Hunter missed the man like a severed limb. He thought of him often. Another reason he didn’t mind coming in to work early, sweating hard all day, and leaving late, only to write a letter, shower, and pass out cold.

“I’ll do my best,” Hunter assured his brother. “And, uh, Travis?” Travis looked up from where he’d been reassembling the first aid kit. “Thanks, y’know, for letting me work on the Camaro.”

His brother nodded gruffly. “You’re good. He wanted you, so of course…. It’s all yours.”

Hunter struggled not to smile at Travis, who’d started shuffling uncomfortably again. “Don’t you have an AA meeting tonight or something?” his brother asked, eyes narrowed.

Hunter laughed, heart light and grateful. Things were definitely getting better. He patted his brother on the back. “Not tonight, but I am gonna head home. Have a good one, T.”

Travis humphed and gave Hunter his back. Hunter just shook his head and started heading over to pack up his tools for the day.

“Hunter,” his brother called.

“Yo?” he called back.

“You know how you can thank me?”

He cast a wary glance his brother’s way. “How’s that?”

“Stop runnin’ around shirtless. All the ladies are ignorin’ me when they got you runnin’ around like that.”

Hunter guffawed, heart soaring from the thrill of the moment of brotherly companionship and levity. “Because I’m
such
competition. Seein’ as I—”

“Don’t even finish that thought, little shit.”

T
WO
DAYS
later, Hunter was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Thursday. Thursdays were good days—with a little bad thrown in. This one happened to fall on a first of the month too, so he had errand on top of errand. He was tired as hell, having stayed up late trying to put the Humpty Dumpty that was Bubba’s car back together again. Travis hadn’t been kidding when he said the guy had done a damn number on it.

He’d had to wake up early again, even though it was one of his two split days off. Thursdays because he had therapy, Sundays because they were closed—he usually worked anyway. He had bills to pay all around town, even having to drive into Baton Rouge for a couple. He rarely wandered outside Denham Springs, where his apartment and his brother’s shop were, so he hadn’t been thrilled to have to deal with the traffic.

Now, locked and loaded with the biggest coffee he could grab at the gas station, he was on his way to Hartfield. He’d chosen to continue seeing one of their out-patient doctors, even though it was an hour’s drive. The drive and the therapy were the shitty parts of the day. But then… then he got to leave Riley his letters and pick up the ones Riley left for him. Assuming it was a day Jerry was working. Some of the other nurses objected to the drop off/pick up method and made Riley send his letters via snail mail. Those weeks were torture.

Hunter missed the man something fierce. He was glad to have at least what little they did, but he mourned the relationship they’d never get to have. One day he may find the right guy; maybe Riley would too. Another lifer he could take on his adventures so he’d be less lonely. Hunter hoped they’d always be friends, though, no matter how half-assed the friendshipish relationship was. He’d kill to see him face-to-face at least once more in this lifetime, but he was a realist, and he was as understanding as he could be.

Plus, they both had shit they had to do. Business to handle and lives to live. They’d given each other a piece of themselves, not only on that one amazing, perfect night, but also over the two months they’d spent together. There was a fondness, a deep caring there. Something that could easily have blossomed into love, Hunter knew it. But he couldn’t let himself get mired down in that. The first rule of sobriety was focusing on getting yourself well. That included following the steps and not getting involved in relationships. He assumed it was much the same for Riley’s own issues.

Being apart was not fun, but necessary. It was the permanence of it that killed Hunter.

When he finally arrived at Hartfield, he parked his Jeep in outpatient parking and made his way into the now-familiar hallways of the hospital. He stopped by the main nurses’ station and left the letters for Jerry after shooting the shit with the receptionists he’d gotten to know well during his weekly visits. Before he knew it, he was being called in to Dr. Jonah, his outpatient therapist’s, office.

“Good afternoon, Hunter,” the doctor said. Dr. Jonah was always in a good mood. After a rough session, Hunter had the urge to smack the good-natured man’s face just to make him stop being so damned perky.

“What’s up, Doc?”

“Cute,” the doctor said, chuckling. “Sit, sit.” He pointed at Hunter’s usual couch, one of several seating options in the brightly colored office. Dr. Jonah sat in the plush armchair on the other side of the couch. “Was the drive down okay?”

“Good as can be expected.”

“How’s the AA going?”

“Goin’. I finally found a sponsor I like. She’s pretty awesome.”

Dr. Jonas cocked his head. “She? I thought they were particular about coed sponsors.”

“She’s a big leather dyke—her words, not mine—who I have yet to actually see in anything but a pantsuit. I think she’s yanking my chain. But yeah, we’re the only openly gay members of our particular meeting group, so they bent the rules a little. Pretty obvious we won’t be falling in bed anytime soon.”

“That’s wonderful, then.” He did that annoying thing where he made a note in his pad rather than saying what he was thinking. “How’s your family?”

“Hunky-dory. My brother let me do some actual work. Sister’s still off in Ville Platte being her old ornery self.”

“Still not budging on that?”

“Why should I? Not like we were buddy-buddy before I was an alcoholic, don’t figure we’d be after.”

“Okay….” More notes, pen scratching paper and driving Hunter nuts. “What about your friends? Any resolution there?”

Hunter shrugged. “Not really much left to resolve. I don’t drink, they want to hang out in bars. I invite them to do other shit. Three months of ‘no’ makes you think long and hard about how good a friend they may’ve been.”

“How does that make you feel?” Great… they’d made it to that point of the conversation. Hunter’s least favorite part. He’d always thought that line was reserved for movies. Apparently it was in movies because it was a thing.

So Hunter did what he’d learned worked best. He told the truth. And that’s how the next forty-five minutes proceeded: Hunter talking, however reluctantly, about his feelings.

On his way out, Hunter was actually in a decent mood. They’d decided to end the annoying once-a-month piss tests now that he was on the last month of his probation. And since he’d honest-to-goodness made progress, they’d reduce the pleasure of five minutes of small talk each week, at $150 a pop, to one session a month.