Leaving Home by Chase, A. (life books to read .txt) 📗

his step, but the more he stretched and warmed up, the looser his stride seemed to be.

As the rounds went on, Peter winced and cringed each time a bull got close to Chaz.

Why would any man be willing to chance injury in such a dangerous way? Yet he could tell

that he loved his job by Chaz’s big grin. Maybe that was why the pills were so important to him. They allowed him to keep doing the job he felt he was best at.

At the end of the night, Peter climbed out of the seats to where Chaz had told him they

would meet up. He stood at the door, watching as the riders walked out first in their tight jeans, bright buckles, and patterned western shirts. Peter smiled as, one by one, each of the unmarried riders picked a girl out of the crowd, then approached her. The other men formed groups, making plans for a late dinner or hanging out at the hotel bar.

Finally Chaz left the building with his other bullfighting friends in tow. Peter greeted

him with a firm handshake, not sure if Chaz was out to his friends, and Peter wasn’t much into public displays anyway. Chaz winked like he knew what Peter was thinking.

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“Hey, Sam, Brian, this is Peter Skinner. We met while I was on break.” Chaz introduced

him to the other men.

“Awesome to meet you,” Brian said, shaking Peter’s hand vigorously. “I’m going to

head to the club with some of the guys. You all want to come?”

Sam shook his head. “No. I have to get back to the hotel. I promised Betty I’d call before she went to bed. I have to check on the kids.”

Chaz looked at Peter, who didn’t really want to go, but wasn’t going to say so in case

Chaz did. “Nah. We’re going to grab something to eat, then head back to the hotel.”

“Cool. Catch you all later.” Brian jogged off in the direction where several cowboys

were standing, obviously waiting for him.

Sam waved goodbye, then walked away. Peter followed Chaz to where the man had

parked his truck. Peter had taken Les’ jet to Oakland, then a cab to the arena after checking into Chaz’s hotel. It had been a little nerve-racking to travel on his own, but he’d managed.

“I’m glad you were able to make it. Great of Les to let you use his plane,” Chaz

chattered as they climbed into the vehicle.

“He said it doesn’t really get that much use, so he’s happy to ferry people around with

it. The pilot is happier, too, when he’s flying.” Peter glanced around, spying no one near them. He leant forward to press a quick kiss to Chaz’s mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too. Never thought I’d say that to a guy in my life.” Chaz started the

engine, then pulled out of the parking space. “I thought we’d hit the steakhouse just down the street. It shouldn’t be too busy this late. And it’s not a place where you have to dress fancy.”

“Sounds great to me.” Peter wiggled in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

They arrived at the restaurant, and Chaz had been right. There wasn’t a wait for a table, so they were seated right away. Peter and Chaz talked, catching up on news they hadn’t

shared in their nightly phone calls. Peter noticed Chaz seemed rather fidgety, but chalked it up to the adrenaline from the round earlier.

After two beers, and some of the best steak Peter had ever had, they climbed into the

truck to head back to the hotel. Peter didn’t feel like talking, so he settled back into his seat, and closed his eyes.

Later on, when asked, Peter wouldn’t remember anything leading up to the accident.

All he had heard was screeching tyres, then the sound of metal hitting metal. After that, there

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was simply pain, overwhelming him to the point where he slipped into darkness,

accompanied by someone’s screams.

* * * *

Peter struggled to open his eyes. His head pounded and it was almost like every atom

in his body ached for some reason. Either he’d got rip-roaring drunk last night or he was coming down with the flu. As he tried to focus enough of his energy to force his eyelids

wide, he heard a voice whispering beside his ear.

“You have to be okay, Peter. I’m so sorry about what I did. It was all my fault. I know

you’ll never forgive me, but if you just open your eyes, I’ll know I haven’t completely fucked up.”

Who was talking to him? What was the man’s fault? Had something happened to Peter?

He tried to remember the last thing he’d been doing, but nothing came to mind.

And why did it feel like there were weights tied to his arm? He couldn’t move, and that

scared him more than anything else.

“Please, Peter, I love you, and if you don’t get better, I might as well go kill myself.

You’re the best thing I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m very sorry.”

The man loved him? Peter really wanted to know who the person was next to him.

They’d obviously had some kind of relationship if the man was going to kill himself if Peter didn’t get better.

Get better? Did that mean Peter had got the flu? If that was true, at least it meant he

wasn’t stupid enough to get drunk, since he rarely drank that much.

“What are you doing here? Haven’t you done enough damage?”

The second voice sounded familiar, but Peter found his brain was foggy and not very

clear. He couldn’t bring any faces or names to mind. He wanted to shout at them to either tell him their names or get the hell out of his room. He couldn’t take them chattering so close to him without knowing who they were.

“I’m sorry.”

Another apology. What kind of man was so defeated, he apologised to everyone around

him? Peter wished he could move, so he could pat the first man on the shoulder and tell him

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