Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Tate stared at his brother through the windshield. Randy was having an animated conversation with Daryl, shouting, pacing, and flailing his arms. Tate’s face remained expressionless.
“Tate?”
Finally, he turned to Liam. “Get us the fuck outta here.”
Gladly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THEY DIDN’T SPEAK as Liam exited the trailer park in a cloud of dust and gravel spray. Tate stared out the window, unseeing as familiar sights whizzed by. His face hurt, and the blood drying on his neck itched, but the rest of him felt numb.
Tonight, the thing he’d spent his entire life terrified of happened, and he didn’t know what the hell to do next. Or how to process it. Randy reacted as expected, with violence and hatred. Shouldn’t he feel something? Instead, his insides were empty.
Beside him, Liam practically vibrated with rage. He didn’t need to look at the man who’d become the center of his world to know how angry Liam was on Tate’s behalf. The whole car trembled with it.
He listened as Liam inhaled and exhaled with slow, measured breaths over and over. After the fifth round, a soft hand wrapped around Tate’s where it rested on the center console.
Finally, he started to feel. First, the warmth and softness of Liam’s hand, but then a barrage of complicated emotions pummeled him at once. He didn’t turn to look at Liam—couldn’t without cracking under the weight of his emotions. So, he flipped his palm up and curled it around Liam’s, squeezing so hard it surprised him the other man didn’t protest.
Only when Liam pulled his car around the back of the dance studio and parked did he let go. Tate followed his lead, climbing out of the car with lead-laden legs. The air felt thick and sticky like he was moving through honey.
Liam hurried around the car and immediately took his hand again. As soon as they were rejoined, Tate exhaled as though he needed Liam’s touch to continue breathing. Together, they climbed the long staircase to Liam’s small apartment. Each step took ten times more energy than usual. The cotton ball that had replaced his brain allowed Liam to lead him to the door.
A white bakery box with a sticky note sat by the door. Liam bent down and picked it up one-handed. “Sometimes there are benefits to living in a small town,” he muttered, speaking for the first time since they left the trailer park.
Tate couldn’t muster the energy to ask what he meant.
After unlocking the door, Liam guided him inside. He set the box on the table and then faced Tate. “I ordered an apple pie from the bakery down the street for tonight. I was on my way to pick it up when I ran into your mom, so I never got it. Someone from the bakery dropped it off for me. Why don’t you clean off your face and change your shirt? I think I have one of yours in my dresser.” His cheeks pinked. “I might have stolen it when you were here last week. While you do that, I’ll warm the pie, and then we can sit and eat.”
And talk.
He didn’t say it, but they had to talk about the shit show of the past hour.
There were so many things Tate wanted to say right then. He wanted to thank Liam, apologize, and explain that he’d understand if Liam wanted no part of Tate’s life.
Mostly, he wanted to tell Liam he loved him because as he’d watched his brave dancer charge toward Randy with that taser, he’d realized the terrifying and intense emotion welling inside him was love.
But all he was capable of saying was, “Okay.” It was the first word he’d uttered since they started driving, and it sounded raw and rough.
Liam nodded, all business, then gave him a gentle nudge toward the bathroom. “There’s pain medicine under the sink.”
He went, moving through the motions in a robotic, detached manner. The mirror showed a man with a swollen eye, puffy nose, and bruised cheek. Blood had dried in an uncomfortable crust on his chin, neck, and shirt. It wiped off easily with a wet cloth, and within ten minutes, he was clean, medicated, and wearing a fresh shirt, though no less fucked in the head.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, the sight that greeted him had him stopping in his tracks. Two plates with large slices of pie and heaping scoops of ice cream sat waiting on the tiny round table in Liam’s kitchen. The lights were dimmed, and a few candles flickered, casting a cozy glow around the room. Soft music played in the background. Liam smiled at him as he walked two bottles of beer to the table.
Tate’s favorite brand.
He blinked as a rush of emotion tried to find its way out of his eyes. The last time he could remember crying was when he’d been six and broke his arm falling out of a tree. No one was around to take him to the hospital, so he’d had to wait for hours to get help, crying much of the time. Randy called him a crybaby and laughed. He hadn’t cried since. He didn’t know how to let his feelings out in that way anymore.