Page 2 of Outside the Veil (Endangered Fae #1)

Chapter two

Mitch

“ H ey.”

Diego felt as if a tourniquet had tightened around his throat. “Mitch…how are you?”

“Good.”

In the long silence, he thought of dozens of things he should say. None of them made it out.

“Look.” Mitch’s voice edged toward annoyance. “I’m coming over to get the rest of my stuff. I don’t want any scenes. No drama. Okay?”

“All right.” Diego heard himself speaking from far away. “Could we maybe talk about this?”

“Stop it. We had fun. It’s over.”

“Not for me it’s not,” Diego whispered, resting his forehead on the desk.

“I’m on my way. Don’t make this uglier than it has to be.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Jesus, Diego. You have somewhere important you have to be?” The note of contempt stung more than harsh words ever could.

“I’ll be here.”

The last straw, two weeks before, had been so petty but everything had been too far gone by then.

Diego had pulled a four-week-old kitten out of a dumpster.

Normally Mitch would have rolled his eyes or offered some caustic remark and let it go at that, but they had been dressed to the nines, on the way to a party given by one of Mitch’s business associates.

“Shit, Diego! It’s filthy. Put it back.” Even in the dim alley, he had seen Mitch’s face turn crimson.

“She needs help,” Diego had pleaded. “I’ll take her to rescue, go change and meet you there. I won’t be long.”

“You come with me now or don’t bother showing up.” Mitch had spoken in a calm, reasonable tone.

It wasn’t until the next morning when Mitch still hadn’t come home that Diego realized he’d received an ultimatum for more than just the evening. He’d chosen a skinny, flea-ridden castoff over his handsome lover for the last time.

He wandered out into the hall to run his fingertips over the stacked boxes. All so lovingly packed. Why had he bothered? What was he expecting Mitch to say? “Oh, Diego, thank you for going to all this trouble. I’m sorry I ever left you. I’ll be home tonight.”

Mitch’s hands sliding down his ribs, full lips tracing patterns along his throat…

Diego shivered and closed his eyes, an endless chasm opening under his feet. “God.” He slapped a hand on the wall to steady himself. Carbamazepine…had he taken it this morning?

Three years and it all came down to a few boxes and a bedroom set. Plans for a life together, the house in Connecticut—all sand through his fingers.

“The whole world comes first for you,” Mitch declared one night during a bitter argument. “The bag lady down the street. The junkie on the corner. Some damn alley cat. Any excuse to shove me to the side.”

Diego could offer no defense to what was only truth. Not that he wanted to shove Mitch aside, but the need to help was a compulsion, almost an addiction.

Under different circumstances, the seizures might have brought them closer again, as shared trauma sometimes did. But they were his own doing in Mitch’s eyes—another crime Diego had committed to sabotage their relationship.

His faint hopes of having one more chance to talk to Mitch face-to-face were dashed when he opened the door. Two young men accompanied him, vaguely familiar. They’d probably met at one party or another.

“You remember Chad and Michael,” Mitch said as he strode in. Cursory greetings were offered all around, no one quite willing to meet anyone’s eyes. Mitch proceeded to look over the boxes as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “This everything?”

Stunned, Diego managed a nod.

“Where are my clubs?”

Oh, damn, the golf clubs. “They’re still in the bedroom closet. I’ll—”

“Don’t bother.” Mitch pushed past him. “I’ll get them.”

“Mitch, don’t…”

“Holy crap! What the hell?”

Diego cringed and hurried in to place himself between Mitch and Finn. “Shh, please. He’s a friend. He’s sick. Please don’t disturb him.”

“Right. Sure. Look, he’s either more than ‘just a friend’ since he’s sleeping in your PJs and you’ve been lying out your ass about how broken up you’ve been.

Or he’s the kind of ‘friend’ who usually lives in a cardboard box and you’re lying to me about taking in a junkie.

Christ, Diego. Aren’t you ever going to learn? ”

“It’s not as if it’s your room anymore.”

Mitch snorted. “No, but half my stuff’s still here. And one of these days, one of your projects will kill you in your sleep. Same old shit. Never changes. No matter how many times you promise, or how many times you get hurt.”

Diego’s face burned. “It was just that once. I misjudged.”

“You got the crap beat out of you. Comatose, for Chrissakes!”

“Maybe if you’d stayed—”

“Don’t hand me that. You hide behind this charitable shit so you don’t have to look at the mess your life is in.” Mitch grabbed his clubs out of the closet and slammed the door. Finn didn’t twitch, but one black eye gleamed through his forest of hair.

“Get a fucking job like everyone else. Or stop sulking about rejections and get serious. How many novels have you really finished?”

Two. Well, one. And most of another.

“Is your agent sick of you yet?”

“I thought you didn’t want this to get ugly,” Diego said, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs. He edged out of the bedroom, hoping Mitch would follow. “Not everything’s about money, Mitch. Or about you.”

“Go ahead. Twist everything around. That’s what you’re best at.

” Mitch stormed back into the front room.

“I always harped on you because I worried about you. But I’ve had enough of watching you waste your life.

I even set up that interview at the Times for you.

Remember? No, you couldn’t be bothered.”

“I didn’t—”

“Whatever. Journalism’s beneath you or something.

So you rely on freelance shit and hope you’ll have the rent next month and don’t have any damn health insurance.

Know what I think?” Mitch whirled on him, closing the distance to snarl in his face.

“I think you like being a loser. I think there’s some bizarre romantic attachment to it.

Like you’re fucking Jack Kerouac or something.

Well, you’re not. And you never will be. ”

The boxes had all disappeared, whisked away by Mitch’s helpers. Diego swallowed hard, panic setting in. Mitch was about to walk out again. His gorge rose as the scent of rotting meat filled his nostrils. Not now. Oh, please, God, not now.

“Call me when you finally sell something.” Mitch slung the golf bag onto his shoulder as he headed for the door. “Like that’ll ever happen.”

“Mitch!” Diego tried to go after him but the air in the room had grown too thick. The door slammed and the world exploded in a thousand crackling shards of glass.