The Dead Don't Dream

Chapter 2-2

Still picking up strangers, I see?

The only thing I’m picking up tonight is this bottle.

“Maybe you could use some company?” Though the beads of sweat gathered along the clerk’s brow, his casual shrug told Ian he was anything but calm.

Stupid but brave trying to pick up Ian, the way he looked right now, a towering shadow, empty darkness in his eyes. Ian admired how he held his gaze without breaking eye contact. But he wasn’t in the mood for company, not even the ten minutes it’d take to come.

The young man slid the bag over to Ian, took his fifty, and boldly let his fingertip linger over Ian’s knuckles. His eyes widened as his touch grazed over scuffed and broken skin. Ian yanked his hand away as if the touch burned. It might as well have. The sudden surge of guilt left Ian unsettled.

“The name’s Gage. I get off in a couple of hours. Do you live nearby?”

“What? No,” Ian lied. Even though his frequent appearances in the last month suggested he did.

“Oh,” Gage said, his face falling, clearly disappointed by Ian’s answer.

His pouty lips, and those wide, long-lashed eyes, reminded him far too much of Adam. He was everywhere. Ian swore Adam stood with him now, glaring over his shoulder, disappointed with him. This entire sorry scene. His ghostly imprint was real enough for Ian to feel his breath on his neck. He shivered, even though the store was warm, too warm.

“I thought maybe—”

“You thought wrong,” Ian snapped, interrupting him mid-sentence. “It’s not personal,” he added, softening his tone. Gage relaxed some, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Just not today.”

Or any day, Ian thought bitterly. He’d better find somewhere else to get his trice weekly bottle. He took the bag from Gage and refused to meet his eyes.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” Gage said with a shrug.

Ian started for the door, eager to put as much distance between them as possible. Adam dogged his steps as the door closed behind him. On the street, a few pedestrians stepped around him in a huff. He took a moment to collect himself. The bag clutched tight, his knuckles white and aching.

He closed his eyes and swore he heard Adam’s laugh beside him, a soft, teasing sound freezing him in his tracks. Raw emotion gripped him, tightening like a band around his heart. He fought back the beginnings of a panic attack, gulping the cooling air until the tension eased. Then, with great effort, Ian finally got his legs moving, one step at a time. The short walk back to his lonely apartment was ‌an eternity.

* * * *

Summer 1989

After Katherine and Liam married, life carried on the same. Except now, the fights between Liam and Katherine took place within the mansion walls. Rhys considered retreating to a home of his own. But stayed, for one reason, and one reason only. Ian.

Their business took them all over the country, following leads and arranging jobs. Katherine herself often navigated the specifics. She seemed no stranger to these negotiations, finding them work in the lowliest places. And those lowly places paid big, and soon piles of cold, hard cash rolled in, raking it in, hand over fist.

In the meantime, unsettled, Rhys struggled to remind himself of the bigger picture. The service he provided by ridding the world of scumbags. Scumbags who exploited others and got rich by torturing those weaker than themselves.

Except they’d run into a problem because despite their success, Liam wanted Katherine to stay home now that they were married. He didn’t want a partner in crime anymore. Instead, he wanted a wife and a mother for his son.

But Katherine refused, and so Liam and Katherine’s arguments continued. A vicious unresolved cycle until Rhys feared it would turn violent. Something had to give.

And through it all, Rhys’s feelings for Katherine only grew stronger. Rhys tried to bury them with work and other women. But nothing helped. He even considered escaping from his pain in the bottle. But, Liam’s worsening addiction, fueled by his guilt and regret, forced Rhys to reconsider, if for Ian’s sake.

When home, Rhys stayed in his private suite of rooms. When he had tried to protest, arguing he should get his own place, Liam remained adamant, pleading for him to stay.

“You’re my family. And you’ll come home when you need a place to stay.” So Rhys did, though the growing and escalating tension kept him away as much as possible. The grim sinking awareness of a terrible unknown calamity waiting to claim them one by one.

After Rhys returned to the mansion, he often wandered outside most nights. There, Rhys spent hours in the quiet, imagining the faces of those he loved and missed. And on those nights, he’d think longingly of Evelyn and the life they might have had if they’d married.

His mother had been the one to tell him when Evelyn had become a widow, her husband having died of a heart attack. He waited a respectable amount before sending her a card from a PO box—a few words of condolence. Ten years had passed since she had broken up with him, and he wasn’t even sure if she wanted to hear from him. But, to his surprise, she wrote him back immediately. Since then, they’d been communicating off and on, inviting Rhys to visit her. So then, why didn’t he go home? To her, to his mother, to the possibility of everyday life. The weight of his responsibilities here, with Ian and Liam. Even Katherine seemed insurmountable.

Eventually, he wandered back inside. The mansion’s hallways remained quiet and dark, his way lit with the aid of the open curtains. Silent with only him, Katherine, and Ian in the house, Liam was away for the night on business.

He passed the library on his way up the stairs. But a crack of light spilling out from under the door caught his attention.

Then he heard a noise, shocking and alien. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Crying, soft, feminine, but crying. Sobbing, more precisely.

Curiosity got the better of him as he crept towards the source. No mistaking it now, the sobs he heard—the sounds of a broken heart.

He pushed open the door. His eyes adjusted as he searched for Katherine’s shape in the dark. She stood by the curtained window, with the faintest curve of moonlight to draw him to her side.

“Katherine?”

She jerked her head in his direction as if shocked to find him there. But she wouldn’t answer; instead, she turned away from him, burying her face in her hands.

Rhys stepped further into the room, coming to her side. “What is it, Katherine?”

Rhys had never seen her upset like this before. He didn’t think it was even possible. She put her hand to her face, turning away from his and curling inward. He put his hand on her shoulder, tentatively, and with the touch of his hand, she flung herself into his arms. Without thinking, Rhys drew her close. He cursed himself for the sigh he uttered at the press and the feel of her body, more near than ever. Her perfume seeped under his skin as he dragged her tighter to him.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

But she shook her head and buried her face in his chest. Rhys smoothed her hair back, telling himself to stop.

“What is it?” he said, forcing her to look at him. Rhys gasped at the sight, the swelling purple bruise darkening one beautiful eye.

“What the hell happened?”

“What do you think?”

Rhys stepped back and away, but she followed him. He attempted to ward her off as his outrage rose, sparking hot. What the hell was wrong with Liam? How f*****g dare he?

“You’re angry,” she said to his back as if it surprised her.

Rhys spun around to face her, his hands curled into tight fights, his nails digging into his palms. “Of course I’m angry.”

“Don’t you want to know what I did to deserve this?” She gestured to the black eye, a sardonic grin curled around her lips.

“No,” Rhys said, the questions roiling his gut with nausea. “Do you want me to say something? Katherine, I will—”

Instead, she shook her head and pressed her body against his, curling around him. Blood-red lips grazed the curve of his ear, her breath a chilly breeze.

Rhys froze with nowhere to go. His heart hammered wildly against his ribcage. Every muscle in his body tensed like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

“Don’t you want to hold me?”

“Katherine, what are you trying to do?”

“What are you trying to deny?”

Rhys moved her out of the way. The need to escape overwhelmed him. He had to leave now before they both did something stupid.

“He blames me, you know?” Katherine said to his back, freezing Rhys at the door, where he stood with his hand on the knob. His touch slid away as he slowly faced her.

“As if I was the one who married her instead of him.”

“Katherine—”

She came to his side and reached for his hand. He let her take it, too numb and resigned to allow anything else. The fight had gone out of him, the struggle.

“Where do you think he is now? A job? No, Liam is out screwing other women because he hates himself for marrying me. And sometimes when that isn’t enough, and the guilt becomes too much, he does this instead.”

Rhys touched her face, wiping away her tears. Then, catching himself, he tried to pull his hand away, but she reached for it again, pressing it to her cheek.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at me.”

Her admission stunned Rhys as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water across his back. He tried to move away, but she clung tighter.

“No, don’t, don’t run from me,” she pleaded. Rhys obeyed her command, powerless against it.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys attempted to apologize. But Katherine slipped farther into his arms until only a breath remained.

Every part of Rhys’s body stiffened at her nearness, even the parts of himself he tried to ignore. But Katherine made any attempt near impossible as she pressed up against him.

“You don’t have to run. Not anymore.”

Rhys stepped back, taking her by the shoulders. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

Rhys ached to take her in his arms and blot out the world. Everything he’d spent over a year dreaming of tantalizing close. But as the desire persisted, growing in urgency, his guilt refused to allow him.

“Yes, we can,” she said. Her words struck home, eating away at Rhys’s resolve. “Liam gets to do whatever the hell he likes. So why can’t we?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her body molding to his own. And the fight in Rhys drifted away, lost as she kissed him.

He kissed her back, hungry, desperate, sighing and moaning with relief, and eaten alive by his guilt.

* * * *

Ian needed a hot shower after his weird encounter at the liquor store. Hell, he needed ten to wipe away all traces of the entire evening. Ian kicked off his shoes, sending them across the room, where they landed under the bed. He didn’t bother with a glass as he twisted open the bottle and, without fanfare, swallowed a mouthful. Then two more, enjoying the burn as instant warmth spread through his body and the tension in his neck eased. By the fourth, he’d stopped grinding his teeth.

A knock sounded at the front door—no, not knocking, banging. The type reserved for when you owed someone money or a fire broke out in the building. Or, if a too persistent twink followed you home.

Ian sighed. Maybe if he ignored him, he’d go away—no such luck.

“Yoohoo? Mr. Neighbor, I know you’re home.” A voice called out in the hall—not the twink from the liquor store. A woman with a Spanish accent. More pounding followed by a deep, drawn-out breath. “Phone call for you.”

Phone call?

Ian tugged on a T-shirt and reached for his gun, tucking it into the back of his jeans. He yelled. “I’m coming.” Then, adding under his breath, “What the s**t is this?”

He peered through the peephole to find a middle-aged, Hispanic woman, clearly unhappy. Her arms crossed over her chest. Her mouth turned down at the corners.

Ian opened the door. “What is it?”

Her eyes widened, and she backed up a bit, her nose wrinkled. Ian guessed his greeting her, exhausted and unshaven, reeking of whiskey, had alarmed her. She muttered a string of Spanish curses in response—the more colorful ones he understood.

“You don’t have a phone?” She peered around him into his apartment before Ian stepped into the frame, blocking her view.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Tonight just kept getting stranger and stranger. “What do you need, lady? Do you need to use a phone?”

She rolled her eyes and pointed to the open door, chatter from her television drifting out into the hall.

“No, you have a call.”

Ian shook his head. “You’ve made a mistake.”

But she remained adamant and now more than a little pissed off by his hesitancy. “No, you come.”

Ian trailed after her, unsure but compelled to follow her. He caught the scent of peppers and eggs in the entranceway of her apartment, as tiny as his own. And underneath traces of cleaning products, Lysol.

She waved him into the room, clicking off the TV before retrieving the phone next to the receiver. Once more, she broke out in a string of Spanish. Only a third of it Ian got.

“Here, you talk.” She shoved the receiver into Ian’s hand and wandered away into the tiny kitchenette. She busied herself wiping the already spotless counters, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God, I found you,” the voice on the other end answered, releasing a rush of air.

“Hector?”

Of course, if any member of his team was clever enough to find a way to reach him, it would be Hector. His resourcefulness never failed to surprise Ian even after many years working together.

“Yeah, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Do me a favor. Make sure you pay Mrs. Guzman for the inconvenience.”

Mrs. Guzman glanced away when their eyes met, returning to her cleaning. But she kept a sharp watch on him. Ian didn’t blame her.

“Any specific amount?”

“No, but I told her she’d get paid if she got you on the phone.”

Ian laughed out loud. “Money talks, huh?”

“Always.”

“Where are you? Where’s everyone else?” A million questions came and went in seconds—too many for him to count.

“I’d love to answer you, but I have little time. Getting to talk to you here was hard enough. Can you get away? A week from this Friday? Battery Park, the East Coast Memorial, nine P.M.”

Ian racked his brain, trying to place the landmark. “Refresh my memory. Which huge ass statue are we talking about?”

Hector chuckled. “It’s a giant bronze eagle. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good, I’ll reach you through Mrs. Guzman if there’s a problem. Stay safe, Ian.”

“You too.”

They said their goodbyes, and Ian was reluctant to let him go, oddly comforted by his voice.

He hung up, reached for his wallet, and emptied it of the two hundred dollars in cash inside. Ian held it up, ensuring Ms. Guzman saw him place it by the phone receiver.

“For you,” he said.

She stepped around the counter, rag in hand, still cautiously tracking him. “I don’t want trouble,” she told him in no uncertain terms. “Don’t bring it here.”

Ian placed his wallet back in his pocket. “No trouble. If my friend calls again, there will be more for you. Thank you for your help.”

His thanking her, perhaps the sincerity softened her critical expression. She nodded and, to his surprise, followed him to the door, closing it behind him.

It didn’t surprise Ian to hear her many locks immediately turn as she slid the deadbolt home.