Wild Trail (Clean Slate Ranch #1)(100)

Alcohol, adrenaline and Ezra’s wood had made James temporarily lose his mind. They’d walked into the bathroom stall together. That had definitely been mutual. And Ezra hadn’t minded that blow job one bit until James had put Ezra against the wall and pulled the guy’s pants down to fuck him. He’d been too damned drunk to see the surprise in Ezra’s eyes, or hear the real fear in his voice. And then James had been an asshole, trying to argue with him about what they were going to do. Accidentally scaring Ezra into barfing up all of his night’s drinks.

And like a fucking coward, James had fled. Fled down the sidewalk to this spot to wallow in his shame and try to keep the acid in his stomach from erupting.

He dragged on the cigarette, watching the tip flare orange. The whole world still listed a bit to one side. He’d moved all of his morning appointments to the afternoon, clearing his schedule until noon, but drinking himself into a hangover on a weekday was idiotic.

Then again, how often did he find out that the bastard who molested his sister when she was thirteen was being paroled? None of his psychology textbooks had given him an answer for how to react to that kind of news, so he’d done exactly what he always advised his patients not to do—masked the pain. His mask of choice was alcohol and sex.

Except he’d overdone it on the alcohol, and he’d hurt Ezra in the process.

I am a douche bag.

*

He smoked his way through two more cigarettes before Nathan’s beat-up Ram pickup pulled alongside the curb. For a city cop, he was still adorably country. Nathan leaned across the console to shove open the passenger side door, and James gratefully slid inside. The simple, familiar presence of Nathan nearby made James’s nerves unfurl a little bit more. Nathan was the one thing in James’s life that had always made sense. Had always been easy.

Weariness settled into his bones, turning his drunken daze into extreme fatigue. He wanted to pass out and soon.

Nathan shoved a bottle of water at him, then eased the truck back into the street. He cracked both of the front windows, probably because James reeked of smoke. Nathan had never been shy about telling him how gross his habit was. Nathan was also smart enough not to engage in conversation until they were shuffling up the short sidewalk to Nathan’s half of a two-story duplex. Nathan slung an arm around James’s waist, and the heat of the other man’s body so close felt amazing. Real. Not like the fake closeness of dancing with strangers in a crowded bar.

He finally got a good look at his friend as Nathan crossed the narrow living room to the kitchen in the rear. Flannel pajama pants and a spring coat. James had woken him up.

Yeah, I’m a douche bag.

“You hungry?” Nathan shouted from the kitchen.

“No.” In the familiar, somewhat cluttered warmth of Nathan’s home, he had a safe place to wallow in the shame still burning in his gut.

Nathan’s place was the definition of a straight bachelor’s pad—which worked since Nathan was a straight bachelor. Dark leather furniture right out of a magazine’s page, decorated exactly the same because he couldn’t be bothered. A monster, sixty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall over an entertainment console boasted two gaming systems, alongside a Blu-ray player and hundreds of movies. Only a handful of photos hung on the wall, mostly of his rather large extended family that lived in southern Delaware.

James paused to stare at a familiar photo of himself with Nathan, taken right after Nathan had graduated from the police academy. They were both grinning, arms slung around each other’s shoulder. Nathan so handsome in his uniform, James in a gray suit that hadn’t been stylish in a decade. Because that’s how long it had been. Nathan had made detective last year, so he didn’t wear his uniform anymore. James sort of missed it.

Nathan came back into the living room sans coat, a white wifebeater showing off his muscled arms and flat stomach. He was one-eighth Nanticoke Indian on his mother’s side, which gave his skin a lovely golden hue. His short hair was shiny black, and was always soft on the rare occasion James had a reason to touch it. His dark brown eyes often seemed to be smiling at him, even when things were serious, like right now.

He was carrying a bamboo tray loaded down with two shot glasses, a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and a bag of barbecue potato chips. He settled the tray on his magazine-covered coffee table, then poured them each a shot.

James sank onto the couch next to Nathan and accepted the glass. After a silent toast, he threw it back. The harsh, smoky liquid burned its way into his stomach.

Nathan refilled both glasses. “Does your mom know?”

“She’s the one who told me.” Grace had been sobbing when he answered his cell, and it took more than five minutes for him to understand what she’d been babbling. “The bastard is getting out.” The statement had punched him in the balls and tipped his world upside down.

“How is she?”

“Took it like a champ.”

“Liar.”

James downed the second shot, thankful for the burn. “She was a mess. I stopped by to bring her dinner, because she doesn’t feed herself when she gets depressed. She wouldn’t get out of bed. She still fucking blames herself for what happened to Laurie, and it’s been almost twenty years.”

“And you don’t?” Nathan shot him a pointed look before knocking back his second drink. He poured them both a third.