Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [94]
And Nate had never mentioned it. Hell, maybe he didn’t even realize it had happened, maybe it meant nothing and Nate hadn’t even realized he’d crawled into bed with his best friend and not the girl he was currently screwing. That’s the way he wanted to play it, and Dillon was willing to let it go. If anything he felt guilty—guilty that he might have misled Nate. Guilty that he couldn’t give Nate what he wanted, when Nate had given him so much. Saving his butt when he’d faced a fifteen-year prison sentence.
Of course, he hadn’t realized at the time that Nate had actually wanted his butt.
He’d left the Dungeon a few months later, heading out with an old friend. He hadn’t told Nate he was leaving—he didn’t want a scene. He managed to drop off the face of the earth, or so he thought, until Nate showed up at the garage five years later.
It was the first of many visits. He was dealing, big time, and Dillon was working on his day-by-day sobriety, a fact which amused Nate. Nate’s favorite occupation was to use in front of him, and try to entice him into using as well. He liked to mock twelve-step slogans in a singsong voice, and bring women back to the garage and do them in Dillon’s bed.
He’d tolerated it, to prove to himself he could, and for old times’ sake. Just because he was in recovery didn’t mean he couldn’t have compassion for someone as messed up as Nate. Someone who loved him, even if it wasn’t the way Dillon wanted to be loved.
Mouser had tried to warn him. Nate and Mouser had hated each other at first sight, a shock, because Mouser didn’t hate anybody. He’d tried to warn Dillon, but he hadn’t listened. Until he heard about the girl.
There was no proof, of course. If he’d had even a shred of proof he’d have taken it to the police, despite his distrust of them.
Mouser had been the one to tell him, just the facts, and Dillon hadn’t wanted to believe him. Hadn’t wanted to believe that Nate had anything to do with the nude body of a thirteen-year-old girl, found raped and murdered near Charles Street. Too damned close to the garage.
Any more than he’d wanted to believe that other girl’s death had been an accident, back at the Dungeon. That was what had spurred him into leaving. He never knew her real name—she’d called herself Cheyenne but she looked more Scandinavian than Native American. She was strung out on any kind of drug she could find, any kind of man she could find, and she hung around the Dungeon like a camp follower. She’d been spending the last few weeks in Nate’s bed when she disappeared. Her mutilated body had shown up in the woods by one of the standing towers. She’d obviously fallen, or been pushed, and her naked body was crushed by the stones she’d landed on. But it hadn’t obliterated the knife marks.
Over the years he could remember other people, other disappearances that were never explained. Each one had seemed so random he hadn’t connected them with anyone, but in hindsight he was sickened.
Nate had usually been too smart to mess with the wrong people. But he’d messed up on a drug deal in Chicago, he’d said when he arrived at the garage. Messed up badly. And men like Orval Johnson didn’t tolerate mistakes. If he couldn’t have money he wanted blood.
And Dillon could no longer ignore the truth of just what Nate was. When Johnson’s enforcer showed up three days later Dillon had let him into the house, told him where Nate was, and sat alone in the kitchen, listening while he beat Nate to death.
He could have left. It would have been the smart thing to do, but he’d figured it was some kind of penance. For not realizing what Nate was capable of. For not putting a stop to it himself.
And in the end, Nate hadn’t died. He must have known Johnson would be coming after him. Must have known time was getting short.
He was smart enough to know that getting a fresh start was the only way to go. So why had he showed up at the garage months after his death? Or had he ever left in the first place?
He didn’t want to think about