Why would Rye care that it was 2024? What significance did that have?
And had he reallynotknown?... What significance didthathave?
Christ, Jake was so confused. He swallowed hard, set the magazine down on the coffee table, and gritted his teeth as he stood, holding onto the side of the couch for support. Pain lanced up his leg, and he closed his eyes against it. But his pain seemed almost secondary right now.
Gripping his thigh, Jake lifted his head again and looked down the hallway. The door to the extra bedroom was still open, the light still on. And Jake found himself moving—slowly and carefully, finding things to hold onto as he went. He felt only mildly steadier on his feet than he had that morning, and his sense of self-preservation was screaming at him to turn around and go sit back down. But he just clenched his jaw more and kept going.
When he reached the bedroom too many long seconds later, he could feel himself shaking, his bad leg threatening to give out again. He stuffed his own fear down, took a long breath, and schooled his expression as best he could to something he hoped appeared as gentle as possible. Because even though he wasn’t sure why, that seemed particularly important right now.
Then he knocked lightly on the door and peeked in. He found Rye huddled in the far corner of the room, where he’d ended up sleeping that first night. His back was to the wall, his head buried down in his knees, and his blond hair fell in loose, messy waves, hiding the rest of his face. He was crying, that was painfully obvious in the way his body shook and shuddered.
Jake’s chest felt heavy and tight at the sight. He stepped into the room, using the doorframe to help support him. “Hey, um, I—”
Rye’s head lifted suddenly, as though he hadn’t known Jake was there. And Jake nearly stumbled backward as he saw the fear in Rye’s expression. The younger man’s hands shifted from where they’d been gripping his calves to the ground, and he seemed to try pushing himself back more into the corner, his eyes wide and intense.
Quickly, Jake shook his head. He’d seen this reaction of Rye’s before; he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been expecting it this time. He should have done better. “It’s just me,” he said softly. “Sorry, I... It’s just me, Jake. I didn’t mean to upset you. And I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk. I just... want to help.”
The uncomfortable churning in Jake’s stomach continued when Rye didn’t really respond except to keep trying to push himself back into the corner. God, what the hell had happened to him? It wasn’t the first time Jake had had thatthought. But right now, watching helplessly as the young man seemed to grow more and more frightened by the second, Jake wished he knew. He wished he knew so he could avoid doing whatever he had done that had caused Rye’s reaction.
He let go of his thigh and shifted just a little closer to the doorframe, letting himself lean more against the wall.
“Rye...” The young man froze at the sound of his name and squeezed his eyes shut. The tension didn’t leave his shoulders, and Jake thought it looked like he was probably holding his breath. Jake swallowed and did his best to soften his voice even more. “Rye, may I come in, so we can talk?” After a pause, Jake added, “You can say no. You’re... allowed to say no.” He’d said the same thing to Rye the day before, but it seemed like he needed to repeat it then.
When Rye didn’t respond, Jake’s stomach dropped. He backed up a step, pursing his lips against the pain. He needed to sit back down very soon.
“Okay, okay. That’s fine, and I’m sorry. I’ll be out in the living room in a few minutes if you want to talk. But it’s up to you, okay? It’s up to you.”
That was the best Jake could do for the moment.
And when Rye didn’t respond again, Jake forced himself to back out of the room—slowly, because that seemed important. Then he turned and headed down the rest of the short hallway toward his bedroom, one hand on the wall to support himself.
He’d use the bathroom and do his best to make himself something to eat, maybe just a plain turkey sandwich, then he’d settle back on the couch and send a few emails. There was a new documentary on swordfish that he wanted to watch. Maybe he’d do that. And if the storm passed, he could open the windows back up and let in the fresh ocean air. Maybe step out onto the patio for a bit so he could watch the stormy ocean. And maybe there would be enough leftover soup from last night for them to have dinner without him having to cook. And maybe...
He limped through the doorway into his bedroom and eyed the bed. God, maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight.
Maybe Rye would also be able to sleep.
Jake paused and let out a long, shaky breath, unable to ignore the feeling growing in his chest. It was warm and bright in a way, but also heavy, unsure, new. The same thing he’d felt earlier when he’d thought how fragile Rye’s smile was and how he wanted to protect it, cultivate it.
This man meant something to him. Even though they were still total strangers, Jake couldn’t deny that fact. And he knew he would do everything in his power to make sure Rye felt comfortable and safe.
He only wished he knew what it was that he needed to do.
With another sigh, he continued on to the bathroom, keeping a hand on the wall as his crutch.
Chapter Sixteen
Rye
Fifteenyears.
Fifteenyears, he’d been down in that hellhole. That dark, cold, damp basement. Cowering in his corner, his back pressed up against the hard, unforgiving concrete wall, hoping to not hear the door unlock or the man’s heavy, weighted boots coming down the stairs. Hoping to not smell the stench of the man’s sweat or the ick of cigarette smoke wafting off him as he got closer. Hoping to not feel the man’s rotten breath on his cheek or the man’s rough fingers on his skin. Grabbing him, touching him, hurting him.
Fifteen years of living in constant fear.
And only miles from home. Still in Rocky Cove—so close to home and yet so, so far away.
Rye sat with his back against this new wall, cowering in this new corner, crying for what seemed like forever. At some point, Jake had come in and tried to talk to him, but Rye hadn’t been able to get past the image oflarge man blocking doorway, and he’d panicked, his mind momentarily telling him—insisting—he was backthereagain. Back in the basement, powerless and weak, about to be punished for whatever it was he must have done.
