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Chapter One
Two things became incredibly clear to Michael Pearce as he regained consciousness: first, his left cheek was stuck to the faux leather cushion of his living room’s sofa, probably from drool; and second, he was clutching a half-chewed rawhide close to his chest like a safety blanket.
The first thing kind of made sense. In the two weeks since Kenny had left him and taken their dog, Rosco, with him, Michael didn’t always sleep in their bedroom. At first, it had hurt too much to sleep in their room, which had still smelled like Kenny’s cologne. Now Michael was just used to the couch. But he usually remembered a pillow and blanket. What had he done last night to fall flat on his face?
Oh yeah. The finalized divorce papers had shown up. The booze came out. Michael had gone out and found company, fucked his sorrows away, and then drunk more before passing out in the living room.
Classy. Real classy, asshole.
He peeled his face off the couch cushion and attempted to sit up. His stomach sloshed dangerously, and he contemplated whether the bathroom or the kitchen sink was closer. Fortunately, last night’s booze fest stayed put for now. He stared at the rawhide and more bits of last night came back to him. Stumbling home wasted. Tripping and falling on the expensive Persian rug, kind of hoping he barfed all over it because Kenny had picked it out and Michael had never liked it. Seeing the rawhide under the couch. Missing his dog so much he’d started bawling.
Apparently, he’d crawled onto the couch and cried himself to sleep with the rawhide in his hands. Definitely not his finest moment. Oh well. Not as if it was the least dignified thing he’d ever done in his forty-one years on earth. He and Kenny had hosted some insane parties in this house over the years, but that was all over now. Most of Michael’s friends here in Austin had been Kenny’s friends first, and they’d all taken Kenny’s side during the separation.
Didn’t matter that Michael’s creativity and experience had made them their fortune. Money they spent lavishly on this fucking house and their fucking friends. Money Michael no longer had access to, thanks to his idiot, in-love self not paying attention to the contract he’d signed with Kenny when their app first took off. A contract that cut Michael out of the profits if their partnership ever dissolved.
Which it had, about a month ago, when he caught Kenny cheating on him. For as much as Michael had loved Kenny once, and for as amazing as it had been being rich after growing up on a failing ranch, Michael missed his dog the most.
He put the rawhide on a side table and stood, his target the bathroom and a nice hot shower to wash last night’s funk off his skin. He also kind of had to pee and his mouth tasted like ass—and not in the good way—so his toothbrush was a priority. Naturally, his cell phone rang somewhere in the house.
Michael always thought of not answering a call—or at least looking at the number—as leaving work unfinished, so he abandoned the bathroom trip in favor of searching out his phone. He found it on the floor of the kitchen. County Hospital, with a Texas exchange. His old home county.
With a wiggle of dread in his gut, Michael answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Michael Pearce?” a feminine voice asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Mr. Pearce, my name is Susan, and I’m a patient advocate at Claire County Hospital. I have you listed as Elmer Pearce’s emergency contact.”
Oh God, the old man’s kicked it.“Yes, I’m his son. Is he dead?”
“No, he’s stable at the moment. Mr. Pearce, your father had a stroke early this morning. He was found by a neighbor and rushed to our emergency room, where we were able to stabilize him. He’s been briefly conscious, but we still don’t know the extent of the damage from the stroke.”
Michael stared at a pretentious portrait he’d never liked, but Kenny had insisted they buy. Honestly, for a flaming gay man, Kenny had the worst taste in home decor, but Michael had indulged him. Why hadn’t he taken the damned painting and left Rosco?
“Mr. Pearce?”
“What? Sorry.”
“I understand this can be upsetting news.” She rattled off a few things Michael’s hungover brain couldn’t make a lot of sense of, until she got to: “He has some paralysis on his right side, so he will need help at home once he’s discharged. At least for a little while.”
His gut clenched and he moved closer to the kitchen sink. “Paralysis?”
“It’s not uncommon with stroke victims, but as I said before, it’s early hours and we’re still assessing him. He can, of course, receive visitors. I can give you the address if—”
“No, I grew up there, I know where it is. I’m, um, in Austin, so it’ll be a while before I can get up there.”
“Of course. He’ll likely be out of the ER and in a room by the time you arrive, so you can ask at the main desk.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
He ended the call and put his phone on the counter, brain whirling with too many things he needed to do. Pack a bag. Figure out how to get there. Flying into Amarillo was obviously faster, but by the time he found a flight with enough time to get through TSA, he’d probably be just as well off driving the eight or so hours to his home county. He’d have his own car, instead of driving around in his father’s dusty old truck.
A dusty old truck Michael had tried to replace more than once over the years, but Elmer wouldn’t take his money. And not because the money had come from a gay dating app. Elmer was just too proud to accept financial help from anyone, even his own estranged son. So he made his metal folk art and clung to a huge piece of land he really didn’t need, out of stubbornness and spite. And Michael had stayed in Austin, living the life he thought he wanted to live.
Until everything had come crashing down.
Michael gazed around the huge chrome and white kitchen and no longer saw himself in it. Having and spending money was wonderful when you were used to being poor, like he’d grown up back in Weston. Having a refrigerator that talked to him seemed like the best thing in the world. Every new gadget, every great invention was scattered around this house. A house Kenny had abandoned for another man with even more money and an even bigger house.
