Between Lives - 5. Chapter 5

Before he and Sophie had gone to live with their father, Nate never believed that a scream could actually pierce the night. Too many low-budget slasher movies with his friends at the dollar cinema, not to mention the hundreds, possibly thousands, of Marvel comic books devoured over the course of his youth, had weathered his appreciation of the phrase until it was nothing more than a bad pun.

He knows better now.

Sophie's scream takes him from a deep sleep to a dead run in less than two seconds. She's barely drawn a second breath before he crashes through her door. He's wearing nothing but his underwear, which seems to shock Sophie into swallowing her second shriek.

He scans the room for threats.

There are none, which, now that his brain has caught up with his adrenaline-induced fight reflex, he should have expected. Sophie's hair is a sweaty tangle around her face. Her cheeks, sleep-flushed, are wet with tears, but her dazed expression is a telltale sign that this was just another nightmare.

Sophie's sob ends on a giggle. "How come all you have on is your panties?"

"They're not panties," Nate replies automatically.

"Yes, they are."

"No, they're—Sophie, what's wrong?"

Her face crumples. "I had another bad dream."

"Okay." He debates ducking across the hall for his jeans, but Sophie's renewed, soft sobs decide him. He gathers her in his arms and scoots them both up against the wicker headboard. "It's okay. Just a dream. Not real," he whispers.

"I know. It's still scary."

"Yeah." That's one thing they both understand. He doesn't need to ask her what she was dreaming about, either. He scrubs a hand over his face. Now that he's positive there's no real danger, his body's craving sleep, becoming lethargic and heavy. Sophie gives a sigh and relaxes against him, and he hugs her close. Her body heat keeps some of the chill away, but he's still nearly naked, so he gathers the blankets around them both. His shoulder and the crook of his neck are wet from her tears, but he doesn't care. What Sophie doesn't know, what nobody knows, is that being close to her helps him feel safer too. "Want me to stay for a while?" he asks into her hair.

"Yes, please." Sophie shimmies around until her head is pillowed on his chest. "Nate?"

"Yeah?"

"I like it here. Thanks for bringing me."

He nods, because he can't speak – his throat is too tight. Everything's close to the surface; there hasn't been the need for constant vigilance these past couple of days, and he feels dangerously close to breaking down, but to do it now, where Sophie would see him, is out of the question. As important as keeping her safe is convincing her that he's in complete control of the situation. She needs to know she can count on him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on breathing, in and out, and when that doesn't work, he focuses on Sophie's slow, deep inhalations. She's taken sixty-one breaths before the ache in his throat eases. The house creaks, but he's not alarmed. They've been there for four days now, and Nate recognizes that the sounds are merely the wood and plaster settling around them.

His mind wants to race ahead, worry about tomorrow and the next day and the one after that, but he's too drained. He's done enough worrying for a lifetime. But neither will he let himself indulge in silly dreams and fantasies as he did a couple of nights ago. Even though Sophie's presence would dampen the more erotic thoughts, he won't let himself hide behind fairy tales and happily-ever-afters.

He tried that once. Never again.

The house talks and Sophie breathes and, eventually, Nate sleeps.

***

Their father arrived at the hospital less than four hours after their mother died. Thinking back, Nate wondered how he accomplished such a feat, considering he lived halfway across the country. It wasn't until later that Nate realized he'd been close by. Waiting. His mom had been adamant about not contacting her ex-husband until absolutely necessary, but Nate suspected some doctor or nurse had taken it upon themselves to make the call earlier that morning when Kathryn Ryan had taken a sudden turn for the worse.

"Nathan Ryan?"

Nate looked up, wincing when the move sent a shot of pain through his cramped neck. He shifted Sophie in his arms and squinted at the nurse. "Yeah?"

"Your father's here."

Nate blinked, confused. "My father?"

"To collect you."

"Collect me." Like a debt. It all came rushing back in a heartbeat, pushing back the blessed amnesia of sleep. His mother was dead, Sophie had cried herself to sleep in his arms, and now their father – a man Nate hadn't seen in ten years, and for good reason – had come to get them. Sophie had never even met him.

"Did you hear me, young man?"

"I heard you." He straightened up in the plastic bucket chair as best he could. Sophie was dead weight across his lap. "Where is he?"

"Waiting in the Parent Lounge."

How completely inappropriate, Nate almost said. Instead, he did his best to smile. "Okay. Tell him . . . I'll be right there."

The nurse nodded, left, and Nate spent ten minutes trying to get his hands to stop shaking. Unsuccessful in the end, he hefted Sophie in his arms and hoped how they were clasped around her would hide the worst of it.

They'd been shown to the Pediatrics ward earlier and told to wait. On this floor, so different than the hush of the ICU, everything was bright, cheerful, and loud. A chorus of crying children, discordant but constant, rang through the halls, and after a while, Nate stopped noticing it. Perhaps that's why the nurse had put them there.

Nate followed a trail of painted ducks around one corner and down a long hall. It ended at a set of doors, the words Parent Lounge pained above them in a rainbow of colors. Nearby, a child screamed, then began to sob in earnest. Sophie stirred in his arms, and he pushed through the door before she fully roused.

Inside there was blessed little bright color and the lights were dim, casting shadows across the floor. Nate breathed a sigh of relief. His headache diminished immediately. Even Sophie seemed to sense the change; she hummed in her sleep.

"Nate? Is that you?"

From the corner of the room, a shadow peeled away from the wall and stepped forward. Nate braced himself for the barrage of bad memories. He felt five years old again, afraid of the violent, unexpected anger, the yelling, and the sweet smell of bourbon.

"Yeah," he croaked, clutching Sophie. "It's me." He couldn't bring himself to call the man his father.

The man stopped several feet away. Slowly, he reached out toward them. "I'm so sorry, kids. I’m so sorry about your mom. It's going to be okay. All right? I promise. I'm here now, and I'm going to take care of you and Sophie."

The voice was nothing like Nate remembered. It was gruff, but not unkind. And the sympathy sounded genuine. Weeks later he'd berate himself for letting grief cloud his judgment, but at that moment, with the chance for something so fantastic and unexpected within his grasp, Nate let himself believe. "Okay," he said.

***

In less than a week, they were packed and ready to move. Their mother's house – their house, the only one Sophie had ever known – was an empty shell. Outside on the sidewalk, a "For Sale" sign swung in the breeze, while in the driveway, moving men in matching red shirts loaded boxes and furniture into a rumbling truck. Nate stared at the remnants of their life, understanding as Sophie didn't that very little of it would be coming with them. The apartment they were moving into, while in one of the most sought after buildings in the city, was cramped.

Their father told them stories of his home, his job, and his friends. "Don't be disappointed," he said to Sophie as he ruffled her hair. "It's nowhere near as nice as your mom's house here. It's pretty tiny, actually. I'm happy with my job, but it's never going to make me rich, not with the cost of living what it is where I live. And I don't have an inheritance to fall back on when times get tough, like your mom did."

Nate frowned. He shifted his attention from the parade of moving men and squinted through the bright sun to where his Dad was standing with Sophie. A memory rose up, long-buried – so vivid it momentarily clouded his vision. His parents fighting about money; how much they had, how much she had. Goose bumps formed on Nate's arms. "What do you mean?" he asked.

His father played with Sophie's hair and didn't look at Nate when he answered. "I just want you to be happy. I don't want you to be disappointed that I can't give you everything your mom did."

Sophie, ever the pragmatist, patted his arm. "That's okay, Daddy. Mommy left us lots of money. You can have some if you need it."

Nate watched as his father twirled Sophie's hair between his fingers. The sight agitated him, and his hands clenched into fists in his pockets. He tore his eyes away, bothered by the intimacy of the gesture, and found his father staring at him. "That's very nice of you, Sophie," his father said, eyes still fixed on Nate. "Very nice."

***

Dayton Creed was a hotshot lawyer. The best DA the city had seen in ten years. At least that's how his friends described him to Nate. "Your dad is one of a kind. One of the good guys. Someone you can trust. A man who still believes in ethics and the human heart. Aren't you proud of him?"

"Sure," Nate replied over and over, because after a while, he had trouble remembering why that shouldn't be true. People changed, after all, but it was an old motto that Nate had little faith in. Some people changed, his mother had often told him, but most didn't. But she'd also taught him to give second chances, be tolerant, and to make the best of a bad situation. These past months, while she'd been sick, Nate had come to understand how life's lessons laid unevenly over each other. Reconciling them was like trying to make perfect folds in a fitted bed sheet. Nothing was easy.

His dad's apartment was minuscule when measured by the standards Nate and Sophie were accustomed to. Minimalist to an alarming degree, it was decked out in gray steel and black leather. Knickknacks were nonexistent. Abstract art filled the walls, but Nate couldn't find a single personal photograph of friends or family. Of anybody, for that matter. His father could call it minimalist all he wanted, but Nate called it stark. Barren. Still, it was generous when pitted against the cubby holes most city people called home. "Costs me a fortune," his dad was fond of saying, often times completely unprompted. Then he'd look to Nate and Sophie.

Drawing up a response to things his father said could be tricky, but Nate had experience on his side, even if much of it was blurred by the passage of time. The most effective reply was a nod. Sometimes he threw in a smile. Sophie, ever perceptive, followed his lead.

Money and what it could buy was one of their father's daily lessons. "Costs me a fortune," he said one morning at breakfast. "But I love it. A man's got to have standards, Nate. And it's a sad fact of life that people judge you by what you have."

"Or what you don't," Nate muttered. No telling what prompted him to open his mouth just then. Perhaps because Sophie was gone, playing at a friend's apartment two floors down.

His father's eyes narrowed. He cocked his head and stared at Nate hard enough to make him squirm. "That's right. Or what you don't."

Self-conscious, Nate rose to clear his dishes. He reached the sink in two steps, the kitchen being barely larger than a walk-in closet. In fact, when they all sat at the table together, their shoulders brushed. "Intimate, yes?" his father had offered on their first day. Nate had nodded and smiled.

He rinsed his cereal bowl in the deep steel sink, then reached to open the dishwasher.

"Dry your hands before you touch that. You know I don't want water marks and fingerprints all over it."

Nate jumped at the harsh tone. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Forgot." He grabbed for one of the dishtowels, folded in exact thirds on the gleaming granite, but his father interrupted him again. "No, not the dish towel!"

Nate snatched his hand back.

"Use a paper towel, Nate. Don't be an idiot."

For several seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was their combined breathing. Nate's was short and fast, his father's deep and even. Shaking slightly, Nate bent down to reach for the roll of paper towels under the sink. As he straightened, he heard the scrape of a chair across the tile, sensed his father approach. Paralyzed, he waited.

"I know this hasn't been easy on you," his father said from behind him. "But just because your mom is gone, doesn't mean you can do as you please. You either need to start listening and obeying the rules or we're going to have a problem."

The roll of paper towels shook in his hands. Nate carefully unrolled just enough to do the job and nodded. "I'll do better."

"I hope so."

Or else. That was how he'd always ended his scoldings before. Or else. Nate waited with the paper towel crushed in his fist, hating himself. He was sixteen years old and the man could still make him feel like he was six, scared and unsure and wanting his mother.

"I'm going out. Finish the dishes, then wait for Sophie. I don't know what time I'll be home." His father's voice faded as he left the kitchen and stomped down the hall. A moment later, the front door slammed.

Nate's legs went weak with relief.

He finished the dishes, wiped down the appliances and the countertop, and dried out the sink. Then he perched on the edge of the perfect leather sofa and waited for his sister. When she came hurtling through the door at noon, all smiles and enthusiasm for her new friend, he was able to push aside the anxiety that had been creeping up on him for the past week.

The next day, their father took them on a picnic. He praised Nate's ability to discuss photography and politics, and he pushed Sophie on the swing all afternoon without complaint. He let Nate wander the park, taking pictures until it got dark. Later, on the walk home, they stopped for ice cream. When Sophie spilled hot fudge down her new sundress, all he did was shake his head, laugh, and help her blot the chocolate into a round stain.

He was the ideal father. It was the perfect day. And Nate almost forgot how ten years ago spotless countertops and veiled threats used to give him nightmares.

He began to relax.

***

Books seemed to be the only thing his father didn't mind sharing. Those first weeks, when the summer heat made it unbearable to be outside, Nate spent hours searching the tall shelves crammed into his father's study, and many more lost in a good story.

Early one morning, a tentative knock on the door pulled him from his newest find: a collection of military biographies. He'd taken to sitting on the floor while he read, cross-legged with his back against the sofa. Far from comfortable, at least it didn't leave creases in the leather cushion. His father had already reprimanded him once about the marks. Dealing with a bit of discomfort was far better then explaining how the jet-black leather got marred.

He frowned at the door and nibbled on his knuckle. His dad was out, and Sophie was once again on a play date. A different friend this time. They'd only been in the city for two weeks, and already the other children in the building were vying for her attention. Nate was used to Sophie's instant popularity. Now he encouraged it, urging her out of the house whenever she was invited. The farther she was from the apartment, the better, especially since their father had been tense for several days, unpredictable and moody, reaching for the bourbon as soon as he came through the door in the evening. Nate did everything he could to stay out of the man's way.

The knock came again, louder this time, and Nate marked his page, then got up to answer it.

The guy on the other side looked about as old as Nate. If it hadn't been for the tool belt slung around his waist and the large metal box in his hand, Nate would've pegged him for one of the other kids in the building, though none of them had gone out of their way to talk to him like they had with Sophie. The guy grunted a greeting and tilted his chin at Nate. "Got a message your air conditioning wasn't working." He flashed a lopsided smile. "Is this the right place?"

Maintenance call. The disappointment was acute, but fleeting.

"I don't know," Nate replied, flustered. "I think it's working fine. It doesn't feel hot in here." It hadn't, anyway, before he'd opened the door. Nate kept his eyes resolutely on the guy's face, ignoring the tight, worn jeans and threadbare t-shirt, but the other man's friendly smile and bright blues eyes didn't help Nate's sudden flush.

"You sure?" The guy scratched at the dark stubble on his cheek.

Nate stumbled backward a step and waved him inside. "You can check it. Can't hurt."

The guy stepped inside and closed the door behind him before turning back to Nate. "I'm Kenny, part of the maintenance staff here. Well, during the summer anyway. You related to Mr. Creed?"

"I'm his . . . I’m his son." Nate shouldn't have been shocked when Kenny's eyes widened in surprise.

"I didn't realize he had kids. Sorry."

"That's okay." He supposed it should have hurt – knowing his father never mentioned him or Sophie. Instead, all he felt was relief and a strange satisfaction. "Um . . . where do you need to—"

"Oh, the utility room is off the kitchen."

"There's a room off the kitchen?"

Kenny tilted his head back, laughed, and Nate joined in weakly, letting his eyes follow the length of Kenny's neck until it disappeared behind the thin cotton of his shirt. Distracted, he ran a hand over his stomach, trying to rub away the strange tickling behind his navel.

"Yeah, believe it or not. There is. Here, let me show you."

"Okay."

Nate led them into the kitchen, aware the whole time how close Kenny was following. Kenny set his toolbox on the floor and brushed past Nate, unwittingly pinning him against the counter as he passed. "Sorry. This is definitely a one-person space." He moved to a wood panel beside the fridge and began to fumble with a latch Nate hadn't noticed before.

Nate stayed perfectly still, reeling from the touch, awash in a mix of scents: sweat, oil, a hint of aftershave. The itching that had begun low in his stomach swelled.

Kenny removed a long, narrow panel from the wall and wedged himself inside the small room beyond. He bent over a metal box Nate assumed was the air conditioning unit. "Looks okay to me."

"Good," Nate said. "That's good."

Kenny tried unsuccessfully to shimmy his way to the other side of the unit. "Damn, it's tight in here."

Nate stepped forward, told himself it was because he should. Offering his help was the proper course, the polite thing to do. The kind of thing his mother would have encouraged. The doorway was barely wide enough for his body, and it was as far as he got before he stopped short. He gripped the frame with both hands and gave up trying not to stare at Kenny – how his jeans pulled tight across his thighs as he leaned over the machine for the controls. How the muscles in his arms strained when he tugged at the access cover.

"Fuck, this thing is not coming off. But you know what, I don't think there's anything wrong with it. It's purring like a kitten, and I don't see any ice on the condenser," Kenny called over his shoulder.

Nate's fingers dug into the wood. Chest tight with the same tingle that had started in his stomach, he had to inhale twice before he worked up enough breath to speak. "Do you need—"

A hand grasped the collar of his shirt and jerked him out of the doorway and back into the kitchen.

His yelp was cut off by the material slicing into his throat, but he was still more startled than scared. Until he saw his father's face.

"Come with me."

The tone turned Nate's pleasant tingle to an icy sting. He almost refused and started to call for help, then he thought of Sophie, due home any minute, and bit back his panic. Keeping on his feet while his dad dragged him across the apartment wasn't easy. He jammed his ankle against the edge of the coffee table and nearly tripped over the end of the sofa, but his father's grip was unrelenting. He never once slowed, even when Kenny called out from the kitchen.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine, Kenny," his father called back. "Just give us a minute." He stopped just inside the study and swung Nate around to face him. "So let me get this straight," he hissed. His fingers held Nate's arm in an iron grip. Nate gritted his teeth against the pain and stayed silent, but his father squeezed even harder and gave him a shake. He pulled Nate deeper into the study and slammed the pocket door behind them.

"You're a fag? My son's a fag?"

"No! What do you mean?" Panic put a tremble in his voice.

He got another shake. "I mean," his dad said, "that you were staring at that kid's body. I saw you."

"No! I was only—I wanted to see if he needed help."

"Don't lie to me! I was standing right behind you, and you didn't even notice. I saw where you were looking."

"I wasn't. I wasn't." The last was said in a whisper.

"What were you going to do next? Grab his ass?" His father shoved him away.

"No!" Nate wrapped his arms around his waist. A sudden wave of nausea made him dizzy. He took a deep breath, then another, and struggled not to vomit. "I wasn't," he repeated.

His father hissed, disgust plain on his face. He walked to the door. "I wouldn't blame Kenny if he never came back here. Now that he can probably guess how twisted you are."

Beyond words, Nate shook his head frantically. His father slid the door back, and Nate gasped. Kenny was standing on the other side.

"Um, I'm done here, Mr. Creed." He fumbled with the latch on his box as he spoke, not once raising his eyes to either of them.

"Thank you, Kenny. Is everything in order?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine." He shuffled his feet.

"I appreciate your diligence, and I'm sorry for my son. I promise you I had no idea."

Horrified, Nate's mouth dropped open. His eyes darted to Kenny.

"Um, it's fine."

Bile bubbled up Nate's throat when he heard the same disgust in Kenny's voice as in his father's.

His dad patted Kenny on the shoulder. "Still, I apologize."

Kenny nodded, then hurried across the living room to the foyer. He didn't acknowledge Nate at all. A moment later, the front door slammed shut behind him.

"Well." His father backed out of the room, leaving Nate alone in the dark. "Thank God I came home when I did."

"What do you mean?" Nate choked on the question.

His father's eyes turned to ice. "You make me sick. I can't even look at you right now. Stay here until I come get you." He yanked the door closed, leaving Nate with nothing but the meager glow from the computer screen to light the space.

A longing washed over him, so strong it buckled his legs, but he barely felt his knees hit the floor. His yearning for his mother had never been so keen. But wishing for her was useless. The dead didn't return, at least not in the flesh. And the living were haunting him enough.

***

"Hello?"

Nate clutched the receiver to his ear. "Mr. Davis? Carl?"

"Yes. Who—? Nate?"

"Yeah. It's me."

For the tenth time since he'd picked up the phone, Nate shot a glance at the front door. His father wasn't due back for an hour, but sweat still broke out along his forehead when he thought about getting caught on the phone. He'd waited a nerve-wracking fifteen minutes to be connected through to Carl Davis, his mom's lawyer, the only person he could think to trust with his suspicions. Over the years, Carl had become a good friend to his mother. He'd introduced Nate to baseball and slipped him his first beer. He'd taken him to the firm on 'bring your child to work day'.

He'd been the one to give Nate the lecture on how to be a man. He was the father he and Sophie had always wanted.

"I wanted to—you said if I ever needed to talk, I could call you."

"Yes. I did."

Nate closed his eyes, pretended he didn't hear the hesitation in the other man's voice. "My mom said that, too. She said if I needed anything after she . . . after she died, that you could help."

Carl's voice softened. "She was right. What can I do for you, son?"

"It's about my dad."

The hesitation returned. "What about him?"

Quite suddenly, Nate's intuition screamed at him to end the call. He opened his mouth to apologize, to cut the conversation short, but Carl's voice stopped him. "Nate? It's okay. You can trust me. What's going on?"

Nate grabbed the words like a lifeline. "It's my dad. He's acting . . . weird. It's starting again. The yelling and stuff. And he's drinking. A lot. I caught him—" This was the hardest of all, the thing he could have left unsaid forever. "I caught him coming out of Sophie's room last night. And she was crying."

Silence echoed back to him.

"Carl?" Nate cursed the tremor in his voice.

"Maybe she was having a nightmare."

Anger stabbed through Nate. "I don't think so. I would have heard her."

"Well, what are you saying? I mean—" Carl laughed. Not in amusement, Nate noted. "Think about what you're implying. You shouldn't go around accusing your dad of that sort of thing unless you're absolutely positive about it."

Carl's animosity stoked Nate's. "I don't know for sure. But I wouldn't be calling if I didn't think—I don't like the way he touches her."

Said out loud, it sounded petty. Immature. And worst of all, dismissible.

"Nate." Carl sighed. "Listen, your dad called here the other day."

"He did?" Fear began to churn with the anger. Nate's eyes darted to the door again.

"He told me what happened."

"What do you mean?"

"With that guy. Kenny. Listen, son, you can't blame your dad for acting the way he did, can you? He was shocked, and angry, and he's very, very concerned about you."

"What?" Nate whispered.

"Is this why you've been acting out? Getting into trouble? You're . . . confused? Nate? Please give your dad a chance. People change, you know. He loves you, and he wants to help."

Mortified, sick with understanding, Nate set the receiver back in its cradle. The helplessness weighing him down began to fade, burned away by rage. Carl was supposed to understand. He was supposed to know. Maybe time and circumstance did change people, but they hadn't changed Dayton Creed. Whatever he wanted, he took.

Shaking, Nate stared at the phone. "You're not getting my sister, you bastard," he said. "No way."

***

He jerks awake. The promise is still on his lips, and like a whispered prayer, it buoys his resolve. For once, his dreams have been cathartic. His strength has returned, and on its heels, optimism. He embraces it like an old friend.

He tries to stretch, then realizes Sophie is still wrapped around him. She mumbles something, rolls away, and Nate eases from her bed, wincing when his stiff joints protest.

His jeans are where he usually leaves them, in a heap on the bathroom floor. He pulls them on before tiptoeing down the stairs, avoiding the creaking risers for Sophie's sake. Disturbed night sleep and nightmares aside, he's famished. Instead of sluggish and sleepy, he feels rested. Sharp. He's pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge when Bran appears at the back door.

Nate lets him in, fighting a grin the whole time, unsuccessfully if Bran's answering smile is anything to go by. Bran eyes up the pan and eggs. "Breakfast? You're the best, Nate. I'm starved."

"Jerk."

"If I make the bacon, am I still a jerk?"

Nate gives him a once-over. The tank top doesn't leave much to the imagination, and the shorts are pocketless. "Did you bring bacon?"

"I meant I'd make your bacon."

"That's very generous of you." Nate manages to look annoyed for an entire five seconds, then gives Bran a gentle shove toward the fridge. "Second shelf."

They work in comfortable silence for several minutes before Nate speaks. "Scrambled?" He glances over his shoulder just in time to see Bran's eyes slide hastily away. He knows catching Bran staring at him should make him nervous. Instead, a flash of heat ignites in his stomach. He raises an eyebrow. "Admiring my cooking skills?"

Bran scowls. He reaches across the counter, relieves Nate of the bowl and beater and jerks his head toward the door. "Do you own a shirt?"

"Last I checked."

Bran answers with a tight smile. "Go put it on." He turns to the stove and begins to whip the eggs together.

Nate obeys, and now there's no beating back the grin. He's burning with energy, with other things, too, and just as it all coalesces into the need to act, Bran calls out to him. "I thought after you dropped Sophie off at school, we could hit the river. You said you wanted to get some pictures of the waterfall."

Nate takes a deep, cleansing breath. "Sounds perfect."