Outcome (Aftermath #2) (3 page)

At least it felt like it.

The sun was shining outside the window, which made his eyes hurt and start to water. The headache kept pounding, and someone was banging something…somewhere. Where the fuck was he?

The irony wasn’t lost to him. Waking up without knowing where he was had become
familiar
.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, he glanced around the room, pretty sure he'd been here before. But it had looked different, hadn't it? Now the walls were a muted blue color, the furniture was painted white, and there were fluffy pillows, a plush rug, billowy drapes, and decorative blankets scattered around.

It looked lived-in.

It looked like a woman had done the decorating.

It…
fuck
, it looked like the guest room in his old house out in Bakersfield.

Welcome back to the armpit of California.

"Minna!" he shouted hoarsely. Angrily. Then he slumped back down on his pillow again. A groan of pain slipped through his chapped lips. His mouth tasted like death. When he tried to scrub his right hand down his face, he noticed he couldn’t. His hand was stuck.
No
, he amended when he looked to see what was wrong; his wrist was fucking
cuffed
. To the bed.

Had Minna brought him back to Bakersfield and cuffed him? What the hell was wrong with her?

He tugged at his restraints, but it was futile. The furry cuffs Minna had used for God-knows-what with her ex-boyfriend were fucking sturdy. Lifting his head, he took in his surroundings once more, this time to find an escape. A key. A goddamn hammer. Anything!

Remy needed to get the hell out of this house, leave Bakersfield, then find the nearest bar in LA.

The door finally burst open, and a beaming Minna appeared. "Good morning, sunshine!" Stupid, annoying singsong voice. "I guess you want some pain-killers, huh? And maybe some clothes."

Frowning, Remy peered down at his body, only to realize he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. All his ink was on display, his most personal drawings, and it left him exposed and pissed.

He shot Minna a glare. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

Minna didn’t look bothered at all. "I don’t think so. And, regardless, you love me."

"
Love
you?" He growled and tugged more at his restraints. "Yeah—as much as I love a prolapsed asshole."

"Eww." Minna pretended to gag. "The images, dude."

He let out a labored breath. "Why am I almost naked?"

"After I'd dragged you in from the truck last night—or this morning—you threw up
all
over yourself." She scrunched her nose and walked over to the window. "What was I supposed to do, let you sleep in your own vomit? No, thank you. I've worked too hard to make this a livable home for you to ruin it." Her eyes flicked to him for a beat, almost hesitantly, before she opened the window to let some air in. "What does the Joshua tree mean?"

There was no way Remy was going to answer that. Once upon a time, Minna had been privy to the symbolism of his ink, but this was one piece he intended to keep private.

It wasn’t new by any means, and it was her brother who'd done it, but Remy didn’t make a habit of getting undressed in front of Minna.

"Forgive me if I'm not in the mood to chat." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "How about you unlock these instead?" He gave the cuffs a rattling tug.

"How about no?" Minna spun around and gave him a dazzling smile. "Get comfortable, honey. You're gonna get sober in this bed—they call it detox." She winked. "Give it a few days; then we'll talk."

Remy gnashed his teeth together, plotting instead of cursing her out. Because shouting wouldn’t help. If Minna decided to do something, she stuck with it. She was as stubborn as the day was long, and her sometimes-unconventional methods could scare the shit out of the toughest motherfucker. So…Remy needed a plan.

And then I'm writing the witch out of my will.

The bathroom closest to the guest room would do him no good, but if he could convince Minna to let him use the master bath…

There was a window there.

Chapter 3

Chase was in his small office when Donna knocked on the door.

"Boss? I don’t wanna interrupt, but I really need to talk to you."

Considering the office was also his temporary home while he searched for a new apartment, he didn’t want anyone entering, or even looking inside.

The day Donna had inquired about the shower hose attached to the sink in the tiny bathroom next to Chase's office, he had shrugged and said it was there when he'd rented the place.

It took more than blood, sweat, and tears to start a business. It took money too, and Chase had sold his parents' house—the one he'd fought a decade to pay off the debts on—across town as a final deed to afford everything that came with owning a bar.

Sleeping on a couch worked fine for now. As long as he had his bar and his three bikes were safe in the garage he rented a few blocks over, he didn't need much else.

Pushing his newly started inventory records aside, he left his desk and opened the door, revealing a nervous-looking Donna. To the bikers who had already declared Chase's bar their new hangout, the blonde with crystal blue eyes and big knockers was a sexy addition. To Chase, she was simply nice, genuine, and hard-working. She was also usually shameless and straightforward, so the apprehensive expression was new.

"What's up?" He frowned.

He wasn’t exactly a stranger to shit hitting the fan, but in this case it couldn’t be too bad, could it? Perhaps the problem was with Donna herself.

Nausea?

Chase knew it'd been risky—
and let's be honest here: stupid
—to hire a woman who'd recently learned she was pregnant, but as had already been established…if there was something that needed fixin', Chase stood first in line.

The day Donna had responded to his ad and shown up, already looking like she believed he'd never give her the job, he'd done just that.

"Well…" Donna wrung her hands together and cleared her throat. "I don’t know the protocol for having escaped asylum patients in the bar." Chase lifted a brow, to which Donna huffed. "The dude sure
looks
like he's escaped from some kind of mental institution."

"You're gonna have to elaborate, hon," he drawled.

It was too fucking early in the evening for trouble. That shit wasn’t supposed to start until the alcohol had flowed for several hours.

"He's just sitting out there in nothing but underwear!" Donna threw an arm in the direction of the bar. "Do I throw him out? I mean—" She released a breath and appeared to be trying to calm herself down. "I mean, he's not exactly
bothering
anyone, but—Christ. No dress code doesn’t mean you can show up here
naked
."

Chase killed his smirk and shook his head. "All right. I'll take care of it." He waved a hand for Donna to take the lead, then followed her down the hall. "Did you finally kick out that boyfriend of yours, by the way?"

Donna chuckled shakily. "I wish. He won't budge. But I left him instead. I'm staying at a friend's for now."

That didn’t satisfy Chase, but at least Donna wasn’t around the prick anymore. As far as he knew, Donna had never been physically abused, but emotionally seemed to be another matter.

"We'll talk more about this later." He turned to give Donna a look, silently daring her to defy him. Thankfully, she didn’t. "It's your name on the lease; he's the one who should get the boot."

She nodded stiffly in agreement. "Yes, Daddy."

Chase snorted and looped an elbow around her neck, much like a father would with his little son, accompanied by a
"That’s my boy,"
or
"Well done, slugger."

"Fuckin' brat," he chuckled instead, then made a move to open the door that led to the bar. Before he could open it fully, though, Donna stopped him and surprised the shit outta him when she squeezed his midsection. Tightly.

"Thank you, Chase." Her whisper nearly closed up Chase's throat. He was being
hugged
. By someone other than his sister. "For everything you've done for me." She peered up at him with gratitude in her eyes. "I know we've only known each other for a couple weeks, but I want you to know I consider you an amazing friend."

Chase nodded dumbly, having no fucking clue what to say. He didn’t help out in order to make friends or to look like a hero. It was just the right thing to do.

"I'm making you uncomfortable, aren't I?" She slid him a small, knowing smile.

He blew out a gust of air, a half chuckle. "A bit." Not the hug, though. Only her words. He wasn’t used to that kinda talk. "I think I have a hospital patient to check in on."

"
Mental
hospital patient," she corrected him as she released her hold. "And I'm done being sappy, boss. I solemnly swear." She saluted him for good measure.

Relieved that the awkwardness had passed, Chase gave a quick nod in return and then left Donna behind to see who this "patient" was. The bar wasn’t by any means packed with people, but it was still early. A few were happy to see Donna back to taking orders.

"Sorry for the delay, boys," she said, getting busy.

Chase walked over to the end of the bar where a young man wearing only boxer briefs sat. Hell, was the punk asleep? Forearms on the bartop, forehead planted on one of those arms. Messy hair, shorter on the sides, nearly black, with some streaks of red that looked washed out. Chase's sister dyed her hair in odd colors like that sometimes.

"This is a bar, kid. Not a hotel." Chase folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the counter behind him. He eyed the ink on the man's arms, shoulders, and neck. It was a stark contrast against the pale and unblemished skin. The artwork was intricate and impressive, albeit depressing. Quotes about suffering, about staying true to who you are, a snake slithering toward a big, red apple, and an inked bullet wound. Dark clouds, a grim reaper, lyrics that belonged to songs about death, something that looked like the beginning of a tree on his ribcage, but Chase couldn’t see farther down.

The man spoke at last, quietly, and stayed in his position. "If I can just stay for ten minutes, that'd be great." He sounded drained, as if he'd been drinking too much whiskey.

The voice didn’t fit what Chase saw, which was youth. Or perhaps the lithe body with sinewy muscles betrayed him and made the kid look younger than he was.

Admit it, man. You like what you see.

Chase silenced that little voice with an internal growl.

Attraction and romance had no business in his closet.

Because of what he'd been doing when Ben had taken him, the mere thought of finding companionship was connected to his time in captivity. That was why he couldn’t stand it. Even if he longed for it.

The reminders made him sick. Not to mention angry.

"You mind telling me why you're only in your underwear?" Chase was starting to feel impatient. "I get that it's summer, but there are limits."

The younger man let out a humorless chuckle. "I'm afraid clothes weren't my priority when I finally escaped that witch." Chase stiffened instinctually at
escape
. Bad fucking joke, if that was what it was. "She's supposed to be my best friend…" The man lifted his head a few inches, only to bury it in his hands. "She called it detox. I call it torture. Three goddamn days, dude, just because I happen to like booze. Three days in handcuffs—even when I went to the bathroom!"

Detox? Chase frowned and heaved a sigh 'cause none of this shit really mattered to him. Clearly, the man hadn't been kidnapped, and that was all Chase needed to know. Maybe he had this compulsion to fix problems, but he couldn’t shoulder it
all
.

The fact that this stranger was bitching about wearing handcuffs for three days only made Chase wanna laugh. He'd endured cuffs for five months at one point, without a single reprieve.

He was hiding those vicious scars under two folded bandanas.

"I finally escaped when she let me take a shower in the master bathroom." A huff. "Gotta love windows." Rubbing his eyes, he finally let his hands fall away, and he gave Chase a once-over.

Chase's frown deepened, first registering a handsome face that looked aged from grief, piercings in his bottom lip and eyebrow, then light green eyes that he deemed unforgettable, but… Wasn’t there something familiar about him?

"Oh, shit." The man's breath left him in a whoosh, those pale green eyes widening. Anguish and fear—fucking
fear
—took over and made his jaw slack. Then he suddenly pushed off the barstool and stumbled a few steps backward. "I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He accidentally knocked over the stool and hurried to right it. "I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know y-you worked here."

With every stuttered word from the man, with every step he took toward the door, and with each patron's attention he got, it slowly dawned on Chase. Brick by brick. The months of research he'd done after getting back to freedom three years ago. The paper clippings. The miniscule profile photo on a website for music streaming. The article about that website being sold a year ago.

Shock and anger unfurled inside Chase.
This is the kind of reminder I don’t want
. His hands clenched into fists. His spine went rigid, and his gaze turned furious. His heart began racing, his chest tightening beyond what was painful. Merely
looking
at this man, facing him for the first time, threw Chase back in time. Three years to be exact.

I don’t want you here. Don’t remind me. Go away.

The only sensation stronger than the anger was the feeling of getting kicked in the gut.

"I'm sorry, Chase." The man who wasn’t a stranger—not exactly—pushed the door open and fled.

Remy Stahl
.

*

Remy's only plan had been to get as far away from the house as possible. When he'd seen the bar, it had been like an answer to his prayers.
Alcohol
.
Yes
. Of course, then he'd remembered he didn’t have any money.

The sun was setting as Remy dragged his bare feet along the hot pavement of his driveway. Had it been earlier in the day, his feet would've had blisters from the heat by now.

Would he have noticed, though?

Minna ran out from the house, first looking angry as hell, but then amazed.

"You came back." Her mouth opened and closed, like she wanted to say more but didn’t know what. "I called Andreas—he'll be here any minute, but…" A long exhale left her. Relief. "You came back, Remy."

Remy felt nothing. Not a damn thing. He nodded numbly and passed her, entering the house without purpose and direction. All of his strength and every emotion had seeped out of him as he'd escaped from Chase Gallardo and trudged the few blocks back to what he'd once called home.

He was dead inside.

Collapsing on the bed in the guest room, he stared out the window with unseeing eyes, completely lost in the past. He barely registered Minna's fussing over him, asking what had happened; Remy didn’t acknowledge her.

And people wonder why I drink?

One of those reasons evidently worked in a bar just a few blocks from here. Which should've strengthened Remy's resolve to get the hell out of Bakersfield, but he couldn’t be bothered at the moment. Maybe in a day or two. Who cared?

"You're worrying me." Minna sounded like she was close to tears. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

Remy slid his empty gaze to his friend, thinking briefly about what she'd asked, then frowned and went back to staring out the window.

The single line Chase had written back to Remy—after he had sent Chase four letters full of remorse, guilt, and apologies—went on a loop in his head.

Don’t ever contact me again.

Don’t ever contact me again.

Don’t ever contact me again.

Remy honestly didn’t know what he'd expected when he'd sent those letters to Chase nearly three years ago, but he'd never felt so rejected and embarrassed as the day he'd received that little note.

He'd left the first letter with Cameron Nash, who lived down the street, but then he'd managed to find Chase's address thanks to a PI he'd hired. He hadn't wanted to bother Nash again, but he'd needed to make sure the first letter had reached Chase. So, he had written more. Three more.

It should've been Remy who was kidnapped. Not Chase. Chase was innocent. Chase wasn’t cursed with the family from hell; Remy was.

His family history was enough to make anyone dizzy with drama overload.

"Remy. Can you please say something?" Minna placed her hand on Remy's clammy forehead. "I'm worried sick here."

"I'm fine." Remy turned away from her touch. "You don’t have to cuff me. I'll stay." Until he could shake this numbness and leave. Maybe kill himself for real this time. The drugs worked too slowly.

The rage he'd seen in Chase's eyes had nearly pushed him over the edge. Remy was intimidated by the man, who was tall, broad-shouldered, and sexy in a lethal way, almost menacing-looking. He would crush Remy like a bug, no bones about it.