Zeke made him feel felt brand new every day. Cal had hardly expected that when he’d come to the valley weeks ago, shaking from his last encounter with Preston.
He’d arrived in the valley expecting the worst, his whole body had been drawn tight in anticipation of the next blow to come. A house of horrors. A chain gang dressed up to look like something else, but distinctively cruel, with Cal taking the brunt of all of it.
But instead he’d met Zeke, who, from the first, had taken Cal under his wing and taught him to expect more. More kindness. More understanding. All of it. Maybe even love.
They’d never said the word, but it was there between them, simmering under the surface like a promise of something good, something better.
For that reason, he would take care of Preston, make him go away and leave them alone. For good. Forever.
When he got to the parking lot, sweaty from his run through the damp woods, Preston was there, leaning on his blue BMW, arms crossed over his middle, leaning back, hips jutted out, a scowl firmly in place on his pretty face.
The pose was familiar, as was the expression. Both signaled that whatever lid Preston had on his temper was going to blow like a way-past-due volcano. He was nothing if not predictable, but that didn’t make it any easier to march up to him and poke him in the chest. As if that gesture had ever worked in the past.
Preston grabbed Cal and slammed him up against the BMW, holding his throat, squeezing with his fingers until Cal could hardly breathe. He went numb as he dragged at Preston’s hand to make him let go.
Then he felt hot with fury, his teeth gritted as he tugged harder. But that only made Preston smack him to the ground, his favorite trick, a rite of passage that occurred just before—usually just before—Cal gave in and begged Preston to stop. It was a dance of hate and all so Preston could feel he was top dog.
To have it happen again made him want to scream with rage.
As Preston pulled him to his feet, Cal tried harder, kicking with his legs, hate coursing through him, taking him back to how it was before, before prison, when he’d walked around Preston’s cool apartment, with its shiny floors and up-to-date everything. The fastest internet he’d ever experienced. The softest bed.
It had been amazing until it became a bed of misery because Preston simply didn’t care about anyone but Preston.
“Stop, Preston, please—” The begging felt so familiar, in a nasty, welcome-home kind of way, and Cal took a breath, mind racing to figure out what he should do now, now that his original plan had failed so spectacularly.
It was then that he saw Zeke step from the woods, hatless as he limped into the sunshine-drenched parking lot.
He had a rifle in his hands, and was raising it to brace it against his shoulder so he could look through the scope at his intended target. The way he’d done with the bears, the way he’d done when he’d shot at them to chase them away. He’d shot wide then, but would he do that now?
“Preston, let go of me.” Cal tried again, keeping an eye on Zeke even as he struggled.
“Preston,” snapped Zeke. He moved a little closer, keeping the rifle up and braced. “Let him go.”
“Fuck off,” said Preston, not even looking at Zeke or the rifle he carried. Preston never cared what anyone else thought or wanted. Never could, never would.
“If you don’t want to lose that kneecap, I’d let Cal go.” Zeke’s voice was perfectly calm and low and smooth. Like he did this every day of his life. “Let him go or you’ll be crawling in that car before you drive away.”
“Preston,” hissed Cal, desperate that it should not come to this. “Let me go.Preston.”
Preston let him go with a shove to the ground, gravel digging into Cal’s kneecaps and palms.
“Come over here, Cal,” said Zeke.
Zeke was about ten feet away and closing in with slow steps, rifle still raised, that angry focus so terrible, so scary, to see.
Cal obediently crawled until he could push himself up. He and he raced to Zeke’s side, to stand right next to him, his hand on Zeke’s arm, the one that had a finger curled on the trigger.
“Zeke,” he said.
He was up close and could see the hard glitter in Zeke’s green eyes, the firmness of his jaw. The flare of his nostrils. All of this was so unlike him that Cal didn’t quite know what he should do. He should stop this madness, of course, but how?
“Don’t shoot him. He’s not worth it,” Cal said, and if he sounded like he was begging, he simply didn’t care. He placed a hand on Zeke’s arm, fingers curled gently around the iron-hard bicep. Imperceptibly, Zeke was shaking. “If you shoot him, you might go to jail.”
“Then I’ll go to jail.” Zeke’s mouth barely moved as he spoke, utterly calm, as if he’d be willing to serve a hard sentence in jail, all to protect Cal from further abuse.
If Cal had ever imagined Zeke might think Cal deserved what he got by being in a relationship with Preston, it was obviousZeke didnotthink that. He was trying to set Cal free from his past, only this wasn’t the way.
Up to that point, nothing Cal had tried to get away from Preston had worked. He’d tried taking a break, thinking to stay in a hotel for a few nights, but Preston had stopped him. His escape attempts hadn’t worked, and he wasn’t even counting the half-hearted times he’d tried sticking up for himself.
