Who Knows the Dark (14 page)

The tingling feeling of it, the way he felt when Mason looked at him—God, maybe he did want privacy because of the ache of it, the way his dick stirred at the very sight of Mason’s strong features in slumber, wheat blond hair sticking up, his full lips….

If he wasn’t so utterly horrified by the prospect, Sam would imagine reaching under the covers and into the oversized sweats he was currently wearing and—

No.

No, he couldn’t do that. Staring was creepy, but jerking off with Mason a few feet away? That was just gross.

Being a virgin was slightly less terrifying, knowing that Mason hadn’t been with a guy. Of course, that led to another set of concerns, about Mason liking girls and having experience with
them
. All of Sam’s sexual knowledge was from books he’d snuck out of the library—Henry Miller was a perv, but he was the only reason Sam knew anything.

The guys from his messenger job talked crudely about women they’d slept with, so at the very best, Sam was operating from the same knowledge base as Mason.

This was the least of his worries—sex with Mason wasn’t going to happen if his father dragged him away from everyone he knew and cared about.

Sighing, Sam pushed back the covers. He had to move very quietly and very slowly or Mason would wake up. And quite frankly, Sam needed some time to himself.

And not just in the bathroom.

It took him almost fifteen minutes to work his way out of bed and then down the hall. He moved slowly; his cough was rapidly improving thanks to Mrs. Creel and her medicine cabinet. They had so much food—piles of it heaped on his plate at every meal and then more pushed on him for snacks—that Sam felt better than he had in a week. He’d even gotten an old pair of Mr. Creel’s glasses from the family’s junk drawer, and while they weren’t exactly like his old ones, it was enough for him to feel a bit more in control of his surroundings.

After peeing and washing up, Sam took a breath as he headed for the stairs. For all the good side of things, his body was still bruised and battered. He considered it a blessing he didn’t really remember much from the kidnapping or the casino—mostly flashes of pain and fear, the smell of smoke. He didn’t poke the memories, though. The residual injuries were plenty.

He could smell something yeasty and delicious as he reached the bottom of the stairs. This whole house was like something out of a movie—warm and cozy and filled with good scents and candles and pictures and a nice lady in an apron who petted his head a lot and praised him when he finished a plate of food. For so long Sam’d carried around the fantasy of “normal” life, and now it was both a curse and a blessing to know that it really was as lovely as he’d imagined.

Sam didn’t want to leave this behind either.

“Good morning, Sam.” Mrs. Creel poked her head around the corner. Her smile reached her eyes; she was wearing yet another brightly colored patchwork apron, her hair tied back and sleeves rolled up. “I hope you’re hungry.”

At the table, Mrs. Creel settled him into a chair, then filled his cup with hot water and a homemade tea bag. “For your cough,” she said, patting his head. Next came a small plate with two hunks of homemade bread, fragrant with pools of yellow butter and a heaping of fresh strawberry preserves.

Sam’s stomach practically screamed with delight.

He stuffed his face with the bread—and oh, that was what smelled so delicious. Sam’s body almost convulsed with pleasure at the yeasty taste. Everything he’d been calling bread up to this point in his life was a lie.

Sam was still swallowing the last bite when Mrs. Creel appeared again, holding a plateful of scrambled eggs, tiny chunks of potatoes, pepper, onions, and a pile of bacon. “There’s more if you’re still hungry,” she said happily, laying the platter on his placemat.

“Oh man, Mrs. Creel, I might never be hungry again,” he laughed.

“You’re a growing boy, and you’ve been sick. Your body needs extra fuel.” She ran her hand over his hair. “And a haircut.” Amelia Creel clucked her tongue at him. “I’m gonna go into the attic, find you some decent clothes to wear. I have a ton of the boys’ stuff up there.”

She puttered away back to the stove, and Sam attacked his meal with his fork and a mission. The more food he had, the more fuel for his body to heal. The more healed his body, the stronger he would be…

To stand up to his father and tell him what he wanted.

Toward the last third of the plate, Sam started to feel a little woozy. He obediently drank his tea, then a second cup. His stomach full and his body warm was so lovely a feeling he wanted to curl up under the table and nap until the next round of feeding began.

“You sure you don’t want more bread?” Mrs. Creel asked, but Sam shook his head.

“It’s all so good, thank you. But I’m full.” Sam gave her his best smile, which she returned, her hand stroking his hair. The desire to purr and bat his head against her palm like a cat had never been stronger.

“I’ll save you some for a snack,” she said; her smile faltered slightly as she stared at him, but a second later she pulled back, lighting up again. “It’s nice having a boy around the house again. LJ comes in for meals and then disappears in that computer house of his. Caden’s been so far away for so long and, well….” Mrs. Creel sighed. “It gets a little lonely here.”

“I understand that.” Sam ducked his head. “I mean, I have my dad, but no friends or anything. At least not till Mason and Cade.” He gave her his most sincere smile when he looked back up. “Cade is a great guy. He’s helped me and my dad so much.”

This seemed to please her. “Thank you for telling me that,” she murmured. “I know it to be true, but it’s nice to hear from other people.”

“I hope—like I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I hope that me and Cade can continue to be friends.”
And that he can stay with my dad because he makes my dad happy.

“I’m sure Caden would like that.” Her lips curved into an amused grin. “Seems like he’s quite fond of your dad.”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam wasn’t sure how much to mention to Mrs. Creel. Like, should he mention they were totally sleeping together? Although she probably knew that—there wasn’t any rollaway bed in Cade’s room, that much he was sure of.

“Is that coffee?” LJ sauntered into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. “And bacon?” He sniffed dramatically. “Momma, did you make bread?”

Sam excused himself when Damian and Cade joined the breakfast table. He felt good but a tiny bit antisocial. As much as he was loving the feeling of not being lonely, that didn’t change the fact that he simply wasn’t used to this many people.

Moving slowly, Sam made it to the porch without incident. He settled onto the porch swing, perfectly angled to catch some sun.

The warmth and the sway of the swing put him out, because he woke with a start, aware of being watched. When he looked over, he saw Rachel leaning against one of the pillars, her gaze directly on him.

She blinked when she realized he was awake and flushed a little at being caught.

“Morning,” Sam said politely, struggling to sit up straight and collect all his scattered thoughts.

“Good morning.” Rachel had sort of disappeared since they’d been at the farm, mostly staying in her room. The only person he’d seen less of was Damian, who seemed to emerge for meals and chores—only to slink back upstairs as soon as he was done.

“You uh… you want to sit down?” Sam pointed to the open seat next to him.

Rachel took a while to decide; she stared at him, her coffee cup, the lightly stained floor of the porch, and then she walked over to settle down next to him.

They rocked in silence for a few minutes before Rachel cleared her throat. “So, you like it here down on the farm?”

“Yeah actually. It’s so different than home. I feel like I’m in another world,” he said, answering honestly. “Trees and grass and plenty of space,” he murmured, lost in the rhythm of the swing. “So much food and….” Sam stopped. “It’s just different.”

“I know you haven’t had it so easy,” Rachel said softly. She rubbed her fingers on the half-drunk cup of coffee in her lap. “Must’ve been hard, growing up with just your father.”

“He’s the best dad.” Sam felt a little defensive. “I mean—he works really hard to take care of me, to keep me safe.”

“Mmmm.” Rachel didn’t answer, she just brought the cup to her lips and took a sip.

“You and him don’t get along so well.” Sam’s hands were getting cold; he twisted them together in his lap. “I don’t know why exactly.”

“That’s something to ask your father,” Rachel said. She turned to look at him and scanned his face. “Are you still eager to find out who your birth parents are, Sam?”

The question took him aback. He wanted to say yes, but guilt over their current situation and his part in it triggered a wave of shame. He should have thrown that letter away, burned it and forgotten everything but how his father had taken care of him all these years.

“No. I don’t care about that,” he said finally, his voice cracking. “The only person I need is my dad.”

Rachel regarded him, curiosity all over her face. “Growing up, that’s all you had. I imagine it’s the most comfortable of all the other options.”

“Well, yeah. Dad and I kept to ourselves, because you can’t really trust people. They might seem like they want to help you, but in the end, they’re just using you to get what they want for themselves.”

Something flickered in Rachel’s eyes. “So you don’t trust Cade.”

“I didn’t say that.” Sam’s cheeks grew hot. “And anyway, my dad trusts him. So that makes it okay for me to.”

“I don’t know if he trusts him—they’re fucking; that doesn’t necessarily mean trust.”

Sam’s entire face caught fire.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I see by your blush you don’t care for my frankness.” Rachel was teasing him, he knew that, but he couldn’t help looking away. “But you do have things to learn about life, Sam. Like the fact that your father doesn’t trust a soul, not even you.”

“That’s not true at all. My dad and I are a team.” Sam felt perilously close to arguing, his annoyance rising. “And the only person he really doesn’t trust here is you.”

Flustered, Sam stood up, the abrupt movement making him dizzy. He shook off Rachel’s steadying hand with a huff, then made his way into the house, and the door clanged shut behind him.

B
EFORE
DAWN
,
Nox had gotten out of bed, dressed, and armed himself, then crept downstairs and out the back door.

The normal cycle of sleep he’d been on the past few days had only increased his anxiety; to know there was danger out there, potentially lurking behind trees and buildings he didn’t know like the back of his hand, made him jumpy and unsettled.

And the fact that Cade soothed some of the insistent burn? Well, that just drove him out the door even faster.

Nox walked the property line, slower than he’d like, but he was still learning the slope and drop under his feet. He checked both barns, the guesthouse, the sheds, and the trucks in the driveway. He walked all the way to the edge of the land, slinking behind a copse of trees near the road to observe.

As the sun rose over his shoulder, Nox’s gaze was locked on the comings and goings on the public side of the Creel Farm.

A few cars, two joggers bundled up and lost in the rhythm, completely unaware a man watched them from afar. The property across the way was under construction; only stumps and a half-dug foundation could be seen. If surveillance was ongoing, the feds weren’t having an easy time of keeping a low profile; there wasn’t much space for someone to hide and still have a line of sight on the house.

When the light was finally bright enough to expose his hiding place, Nox stood up, brushed the dirt and leaves from his pants, then headed back to the house.

LJ met him at the back stairs, startled momentarily by Nox’s appearance. He gave him a head-to-toe look-over before shrugging and gesturing toward the guesthouse. “You wanna come sit while I try to steal you some money?”

I
N
THE
guesthouse, LJ immediately sank into his office chair, running his hands through his wild shock of hair. He muttered to himself as he checked three of the screens surrounding him.

Nox settled onto the futon, his own gears turning. When the money and IDs were ready, he needed to know his next move. Finding a safe place for Sam and then leveraging himself back to the District to begin his search.

Maybe LJ could help with that as well.

The door rattled and then opened, admitting Mason carrying a large carafe and a handful of cups.

“Your mother sent me out here with coffee,” he said to LJ, who just waved him in before clicking away at the keyboard.

Mason nodded at Nox, the faint look of panic making Nox feel a bit better—so long as Mason was at least a little afraid of him, the less likely he would do anything to hurt Sam.

Or anything else
with
Sam.

“I’ll take some of that.” Nox gestured toward the silver-and-black carafe. “Then I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Mason poured them each a cup, after choosing from the mugs he’d deposited on top of a filing cabinet, each boasting a computer company or superhero logo.

“The police are on the take,” Nox said as he and Mason sat angled toward each other on the sloped futon. “Everyone knows that. They protect the casinos that throw them the most bribes. But you—you can’t be the only cop who isn’t just a glorified security guard.”

Mason contemplated his coffee cup. “Some departments—well, some are worse than others. Narcotics is a joke. Homicide, it depends on the shift. Most of the senior detectives are cashing two paychecks, one from the department and one from the casinos.” He sounded weary, and Nox knew that feeling well.

“Who decides which cops get in on the action?”