Page 34 of Missing Piece (Neon Scars #2)

A dam stared at the can of peaches on the bedside table as though it held the secrets of the universe. For all he knew, it did. He pulled the bedsheets around his waist tighter as he scooted toward the edge of the bed, still naked from the night before. Vincent’s absence greeted him like a slap.

Well, bullying a vampire into fucking you bareback probably wasn’t wise.

The thought refused to be pushed away. Of course, he had made a complete and utter fool of himself last night.

His mind wandered into territory he rarely allowed it to explore, and since he was however-many-days sober now, he went for a different kind of high to make himself feel better.

That probably didn’t bode well for his recovery, but it wasn’t exactly like recovery was his choice in the first place.

Still…it was the best sex he had had in years.

Probably ever. And despite the aching that seemed to burrow into his bones, it was the soreness in his ass that drew his focus.

The way Vincent had been so ruthless with him, yet mindful of his wrecked ankle, made that curling warmth in his abdomen return.

He hated to admit it, but waking up alone disappointed him .

Why would I want to cuddle with a vampire? That’s dumb. Even for me.

Adam poked at the swollen skin around his eye, wincing as it stung to the touch.

It didn’t feel as terrible as it did the day—night?

—before, but he hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror, so he wasn’t sure how bad it looked.

The acetaminophen sat on top of the peach can like an offering.

He tossed the pills into his mouth, grimacing as they stuck in his dry throat.

The can of peaches called to him. He yanked the top off, fingers stiff as he did.

As soon as the scent hit him, tension melted from his shoulders.

It really was such a silly response on his part, so terribly weak…

but those damn cans got him through so many days when he couldn’t keep food or water down.

Overly mushy, the texture almost unpleasant, but he’d swallow the chunks of fruit whole just to get at the syrupy nectar unobstructed.

A glance back at the door to make sure Vincent hadn’t done that creepy thing where he would just materialize in a room without making a sound, then Adam shoved the chunks of fruit into his mouth so fast he was sure he would choke.

Chewing hurt, but it was worth it. He breathed a sigh through his nose, eyes on the ceiling as if it could tell him why he was so satisfied despite literally every inch of his body aching and stinging.

The corn syrupy goodness slid down his throat.

He breathed out to keep from chugging it all in one go.

The door creaked open, and Adam shoved the can back toward the nightstand as he realized he’d made a mess of peach juice and fruit chunks.

Well, a bigger mess. His shoulder blades already felt weirdly sticky.

Matteo appeared in front of him, eyes wide and his eyebrows kissing his hairline as he looked over the aftermath.

Matteo began signing quickly, gesturing at someone behind Adam to come into the room.

He kneeled, movements slower now, but Adam couldn’t make much sense of it. All he caught was “why” and “water”.

A hand ran up his forearm like he did before, telling Matteo to slow down before he glanced over his shoulder and saw Luka walking in with a box of medical supplies. Did Vincent send them in to take care of me?

Where the hell was Vincent?

?You W-A-N-T water?? Matteo asked, fingers moving slowly as he signed. Then he pointed to the can of peaches on the nightstand.

Oh. Water instead of peach-flavored diabetes juice. Adam nodded, barely having a chance to blink before Matteo zipped out of the room like someone had just slapped him on the ass. So fucking weird.

“Vin said your stitches tore,” came a computerized voice from behind him.

Adam grabbed the blanket around his waist again, making sure it was secure before glancing over at Luka. The vampire typed something into his phone, prompting the computer voice to speak again, “I’m going to numb your back and fix them.”

“Do you have something to write with?” Adam asked, scribbling in the air on imaginary paper.

Luka gave him a confused look before pointing to himself and making a circular motion in front of his lips with his index finger. Adam just shook his head, “I don’t know—”

Luka continued tapping the phone screen as he beside him, letting the supply box spill onto the crinkled sheets. “I am hearing. I can hear you. I can’t speak.”

Should I have figured that out by now? Granted, he hadn’t spent a ton of time with either twin.

“Sorry, I guess? I don’t know. Fuck.” The sigh came out heavy as he leaned forward, staring down at his bruised foot and sock-covered prosthetic while Luka began to jab the needle into one of the burning spots along his spine. “Where is Vincent?”

Matteo reappeared in front of him again, a strange look crossing his face as he glanced at the torn stitches. Water glass extended toward Adam like a peace offering.

“Thanks,” Adam said while signing, taking the glass from Matteo.

The twins launched into rapid-fire communication, Matteo’s hands flying through signs while his mouth moved in silent shapes, Luka’s breathing shifting into something like formed words without sound.

Some sort of discussion was happening, and based on Matteo’s shit-eating grin, it was something exciting.

Or they were just talking shit about him being naked in Vincent’s bed.

No point trying to decipher what they were saying to each other. He’d just make himself dizzy trying to follow hand movements he was unfamiliar with. Instead, he sipped water while the pulling sensation around his shoulder blade told him Luka was patching him up again.

For a house full of supposedly ruthless, fucked up vampires, they were awfully good at caregiving.

That could be part of it. They needed to be good at playing nurse to make sure their humans didn’t die too fast. Though the way Matteo kept checking his expression, the careful way Luka positioned him to avoid aggravating his ankle, it felt like something more than mere livestock management .

Come to think of it, he was the only human in the house, not counting the one day Ophelia showed up to throw his entire existence into chaos (though she didn’t really count as human, did she?). What did the others do for a consistent food source? And what happened to the past ones?

Don’t worry about them. Vincent said not to worry about them.

Even after Luka finished fixing the torn stitches, both brothers lingered for long enough that Adam forgot about his nudity entirely.

Between Matteo’s notepad, Luka’s text-to-speech app, and his own preliminary understanding of ASL, the conversation flowed easier than expected.

The twins seemed as curious about him as he was about them.

Their questions came fast and eager, like they’d been waiting for permission to know him as more than just Vincent’s human.

Matteo used just about every vulgar word Adam knew in sign, though there were probably more he missed.

They wanted to know about his family, where he went to school, what kind of food he liked, if he had friends or pets.

In hindsight, all the questions felt like something he’d be asked when trying to recover a password, but Adam didn’t care.

It was nice to feel normal for a little while, even if he was sharing that information with two men who had probably murdered dozens of people.

He was long past the point of allowing himself to freak out about that.

Plus, if they tried to steal his identity, they would be sorely disappointed to discover he had a credit score so low that even the credit bureaus thought they had made a mistake.

After they left, solitude returned to the bedroom.

The plywood collage of photos drew his attention—images that seemed to show a happier time for the strange group he found himself amongst. Studying them too long made him sad.

Did I have any pictures of myself that ever showed me looking that happy?

His whole life had been hued with his mother’s despair and his father’s indifference. Had that set the ceiling for how happy he could be? Only happy enough to not make Mom sad or Dad angry because he made Mom sad?

“Ugh, fuck this,” he muttered, bracing himself against the edge of the bed. Crying about this kind of emotional bullshit happened last night. No need to get all teary again. Nothing in this room could be broken or hit without making him feel guilty for damaging other people’s stuff.

Bathroom needs were becoming urgent, and if he waited any longer for someone to come check on him, the empty peach can or water glasses on the nightstand would have to suffice.

Some pretty disrespectful things happened during his unrepentant addict days, but defiling someone else’s glassware was not something he would do.

And if I ever did do that, I didn’t remember it, so it technically didn’t count.

Robert’s advice echoed in his head as he pushed himself off the bed, all weight balanced on his prosthetic: “You gotta make amends for the shit you did when you was high buddy, even if you don’t remember it. Just because you were blacked out don’t mean the other person was too.”

The thought made him chuckle as he let the blanket fall away. Robert. That hick had insisted on celebrating his thirty days sober at the strip club, so Robert could be blamed for his current predicament. Though honestly, where else would I have ended up?

Vincent’s long dresser became his next destination, every ounce of weight on his left foot stealing his breath until he nearly collapsed into the furniture.

Vincent’s clothes were organized with military precision.

A small part of him delighted in rifling through them, unbundling socks, and tearing through different boxers until he found one that was just one solid color.

More qualms should probably exist about climbing onto Vincent’s pristine dresser without underwear, but the thought made him laugh instead.

His shoulder blades remained numb from the lidocaine shots, but the rest of him was in enough pain to offer only two options: curl up in a ball and cry, or keep pushing forward and laugh through it.

Getting down from the dresser was only slightly better than getting off the bed, but walls could be hugged for balance and the molding on the doorframe worked for pivoting into the hallway.

The bathroom sat only one door down, but he may as well try to scale Everest. By the time he stumbled through the bathroom doorway, his ankle was on fire, throbbing down into his toenails and aching up into his shins.

Hell, if I can make it back to the bedroom upright, I’ll be impressed.

Hunching over the sink after relieving his angry bladder, he splashed water onto his face and watched the flakes of dried blood swirl down the open drain. Do I want to see how jacked up my face is? Probably a bad idea.

He did it anyway. Sure, his face was a mess of bruises, and his eye had seen better days, but recognition was there.

So many times in the past, looking in the mirror brought horror at not recognizing who looked back at him.

It was one of the worst things experienced over and over during the early days of sobriety—though the list of worsts was a long one.

Despite the injuries, he looked…good. His eyes we re bright and alert, not glazed over from pills or booze like they’d been for so long.

Even with the swelling and discoloration, his face had lost that hollow look that haunted him during the worst of his addiction.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, the person in the mirror was actually familiar.