14. Fourteen

"Dante, did you hear me?" I stood at the bottom of the stairs, frowning up at his silence.

The last two days I'd spent in bed had given me a lot of time to think. Initially, after what happened between us, I was ready to shut this down—whatever this was between us. I thought I had to stay away from Dante Deluca because I wasn't strong enough to resist him. My job was the one good thing I had in the world, the one thing I had left to be proud of. I was good at it. Putting all that on the line for a fling was irresponsible of me, and that's all this could ever be.

But then the bastard had to go and ruin it by being a downright decent man the last few days, taking care of me while I was sick. I couldn't help but start to wonder what we could be if we gave this a fair go.

So, I was going to tell him the truth over dinner, that I was interested, but that it could never work. I had a whole speech planned to let him down easily over a steak and kidney pie.

And then my mum called and ruined everything.

I couldn't believe her. The bloody audacity of that woman, phoning just to tell me she and Helena had decided Harvey and I should go on a date. Never mind that Harvey was a backstabbing Thatcherite who'd only come out of the closet when it was politically convenient for him. He gladly threw every slur in the book at me through secondary school while still bending me over at every luncheon, every rally, every bloody tea our families held. I wondered if his mother would be so keen on us as a couple if she knew we were fucking before either of us knew what fucking was.

Thank God I went off to officer school or I might never have learned I was worth something more than a hole for Harvey Halloway to put his dick in. The man was the worst kind of hypocrite, and ten years ago, my parents would've condemned him as they had me. Now that he was wealthy and powerful, we were suddenly a good match?

I gritted my teeth. "Dante! Answer me!"

There was no answer. Not even an irritated grunt or the sound of his guitar drowning me out .

"Dante, I'm coming up!" I gripped the ladder and stormed up, only to stop suddenly at the top. His bed was rumpled as usual, but he wasn't in it, nor was he sitting next to it fiddling with his guitar or the amp. Maybe I'd missed him coming down, and he was in the shower.

With a sigh, I went back down the stairs to knock on the bathroom door. "Dante?"

Still no answer, and when I tried the door, it swung open to reveal he wasn't there either.

I tore through the house, checking every closet, the hot tub, even the laundry room. I didn't even think Dante knew the cabin had a laundry room since Oscar did all the laundry. He wasn't anywhere, at least not anywhere I looked.

Shit, shit, shit! This can't be happening! I tugged at my hair with one hand while I fumbled to get out my phone with the other. I thumbed the second number on speed dial and waited for Bowie to pick up.

"'Ello, Guvnuh!" he drawled in a horrible imitation of my accent. "Wot a great day, innit?"

"Cut the crap. We have a problem."

"Oh, no. Did you lose your dick again? Need daddy to come help you find it?"

I gritted my teeth and seriously reconsidered my choice to call him instead of Boone. Getting fired might be worth not having to deal with Bowie. "Dante is missing."

There was a small thud like his chair hitting the floor or a door closing. "Wait, are you serious?"

"As a heart attack. I looked everywhere. He's not here." I pushed open the back door and walked out into the evening twilight, studying the ground in hopes of spotting a footprint. It'd rained the day before and there was still mud, but would I even know Dante's footprint if I saw it?

"Shit. And you're calling me because if you call Boone, you'll have to plug one hole to shit out of the new one he rips for you."

"Not imagery I wanted, Bowie." I squatted in the dirt for a closer look.

"Okay," he said, clearly ignoring me. "Any idea where he went?"

I stood and walked a few more steps. "There are some fresh footprints leading to a gravel service road. I don't know if they're his, but I haven't seen anyone out here."

"Shit, if he got in a car…"

"He could be anywhere," I finished, my heart sinking.

If anything happened to him, I'd never forgive myself. I'd also have to kill whoever was responsible. It'd been a long time since I'd hurt anyone, but the thought of someone hurting Dante brought back the familiar irrational rage and I found myself clenching my fists so tight the phone creaked in my palm .

"Okay," Bowie said, blowing out a breath. "If there are no signs of forced entry, then we'll assume for now that he went off on his own. I'll get Leo to monitor his financials in case he tries to pull cash and run. Give me twenty minutes and then me and Wattson can be down there. You hit Google Maps and start checking the nearby bars. Start with the ones that play live music and filter it by lowest rating first."

I forced my shoulders to relax. "What makes you think that's where he'd go? For all you know, he just hitched a ride to go get a burger."

There was a brief hesitation before Bowie answered, "I picked my dad up off enough barroom floors, Church. Trust me. That's where he is. Call me with updates every fifteen."

I lowered the phone, feeling sick. Dante wouldn't…would he? He'd practically been bragging about being sober for ten days the other day. Why would he go back to it after insisting so hard that he wanted to be sober? It didn't make any sense.

I grabbed my jacket and my keys and flew out the front door, climbing into my Tahoe. While I was still punching information into the GPS, my phone rang, the call coming from a number I didn't know. A local number.

I fumbled to answer it, my voice going high as I did. "Dante?"

Garbled music came through the phone along with the din of many voices in a crowded space. "Church?"

Relief washed over me. He was alive. He was okay. And then I heard the strange tremor in his voice.

"Church, I don't feel so good."

"Where are you?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… I fucked up again…"

I closed one hand tight around the steering wheel. "Dante, tell me where you are right now. I'm coming to get you. "

"You can't. I…I gotta go."

"Dante! Dante wait!" The line went dead, and I immediately called the number back. It rang five times before an unfamiliar voice answered.

"Tappy's Tap Room. What can I get started for you?"

I hung up without answering, flung the phone into the passenger seat, and stomped on the gas. Rocks flew and my tires screamed enough that I knew they'd soon need replaced, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that Dante needed me, and I was going to be there.

Music throbbed in the air while I sat in my car, trying to find the courage to go inside. It was playing so loud I could hear the bass line even with my windows up. Walking into that bar was going to be like walking into my worst nightmare, but I didn't have a choice. Dante was inside, and he needed me.

I took a deep breath and mopped more sweat from my forehead. It's just a bar, Church. Not a holding cell. There are multiple exits and you'll probably be the biggest guy in there.

I'd been the biggest guy in that Syrian prison too, for what good it did me.

I shook the thought away and blew out a breath before slapping the side of my face. Come on, soldier. Get your shit together. Your man needs you. You can either sit out here cowering from the enemy while he's in there hurting, or you can suck it up and be the man he needs you to be.

"I can do this," I said out loud. "I will do this." I slapped myself again, psyching myself up, before I threw open the door and marched up to the bar.

The second I opened the door, music blasted out of the dank, dark little beer hovel. It vibrated over my skin like fast moving needles, searching for a point of entry.

I can't do this . I shut my eyes, fighting the waves of nausea. My hand tightened on the door handle.

"Hey buddy!"

I opened my eyes and found a group of bikers in patched leather vests staring at me.

"Did your mamma raise you in a barn?" the old timer in front growled. "In or out!"

I stepped into the bar and the door swung shut behind me with all the finality of nails driven into a coffin lid. A cacophony of notes assaulted my ears, making it impossible to focus, but I tried, scanning the room once, twice…

And then there was a man standing in front of me, his arms crossed over his thick chest. A spotted blue bandana hid a bald head, but my eyes zeroed in on the tattoo of dog tags on his left forearm. On his left was an empty pair of boots and a helmet resting on the butt of a rifle right next to an American flag. "You lost, friend ?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I asked.

He blinked and uncrossed his arms, putting his hands on his hips. "Excuse me?"

"Where did you serve?"

"Afghanistan. Army."

"Syrian-Lebanon border. SAS." I stuck out my hand stiffly. "Name's Pope. "

All the hostility in his posture disappeared as he squeezed my outstretched hand in a vise grip. "Jenkins. Buy you a drink for your service?"

"Another time. Tonight, I'm here looking for a friend." I got the picture of Dante out of my wallet. It was supposed to stay with his file, and I kept meaning to put it back, but it was a good thing I hadn't yet. "Have you seen him tonight? He might be wearing a hat or sunglasses."

Jenkins pinched the photo between two fingers and leaned in. "Yeah, I seen him. He was drinking with that weird kid. The one with the glasses. What's his name, Crush?"

"Oscar something," replied one of the men behind him.

I nearly crumpled the photograph in my fist. "Are they still here?"

"I think they just left," said Jenkins, letting go of the photo. "Went out the back."

"Thank you." I tucked the photo and my wallet away.

"Might want to hurry, though," Jenkins shouted after me. "Your friend wasn't looking too hot."

I pushed through the crowd, heart pounding in my ears to the beat of the music. Acid ate at my insides, and my hands trembled at my sides, but I couldn't focus on that. Oscar had Dante, and Dante needed me.

I showed Dante's picture to a couple making out near the exit and they pointed toward the door, telling me I'd just missed them. My arms felt like Jell-o as I pushed open the back door. Cool, garbage-scented air licked at my face and I gulped it down like I'd been drowning, hanging onto the door while I tried to catch my breath.

My relief was short-lived when I looked up and caught Oscar trying to shove an unconscious Dante into the back seat of a black sedan .

Oscar's terrified eyes met mine. He bit out a curse as I pushed away from the door. Rather than continue fighting with Dante's long limbs and limp body, he shoved Dante onto the pavement and scrambled to get into the driver's seat. I lunged and barely managed to catch Dante before his head hit the pavement. Wheels screeched and Oscar took off like a bat out of hell, fishtailing onto the road and disappearing into the night. As much as I wanted to go after him and twist his head clean off, my first duty was to Dante.

"Dante, can you hear me?" I lowered him to the ground and slapped his cheek lightly. When he didn't respond, I shoved my ear against his chest, pulling out my phone at the same time. "Hey, Siri. Call Wattson!"

The phone rang three times before he answered. "Church? What's wrong? Did you find him?"

"Yes, and he's unconscious."

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes, but it's shallow. Something's not right."

Wattson snorted. "He's an alcoholic, Church. He's probably black out drunk."

"Do you have any idea how much he'd have to drink to get that drunk in less than an hour?" came Bowie's voice through the speaker. " If he's an alcoholic, it's more than you'd think."

"He's been sober for ten days," I said.

"Maybe it's drugs," Wattson suggested. "Find out what he took."

"How am I supposed to do that if he's unconscious and the idiot he was here with took off?"

Wattson let out one of his frustrated sighs. "Make sure his airway is clear and put him in the back seat on his side in the recovery position. Then get your ass back to the cabin. I'll meet you there. If he throws up in the meantime, pull over and call me again. I'll get the trauma kit just in case."

I hung up.

Dante opened his eyes when I picked him up, but his eyes were unfocused, and he was still pale and sweaty. "Church?"

"I'm here, Dante. Can you tell me what you took?"

"I didn't—" He choked suddenly and vomited everywhere.

I sighed and shifted him, so he mostly missed himself. "It's important, Dante. What did you take?"

He fell back into my arms, eyes closed, shaking his head, but he didn't say anything else.

The drive back was nerve-wracking. From the front seat, it was impossible to tell if he was still breathing. I kept reaching back to touch any part of him I could, trying to reassure myself that he wasn't dead, but it got more difficult each time. His skin was cool and clammy, and he wasn't responding, even when I tried pinching him.

Bowie's truck and Wattson's Prius were in the driveway when I pulled in. Both he and Wattson were pulling open the back door as soon as I put the Tahoe in park. Wattson climbed in, slipping his stethoscope into his ears while we waited in tense silence.

"Breathing's good," Wattson reported, and I let out a relieved sigh.

Bowie slapped a syringe and a rubber tourniquet into his outstretched hand.

"Wait a second. You're not drawing his blood in my car!"

"If I can do it in a chopper under fire, I can do it in a car," Wattson replied, deadpan. "You want me to treat him? I need his BAC. Only way to get that if he's unconscious is a blood test. Then he's all yours." He turned his head to look at me, curly hair bouncing. "Now would also be a good time to tell me if you're sleeping with him. "

I stared at him, my jaw hanging open. "I'm not! Why would you think that?"

"Then I suppose someone else gave you that love bite on your neck."

I flushed and pulled my collar up.

Wattson turned back to his patient. "Either way, I don't care as long as you're getting tested and using a condom."

"Pretty sure they call it a rubber across the pond, Doc," Bowie said, grinning widely.

"Shut up, Bowie," both Wattson and I said at the same time.

Wattson finished drawing two vials of blood from Dante's arm and quickly patched him up before he let us take him out of the car. Rather than haul him upstairs, I had him brought into my room where Wattson took his vitals again.

"He seems stable." Wattson dropped Dante's wrist but didn't take off his gloves, which meant he wasn't done.

"But?" I encouraged.

"But I haven't had a chance to test the sample I took." Wattson went to the desk where he'd dumped his medical supplies and sifted through them for a small, handheld meter.

Bowie crossed his arms. "That looks like my grandma's glucose meter."

"It's based on similar technology, except this one measures the amount of ethanol in the blood instead of glucose. Much faster than waiting on a lab, but a little less accurate. Should give us a general idea of what we're dealing with, though."

"Speaking of, any news back on Church's tea?" Bowie asked, crowding in to watch Wattson work his magic.

Wattson looked at me and shook his head. "Should know soon, though. "

I wasn't interested. All I cared about was Dante.

I pulled the chair away from the desk and sat in it, staring at Dante's pale, unconscious body. Why did you go? Why with Oscar? I thought he made you uneasy. Was I wrong? Or were you just that desperate for someone to listen? I'm such an idiot. You were right here, and I was miles away dealing with my own problems when I should've been here for you.

Wattson's meter beeped. "Huh. That's odd."

"Do it again," Bowie urged. "That can't be right."

"What's wrong?" I stood, going on high alert.

The machine beeped again. "It's saying his BAC is point zero four, but that's impossible. He'd barely even be buzzed. The test is inaccurate, but not that inaccurate."

"Dude's passed out cold and not even over the legal limit?" Bowie tipped his hat back to scratch his head, and they looked at each other.

"What does that mean?" I pressed. "To someone who isn't an alcoholic or hasn't dealt with one?"

"It means," said Wattson, gathering up his things, "I need to run more tests. We can be sure of one thing, though. Whatever did this to him wasn't alcohol. What kind of drug user was he?"

Bowie crossed his arms and shrugged. "My money's on oxy. Rich kids love their pill parties."

"No track marks on his arms, so I doubt he was using intravenously." Wattson picked up a bottle of Narcan, walked over and sprayed it into Dante's left nostril.

Bowie leaned over him. "How long until it works?"

Wattson frowned and looked down at the spray in his hand. "If it was oxy, we'd have a pissed off rockstar about now."

"What does that mean?" I demanded.

"Means it's not heroin, fentanyl, Vicodin, oxy, or meth." Wattson returned to his bag, packing more supplies back into it. "Which means I don't know what it is." He snapped his bag closed. "Either way, my medical advice is the same. Keep him breathing. If he stops or has a seizure, you call an ambulance, not me."

"But Boone said—"

"I don't care what Boone said," Wattson barked, cutting me off. "If you call me, he's dead, and you can tell Boone I said so. I'd rather have a pissed off boss than a dead patient." He picked up his bag and walked out of the bedroom.

I followed him. "Where are you going? Shouldn't you stay here in case he gets worse?"

"Only thing worse than an unconscious addict is one in respiratory or cardiac arrest." He paused near the front door. "Your CPR certification is up to date, right?"

"Connor…" I started, using his real name.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up. "Don't do this to me, Christian. It's hard enough for me to be objective here."

"I know dealing with addicts is hard for you because of your own struggle, but he needs a doctor, not a soldier." I put a hand on his shoulder.

Wattson clenched his jaw and looked away. "What do you want from me? You want me to tell you he'll pull through? He probably will. Until the day he doesn't. Addiction isn't like a bullet hole. You can't just patch an addict up and send them back out. This is something he'll live with every day for the rest of his life. It's more like a cancer. It's going to eat at him, destroy him from the inside out until there is no more Dante. All that'll be left is a numb shell." He turned to go.

"You did," I called after him and he paused in the doorway. "You kicked your addiction to pain killers, doc. He can change too. "

He put his hand out like he was using the door to support himself and dropped his chin to his chest. "I wish I had your faith in people, Church. I really do. I'll keep my phone on in case you need me, and I'll be back in a few hours to check on him."

I watched him pull out of the driveway, an uneasy feeling settling in my gut. Deep down, I knew Wattson was right. There wasn't anything anyone could do for Dante now except pray and wait.