What? Why?
Blinking hard didn’t clear the blurriness. He read the next document: the title to Paul’s truck, also in Noah’s name.
Utility bills, in Noah’s name.
The faked birth certificate Paul paid some guy good money for, in the name of Noah Price.
A hand-written note lay at the bottom of the pile. He lifted the paper to his nose, taking in a whiff of Paul’s scent, then closed his eyes against the sting. After a final sniff, he placed the paper back onto the table. His hands shook too badly to read while holding the note.
Through a prism of tears, he read:
Dear Noah,
The time has come for you to be on your own for a while. I left you all you need to survive. Stay away from people as much as you can. I warned all my customers away. No good can come of getting too close to humans. All bills will continue to be paid from our joint account. You’re set for years if you spend wisely. I need to find more of our kind. I won’t be around much longer and want to see you settled before I go. Stay safe. I’ll return when I can find more of us. You shouldn’t be alone.
Paul
Not,Love Paul.No. Paul didn’t go in for mushy sentiment. He showed affection in other ways: an apple pie, a book from town…
Paul cared for Noah. Not as a surrogate son for the ones he’d lost, not only as a friend.
As pack.
Chapter Four
SomethinggodawfuldiedinSlade’s mouth. Four days. Four fucking days of feeling like roadkill. Score some points for working from home. Instead of an office or garage, he lay in bed with a laptop on his lap, staring unseeing at a drawing program. Lines shifted and blurred. Colors ran together.
His phone chimed for the umpteenth time. Probably a text from Moose or Badger, wanting to go out or ride. He might answer if he’d left the damned phone within reach. Nah. Answering took too much strength.
Strength needed to yell at his virtual assistant to shut the hell up. The endless loop of his favorite music aged past appreciation two days ago. IfStairway to Heavenplayed one more time…
Rubbing his eyes brought the lines on the laptop screen back to normal. A single touch to the drawing tool made all hell break loose again. The image refused to come into focus: nothing too intricate—a delicate butterfly tattoo for a woman’s wrist. Easy stuff.
Beyond his capabilities at the moment.
Maybe eating might help. Or at least a cup of coffee. He pushed the laptop away, swung both legs over the side of the bed, and eased to his feet. The world spun. A quick headboard grab kept him upright. Holy shit. One step, two steps, he began the slow shuffle into the kitchen. Clothes were for people with enough energy to dress.
He leaned against the wall, panting like a marathon runner. His heart played a hard staccato beat in his chest. This sickness put withdrawals to shame. Letting go of the hallway table, he grabbed onto the countertop. Okay, time to stop and rest on a barstool. Yeah, almost there. Contemplating the three feet to the refrigerator nearly brought a groan of defeat.
Okay. Stand. Shuffle. Grab the handle. Pull.
The refrigerator door refused to budge. A second attempt failed. On the third try, the door creaked open. A pack of bologna sat on the top shelf, next to a carton of eggs.
Oh, God. Everything reeked. Slade’s stomach roiled, bile searing the back of his throat.Breathe in, breathe out through the mouth. Calm. Calm. Okay, better. No food. He never got sick. Even as a kid, viruses attacked the rest of the family, bypassing Slade. Dad always said, “You’re too mean to get sick.” Time to get meaner. Another day or two of misery might force him to a doctor.
Slade managed a few sips of coffee before returning to his room.
The return trip took fifteen minutes.
Slade lay in bed. His phone quit chiming yesterday, probably from a dead battery. The slightest movement coursed pain through every nerve ending. His stomach gurgled, either wanting food or threatening a return trip of anything he tried to eat. Even raising his hand to look at the stupid mark wore him out.
One month. The asshole who’d burned him said if Slade stayed in one place longer than a month, he’d die.
How long ago? Three weeks? Four?
Bullshit. Some kind of shit talk to mess with Slade’s head. Some bastard’s words and a burn hadn’t caused his misery. A bug. He’d caught a bug.
He’d be fine in a few days.
