Chapter Thirty
Dillon let the puppies out, then put the coffee on, somehow hoping the smell of it would bring Coke out of the bedroom, where he hadn’t been at all. Dillon had tossed and turned in there, trying to get some sleep so he could get up today and hunt for his bullfighter.
God, he was such an idiot.
He wasn’t sure what the fuck had happened, not exactly, but they had to talk. This whole disappearing bullshit had to stop. Coke, guilt, running… There was a fucking theme.
Dillon went back to the bedroom to grab his phone, laughing when the pups jumped up on the bed, using the footstool he’d put there for leverage.
He had two texts. Shit, maybe he’d slept harder than he’d thought.
One said,
Coke is fine.
The other said,
Check in, Dill.
They were both from Adam Taggart.
“God damn it.” He dialed Adam, while pulling on a pair of jeans. “Answer your fucking phone, Tag.”
“’Lo?” Adam sounded mostly asleep.
“Tag. Dillon. Where is he?”
“Safe. Beau went to stay with him.”
Dillon gritted his teeth. “Not helpful, Taggart. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No. No, that’s not what I meant, honey. Just that he’s not alone and Beau’s keeping him in one spot.”
“Oh.” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Sorry, Tag. I’ve just been so freaked out.”
“I wonder why.” Tag’s voice was dry as dirt.
“Right? Where is he, Tag? I can guarantee I’ll bring him home with me.”
“He’s at camp.”
What? What the fuck did that mean? “As in Camp Wannamucka? I thought that happened in summer.” Dillon had been too damned queer for Boy Scouts.
“No, dipshit. Me and Beau and him bought a place down on the bayou together something like ten years ago. You fish, hang out, hide out, whatever. The folks down there, they call it a camp. God damn, you’re such a Yankee.”
“Nope. I would call it a hunting and fishing lodge. I’m way more Western than you, buddy. I need an address and or GPS coordinates.”
“You got it. Like I said, Beau and Sam’s got him, so you don’t have to stress. The cops said he was in a bad way, but I talked to Beau and he says Coke’s eaten a beignet and is sleeping in the sun.”
“Cops?” Oh, fuck. He hoped to God Coke hadn’t tied it up with someone after tying one on.
“He was making some noise and the neighbors called. By the time they got there, he was passed out.”
“Poor Coke. I really messed up, Tag. I didn’t know the whole story, and he thinks it’s all out there for the whole world, I bet.”
“Yeah, well, you just need to go deal with it. Tell him this disappearing thing’s hard on you too, huh? It ain’t right to scare you so.”
“Thanks, Tag.” Dillon would hug the man if he was there. “I owe you a beer. Or six.”
