Page 12 of The Leaving Kind
“My truck.”
Victor wrestled the edge closest to him toward the ground. “Grab one of those rocks? The pile, there ...”
Cam glanced in the direction Victor was pointing and nodded before selecting one of the flat stones by the corner of the garage. Victor had piled them up as he cleared new beds and then used them to build low walls and pave walkways. One day, he’d carve a path through the trees to the mailbox and pave it with reclaimed stones. One day.
The wind fought them every inch of the way, but finally, they got the tarp secured on all four corners, without losing a lot of mulch to the side of the drive. Dusting his hands, Victor straightened, only to have the wind nearly knock him backward.
Cam caught his shoulder. Victor’s robe fluttered out behind him, exposing him to the weather. They both looked down. Rather than try to fight nature, Victor shrugged and held his hands out as if to say, What can you do?
A lot, according to the set of Cam’s eyebrows when he finished inspecting Victor’s underpants. Despite the wind and rain, he’d seemed rather focused there, as though he’d never seen a man’s crotch before. Perhaps he hadn’t, outside his own, but Victor suspected he had. Cam’s expression wasn’t confounded or distressed, as though he’d rather not see another man’s skin. No. Cam liked what he saw. He might not like the fact Victor had been wearing this robe and these underpants for coming up on three days now, but ...
The wind tugged Victor away from Cameron’s grasp, breaking the brief spell, and Victor took a careful step back. “If you’ve finished meddling in my business, I need to ...” He gestured toward the house. “Shower. Change.”
“You have power?”
“Not at the moment, no. But I have a generator.”
“I can help—”
“Who are you?”
Cam rocked back. Thunder cracked overhead and he flinched. Then the wind pushed between them, and the rain turned heavy again, coming down in sheets now. The sort of rain that drenched.
Victor waved Cam toward his truck. “You’re getting soaked.”
When Cam’s mouth opened—probably in protest, or to outline all he could do for Victor on his odd mission to save him from himself—Victor waved. “Please. Go.”
Cam got into his truck, backed it away from the garage, turned slowly around the circle, and left. Victor could feel his gaze through the mirror the entire time. Knew Cam was wondering how long he’d stand here in his robe and underwear, soaking in the rain.
Hell, he was starting to wonder the same thing himself.
Lightning shattered the sky above the road and thunder boomed.
He should get inside.
Victor retraced his steps along the path to the back patio, his feet squelching inside the boots. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was so wet, his robe seemed to weigh a hundred pounds and his briefs were sagging around his ass. Wonderful. He should snap a picture of himself and send it to Us Weekly. They could use it next time they wanted to show who was losing the love war.
With the door closed behind him and his robe dripping onto the floor, Victor eyed the collection of empty wine bottles next to the sink. The ashtray and joint butts beside it. The remains of a sandwich he might have made yesterday.
Quickly, he checked the bowls on the floor beside the fridge. Still stocked with kibble. No matter how low he dipped, he always remembered to feed the cats.
Dex let out a mournful howl.
He should clean up. Make a fresh sandwich.
His gaze cut to the purple envelope. Victor snatched it off the table, flipped it over, and slid his finger beneath the flap. Inside, were two slender lengths of heavy cardstock emblazoned with the title of Tholo’s latest film. Tickets to the premiere in Manhattan.
Of all the ...
Victor dropped the tickets on the table and then turned the envelope upside down, looking for the accompanying note, the card, the anything that would hold a word of ... What? Apology? Caught between a snort and something like a sob, he crumpled the envelope and tossed it toward the row of empty wine bottles. His throw fell short, the purple ball dropping out of sight between the table and the counter.
Victor drew in a ragged breath. Where was he? Shower or sandwich.
Or he could open a fresh bottle of wine. The day’s events, thus far, certainly warranted it.
Decisions, decisions.
Cam parked to the side of his brother’s truck and got out of the car before digging his phone from a pocket. He’d have checked the dash clock, but the displays hadn’t lit up this morning. He’d had to estimate his speed on the drive, and now he had no idea what time it was.