Little lies wove together to keep him sane.
The car eased around corners so smoothly, Kit’s limp body hardly moved. Soft, cracked leather warmed against his cheek. He ached from the effort of remaining still, but this would only work if his captor believed he’d been drugged asleep. He didn’t dare open his eyes, in case the driver happened to glance back. Whoever the driver was.
That was a lie. Kit knew the driver. He just couldn’t let himself believe the truth, or his resolve would shatter. Little lies wove together to keep him sane.
The driver was a stranger. Kit was safe. His plan would work.
His lovers would find him.
Little lies—and the unused syringe tucked into Kit’s sleeve. Archie hadn’t found it during his cursory pat-down. The man was anxious. Sloppy. Gin on his breath. Which was good, but Kit’s slapdash plan was already knocked askew. He’d hoped Shiloh would have time to run away before Archie joined them.
He’d expected Archie to drive him away. But Archie just took Kit’s phone and gun, then hoisted him into the back seat of the car.
A minute had passed. Enough time for Kit to realize how fucked he was without his phone. Not enough time to changehis mind and run. Then the driver’s door had opened. The car dipped with the man’s weight. Not Archie—the scent of gin and desperation was missing.
The door had closed. The car had growled the start of its steady, dreadful journey.
There were no words. No sound beyond the driver’s slow breathing and the car’s engine. No scent discernable from the blend of leather, takeout, and struggling pine air freshener.
Dad always wore different colognes, if he wore any. He didn’t want to be distinctive, he would say, which Kit never realized was strange.
The car slowed so gradually that stopping was hardly a change. Kit could just as well be hurtling along the highway at eighty miles an hour, except the engine coughed into silence. A garage door thundered down behind them. The driver’s door opened, and the seat squeaked.
Dad always drove with such careful expertise.
Except this was a stranger, Kit repeated. This was nobody. A figment of a person opened the back door. A hallucination rode the dusty garage air, and only imaginary fingertips brushed Kit’s cheek.
The stranger’s shuddering breath turned Kit’s stomach, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t real.
He could hide better. Disappear into himself until he felt nothing at all. But if he disappeared, he wouldn’t be able to fight. Instead, he struggled, painfully aware, to remain motionless.
Helpless.
Careful hands dragged Kit from the back seat. Skin and clothes sticking to the leather seats, Kit remained limp—except for his right hand, tucked into his sleeve, clutching the lifeline syringe.
Maybe now was the time. Before this stranger had a chance to do anything to him. Now, when the stranger bundled Kit’s limp body into his arms.
Except Kit couldn’t uncap the syringe safely from this angle. His right arm pressed against the stranger’s chest. He was likelier to stab himself instead of Laird—the stranger—this wasn’t the time. Whatever happened.
Despite Kit’s worst fears, the stranger carried him with almost clinical consideration. His hands remained under Kit’s knees and shoulders, without wandering out of bounds. Steady footsteps carried Kit inside, changing tone on tile, then carpet.
Maybe this really was a stranger. That thought wasn’t as reassuring as Kit expected. The arms looped around him felt unfamiliar. Too hard, too thin. Kit was a child the last time Laird Renaker carried him. The last time they hugged.
A door creaked. Fresh paint struck Kit’s nostrils. The stranger lowered Kit to a soft mattress, then straightened out his limbs. Kit fought not to tense at each unwelcome touch. His sweatshirt hid the disgust prickling up his skin, and the drugged syringe, still secure against his forearm.
Then the man spoke, shattering Kit’s delusion.
“It’s not the same, Kit,” Laird muttered. “Not the same.”
He touched Kit’s hair gently. Kit wanted to vomit. Five more seconds. He could endure five—now four—more seconds, and then he would break and flinch—
“I need to lock up,” Laird said, his voice unchanged after all these years. “You sleep here.”
His fingers left Kit’s hair, though the feel lingered like grease. Carpet-muffled footsteps retreated, then vanished. The door clicked closed.
Kit meant to wait twenty seconds. He lasted two seconds before springing from the mattress, eyes flashing open.
That was a mistake. His surroundings hammered a fresh bolt of nausea into his guts. Crouched trembling on the bed, Kit forced himself to look.
