Wait Until Dawn by Bailey Bradford (chrysanthemum read aloud txt) 📗

Rich heaved himself off the bed and took a shaky step, stopping when he thought he might fall. He bent sideways and braced himself with one arm on the mattress as he glared at his father. “Why are you packing my shit? If you think you’re gonna send me off to rehab or something like that, forget it. I won’t go.”

Diego Montoya snorted and flapped a hand at him. “Look at you. You’re nothing but bones. I could drag your ass to rehab with one hand tied behind my back. And you cuss at me again, I’ll put you over my knee and bust your butt like I did when you were a kid.” He turned away from Rich and continued emptying his drawers into the luggage.

Rich glared daggers at his father’s back, then glanced down at his own body. Clad only in boxers, Rich could see every rib clearly, the sharp points of his hips, the knobs of his knees. His belly was the only soft spot, pooching out the faintest bit. The six-pack he’d once been so proud of was long gone—the only demarcations left on his stomach were those carved there by James McAlister, the fucker who’d almost killed him. Rich shoved the thought aside as he resumed glaring at his father’s back. Big, broad, brawny—his father was all of those things, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do what he’d threatened. Rich could do without such a blow to what little remained of his pride.

“Fine. I apologize for cursing.” Which only his dad was allowed to do—how had he forgotten? It was disrespectful for a child, adult or not, to curse to or around their parents, according to the elder Montoya. Rich was too used to being on his own to think he would remember that particular rule for long. He tried standing again, and this time gave himself a moment before shuffling toward the bathroom. “Can you at least tell me where I’m going?”

His father ignored him and finished packing while Rich stood propped in the bathroom doorway and watched. Once the suitcases were full and set by the bedroom door, his dad walked over to him and took his arm in one big hand.

“You need to shower, then eat something. I’ll help you shave that rat’s nest off your face before you eat, though,” the elder Montoya said, pointing to the straggly beard on Rich’s face.

Rich tried to pull away and promptly started to tip backwards. His father grabbed his other arm and gave him a little shake.

“That’s enough, son. Look at me.”

Rich reluctantly dragged his gaze up to meet his father’s, unsurprised at the anger in the man’s dark eyes.

“You are not going to kill yourself, you hear me?” his father snapped, giving him another shake that made Rich’s eyes cross. “You’ve pushed everyone away who could help you, everyone who cares, who loves you, including me. While you were lying in that bed, screaming and puking and shaking so hard I thought you’d break in half at times, I was calling people, pissed off because no one was here for you, no one seemed to care. You know what I found out?” Another shake, and this time Rich couldn’t bite back a snarl as he clutched his father’s forearms.

“I found out you’ve been telling them all the same bullshit lies you been telling me,” the man ground out. “You’re doing fine, keeping busy with work and doctor’s and therapist appointments! I didn’t raise you up to be a liar any more than I raised you up to be a drunk or a drug addict!”

Rich’s temper burnt out his embarrassment as he tried to dig his fingers into his dad’s forearms. Another hard shake and Rich was teetering toward violence, ready to deck his father if he could just get the chance. The realization terrified him, and he stopped fighting, stopped kicking legs he hadn’t even been aware of moving. He loved his father—the man had always been there for him, raising him alone when his mother had wandered off to explore greener pastures.

Despite being a police officer, his dad had managed to attend every baseball game, every important event in Rich’s childhood, and he’d accepted Rich without question when Rich had nervously confessed his bisexuality, then again when he’d admitted he wasn’t bi at all, because as much as he wanted to like girls, he just couldn’t. This big, macho man had nodded and hugged Rich and told him he loved him, and always would.

“It’s the drugs and alcohol fucking with your head, making your temper volatile,” Rich heard his father explain, pulling him from his reflections.

“Think about it, Richard,” the man continued, “you know what I’m saying is true. Fight past it instead of fighting me.”

The plea hit him in his heart, and Rich sagged against his dad’s chest. So he’d try to leave off the Jack and pills, and hope he didn’t go insane. He wasn’t very optimistic that he’d succeed at any of it, even if he agreed to go to rehab.

“What place are you sending me to?” Rich mumbled against his dad’s chest, wondering if it’d be here in Texas or somewhere in New Mexico where his dad lived. He frowned at that. Why was his dad here, even? Rich had called him like he usually did, hadn’t he? He leaned back enough to look up at his dad. “Why’d you come down here?”

Leading him over to the toilet and nudging him to take a seat, the older Montoya took his time answering. Once he had the shower going and a wash cloth as well as a towel laid out, he gestured for Rich to stand. Rich did, then quickly slapped at his father’s hand as he pulled at Rich’s boxers.

“I can do it myself,” Rich sniped, then flushed to the roots of his hair. Someone had been cleaning him, taking care of him for days, when he obviously hadn’t been able to take care of himself.