Outcome (Aftermath #2) (2 page)

He was proud, but that didn’t mean he knew what Ade was really doing. She was a business major, which meant whenever she got started on numbers, economics, and fucking variables, Chase zoned out.

If someone understood Ade, it was Austin. He was some big shot accounting director or whatever who studied tax laws for kicks and ran a big firm's office here in Bakersfield. The handful of times Ade and Austin had seen each other, Cam and Chase had tuned them out and talked about their shared interest in cars and motorcycles.

"I spoke briefly with Donna earlier," Austin mentioned casually, referring to Chase's only employee. "Nice girl." He tilted his head. "She seems to be very…fond of you. She kept blushing when I talked to her."

Chase couldn’t help it; he barked out a laugh. The notion was just that ridiculous, and Austin didn’t strike Chase as a matchmaker or one for gossip.

"No?" Austin grinned.

Chase chuckled and shook his head. "No."

Never mind that the blond bombshell was half his age, but she didn’t have enough dick to capture his attention.

Ade had tried several times to set up Chase with women, but it wasn’t gonna happen. Despite being as lonely as he was, the thought of getting to know someone made his skin crawl.

How could he even begin to describe himself?

The name's Chase. I like to tinker with my Harleys, I can't cook to save my life, but I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. I leave the toilet seat up and the cap for the toothpaste off, there isn't a drink on this planet I can't make, and oh, that’s right: after being held captive by an insane madman for five months, my head is fucked. Permanently.

Fuckin' A.

He was also so far into the closet he didn’t know which way was out.

That he was gay was something he'd miserably and reluctantly admitted to himself over twenty years ago, and he had "experimented" when he was young, but those days were over.

He'd only caved once in the past decade, and it had gotten him kidnapped, so he chucked away that haunting memory before he'd have to excuse himself to go vomit.

"Ah, well." Austin smiled and shrugged. Then he looked over his shoulder as Cam returned, smelling of cigarette smoke.

Chase swallowed past his nausea and wondered idly why the
fuck
he'd quit, but then he recalled Ade's incessant lectures about cancer. Which always led to her playing the guilt card:
"We only have each other, Chase. If you die, I will kill you."
It didn’t make sense, but the message was received every time—loud and clear. It had been about a year now since Chase had taken his last smoke.

Of course, it had also been an expensive habit, and Chase was far from financially secure.

"So…" Cam stood behind Austin, his hands on the seated man's shoulders. "We gonna head home, or should I kick your ass at another round of pool?" Cam eyed the pool table in the back of the bar. There was also a dart board.

"Why are you making shit up?" Austin chuckled and tilted his chin up to face his husband. "Even Riley beats you. And speaking of her, we should head home. If she's going with Landon and Jules on their camping trip, I want to plan some activities with her tomorrow."

"All right." Cam nodded and ducked to give Austin a kiss. "We'll probably be up at the ass-crack of dawn, anyway." Now he seemed irritated. "Maybe I should sic Nacho on that fucking woman." Nacho was Riley's annoying little Chihuahua. "Bourbon would only cuddle up with the bitch." And Bourbon was Cam's Husky.

"Take it easy." The warning was clear in Austin's voice. "You and your damn temper."

"Whatever," Cam muttered. "It's why you love me."

Austin laughed through his nose. "I love you in spite of it."

"What woman?" Chase asked, his index finger tracing the hole in his jeans over his knee.

Austin reached up and squeezed Cam's hand, most likely to stop him from going off. "The woman who's renting Remy's house is remodeling." He looked at ease while Cam made a face. And Chase…well, he was
trying
to look indifferent. "The past month or so, we've been woken up several times by drilling, hammering, and yesterday it was a wood chipper, I think."

Chase didn’t reply. The only reason he'd agreed to open his bar so close to Austin and Cam's was because they'd told him Remy didn’t live in his house, which was on their street. He'd apparently rented it out, and they hadn't seen Remy in over a year.

The last thing Chase wanted in his life was reminders of the man who'd kidnapped him. Remy Stahl, the kidnapper's much younger half brother, definitely served as a reminder.

He still had questions about their long-dead case, questions about the Stahl family, but he had convinced himself it wasn’t worth it.

For the time being, he was content to let this new chapter of his life—opening his bar—make him feel like he was genuinely living.

Chapter 2

Remy was floating.

The air in the LA nightclub was stifling, and had he not been drunk and high, the crowd of sweaty, moving bodies would've made him nauseated. Instead, he was drowning in a sea of happy laughter and utter fucking joy.

He jumped to the music with his so-called friends, he drank more and more, he was groped at but didn’t give a shit, and he laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face.

Suicide Sunday could wait another week.

His phone was constantly vibrating in his back pocket, but he had no desire to talk to Minna, his best friend.

She lived in his house out in Bakersfield, which…
Hell
, no. It was the last place on earth he'd return to.

One year ago, he'd sold his company—an online site for music streaming—and he'd quit Minna's brother's tattoo studio. Drawing and sketching, once a hobby, a passion, now belonged in the past.

In truth, the only things he did these days involved spending money on booze and hotels. And drugs for the weekends when he
really
let go.

He wanted no part of anything that reminded him of…well, himself.

That included his house, his real friends, the town he grew up in, and family. Not that there was any family left.

The name itself, the name Remy bore like a death sentence, made him want to shoot himself. But he didn’t have the guts like his mom had. Evidently. So, he was now blowing the money he had access to, and by the time it was gone, his vices would have hopefully done the job.

His cell phone vibrated again, though it was easy to tune out with the heavy bass of the music pounding through the foundation of the club.

"Remy!" Someone grabbed his arm, and Remy spun around and snapped up his elbow, connecting it with some motherfucker's chin.
Shit
. It was…what the fuck was his name, again? Something like Travis. He had high-quality coke, very pure, so Remy felt a little bad. The dude had even fallen on his ass.

"My bad." He pulled the guy off the floor.

"Goddammit." Travis-something cupped his jaw and glared at Remy. "I was only gonna say that your friend—that chick…? She called me. She's on her way here."

Remy snorted before disappearing into the crowd again. It would take a long time before Minna even got to LA, so whatever. Losing his buzz, he headed for one of the bars and ordered three shots of vodka.

Vodka was his favorite.

"You're cute."

Remy gave the girl next to him a bored stare then downed the first shot. And the second.
Cute
. Fuckin' hell. That's what you got when you were only five nine, apparently. That shit pissed him off. Maybe he wasn’t tall, but cute? Fuck that noise.

Remy looked like an edgy skateboarder. He'd lost count of the tattoos that decorated his arms, neck, ribcage, calves—hell, even his knuckles. Four piercings, baggy chinos, a black T-shirt, a ball cap to hide his half-assed fauxhawk, a joint behind his ear, a jaw that could cut glass…nothing cute about it. His mom used to claim Remy had the cutest dimples and pale green eyes known to mankind.

Mom
.

He gave a little shake of his head and let out a breath.

No amount of dimples could erase the past three years that were etched on Remy's face.

He'd gone from a relatively carefree twenty-seven-year-old to a shell of a man who had aged ten years overnight. Anyone who took a look at him today wouldn’t guess he'd only recently turned thirty.

"So…what's your name?" The girl beside him had clearly not received the message earlier.

Remy threw back another shot, grimaced at the burn, then faced the chick. "Listen, toots. Unless you're hiding a cock underneath that miniskirt, it's not gonna happen."

Her startled gasp was the only thing he heard before he vanished into the sea of bodies again.

It didn’t take long until he was lost to the music, the dancing crowd, and the air of sex. It was getting late; those who hadn't found hookups yet were on the prowl. Remy didn’t care. He wanted fun. Even if it was fake fun.

Hands roamed his body, large hands, a man's hands, tracing the defined abs under Remy's T-shirt.

"Bathroom?"

Remy looked over his shoulder and shrugged. The man was decent, average height, blond hair, brown eyes—sure, why not. He followed the man toward the bathrooms and ducked into the ladies' room, the only option if you wanted a stall.

A gaggle of chicks got pissed because they cut in line.

Inside a stall, Remy locked the door.

"I'm Kirk."

Remy raised a pierced brow. "Good for you." He unbuttoned and zipped down his baggy chinos. The coke made him jumpy and excited his body, but he was so depressed that no drug was powerful enough to erase his indifferent state of mind. Facing the wall, he told the dude to double-bag it.

Kirk found that funny. "Are you serious? You want me to use
two
condoms?"

"Did I fucking stutter?" Remy closed his eyes and rested his clammy forehead on the cool surface of the wall. With a hand down his briefs, he jacked his half-hard cock and listened as Kirk ripped the foil of two condoms. A small packet of lube was next, and it surprised Remy a little.

No one had bothered to prepare him lately.

He preferred it that way, because it meant no care was involved.

Avoiding concern and offers of help made his shitty life easier. Otherwise, he would only get hopeful, and that never led to anything good.

"You're gorgeous." Kirk kissed his shoulder as he pushed two lubed-up fingers inside his ass. "I watched you out there—how you ignored all the girls. You looked lonely."

Remy gritted his teeth, losing his hard-on with this sappy bullshit. "Just fuck me."

"Take it easy." Kirk was trying to show he was in control. It probably worked for lots of men, but Remy didn’t do affectionate lovemaking. This was a hookup at a nightclub in LA. Not a wine-tasting in Napa. "Let me take care of you."

"No—goddammit!" Remy slapped his hand against the wall in frustration. "Fuck me like you hate me." He inhaled deeply through his nose, his teeth clenched. "Or call it quits."

"I…I…" Kirk was at a loss. "I don’t hate you. I don’t want to treat you like—"

"Get out." Remy's voice was flat.

*

The dry air swept across Remy's face as he stepped outside and lit up a smoke.

He was surrounded by people who were leaving the club.

He wasn’t sure if he was going to stay or go.

Most of his nights ended with a party somewhere else, often his hotel room, but now he was alone. Just standing in front of the exit with all those people milling about.

He claimed he hated everyone these days; others made him sick and angry, yet, for some reason, he was still drawn to interaction. But he made sure to stick to the wrong crowd because they'd never get his hopes up. They'd never help and ultimately disappear.

A woman waved a hand in front of her face and faked a cough as she passed Remy, to which he rolled his eyes. He couldn’t
stand
the Oh-you're-smoking-so-I-have-to-pretend-I-can't-breathe-and-give-you-the-evil-eye people.

Or how about those who asked,
"Did you know smoking can kill you?"

No. Say it ain't so.

Someone else bumped into him.

Tilting his head up, Remy exhaled some smoke and tried to see if there were any stars out, but then he caught himself. Fuckin' LA—the smog deserved its own zip code. The only stars he'd see here were the movie kind.

"Remy, you motherfucker!"

Whereas people around him turned in every direction to see who the screamer was and who she was screaming at, Remy merely sighed and shook his head.

Waldo's been found
.

The little imp loved to fuck with him.

He'd grown up with Minna Eriksson. They became best friends in the third grade and had only spent time apart when Minna went to Minnesota every summer. She had been born there and had a big, fat Scandinavian family outside of Duluth.

Later, Remy had also befriended Andreas, Minna's older brother by two years. And it was Andy who'd offered Remy an apprenticeship at his tattoo studio. It had been a place that grounded Remy; he loved the buzz of the tattoo gun, the rock music, the people…

It's in the past.

Only, not so much, since Minna refused to let him go. She crashed into him, grabbed ahold of his arm, shot him a scowl, and began dragging him away from the crowd.

"Nice to see you too, Min," Remy drawled.

"Shut the fuck up." Minna was definitely ticked off. The girl had a sailor's mouth, but two curses within ten seconds of seeing each other for the first time in a month was still a record. "Do you know how many clubs I've been to tonight looking for your sorry ass?" She kept muttering, getting herself riled up, which Remy noticed by the tightening of her grip on his arm. Damn, the girl had some claws. "Thank God I managed to track down that Trent guy's number." Trent! That was his name. Not Travis-something. Trent. "Why you insist on hanging out with low-life dealers is beyond me, though." Minna suddenly stopped and glared up at Remy, her dark hair fanning out for a second. "Can you even hear what I'm saying?"

"
Dogs
can hear you."

The anger in her lavender eyes intensified, and her skin was flushing with fury. She had this perky nose that scrunched up when she was mad, something Remy had always found adorable.

"Christ, you infuriate me!" She threw up her hands. "You don’t even realize you have people who're worried about you, do you?" She poked his chest, and her voice rose. "We've been trying to find you for the past two fucking weeks since you're so fucking fond of disappearing on us. And here you are, smirking that fucking smirk, not giving a fucking shit!"

Remy hid his amusement and tugged on a lock of Minna's hair. "You know, for a kindergarten teacher, you sure curse a lot. You might wanna tone down the fucking."

Minna widened her eyes, as if she was incredulous by his nonchalance, and then let out a noise of frustration before she started pulling him with her again.

"Where are we going?" Remy was casually attempting to loosen her fingers from his bicep, but the girl was packing some strength. "Sweetheart, if by some miraculous chance I die tonight, it's probably a bad idea for you to have my DNA under your fingernails."

At that, Minna whirled around and slapped him across the face. "You self-destructive
asshole
!"

Remy was stunned.

Minna was more than a little upset. "How can you—" Her voice broke, though the moment of sadness was soon replaced by even more rage. "There's no getting through to you tonight." Remy didn’t know what she meant by that, but it didn’t matter. "I'm not giving up, though. And when you feel better, you'll remember this moment with regret—and pain from my boot up your ass."

Remy frowned. "You haven't put your boot up my ass."

Minna snorted. "
Yet
."

When they reached her truck, she not-so-nicely ordered Remy to get in, and he gave her the directions to his hotel. Minna merely hummed at that, then peeled out of the parking lot.

"You're awfully pissy tonight." He turned in his seat to observe his friend. "Is my fag hag mad or simply on the rag?" He cracked himself up and slapped his thigh. "I'm a poet and I know it!"

"No, you're a crude piece of shit." Minna spat out the words and made a sharp turn. "Who looks like roadkill."

"Ouch." Remy laughed halfheartedly and removed his ball cap to run a hand through his messy hair. Tilting his head, he glanced at his reflection in the side-view mirror, and fuck. He really did look like roadkill. Or a train wreck, whichever was worse. The shadows under his eyes kept getting darker. The depression that suffocated him was visible, so fucking pronounced. On his face, in his posture…

The chemicals in his system were giving him mood swings; the downers made him tired and indifferent, and the uppers caused his mind and body to stay awake. He was fidgeting, unable to relax, and easily got lost in his head. He went from amused by Minna's behavior to depressed about his existence in a heartbeat.

As they stopped at a red light, Minna eyed him with disdain. "Put on your seat belt, idiot."

"Why?" Remy's mouth curved into a smirk. "That’s not something you tell a suicidal person."

Minna actually laughed, but it was completely without humor. "You're not suicidal. You're crying for attention—for someone to save you. But guess what." She reached over to whack his arm. "You're gonna have to play a part in your own rescue. Otherwise it won't fucking work."

Remy gritted his teeth, pissed and embarrassed, and faced his window instead. He wasn’t crying for attention, was he? That would mean he wanted help, that he wanted to live, and he didn’t. He just happened to be too weak and scared to pull the trigger.

*

Remy was startled awake by someone jumping on his head.