Chapter FIFTEEN

DURING THE car ride the night before, Finn had been quiet. Mitch thought it could be because Mitch’s actions when he threw Finn to the ground made the guy uncomfortable. Mitch gripped the steering wheel tighter as he tried to push the memory away. All day he’d been on tenterhooks as he waited for the other shoe to drop. But Finn hadn’t said anything about it, not this morning in the car on the way to work—although that was probably because he spent most of the journey on the phone with Rocky—and not for the hour or so they were in the car heading back to Finn’s place. Mitch took his eyes off the road for a moment and glanced at Finn. He was huddled in the passenger seat, curled in on himself. He held one hand against his head, shielding his face from Mitch’s gaze.

Shit! I just wish he’d say something and get it over with.

Mitch had prepared his lines, his spiel about the adrenaline rush and the natural reaction to having his dick thrust against a hard surface. Oh Jesus, and what a hard surface it was. Nope, not going there. Mitch just prayed they could get the awkward discussion out of the way. At least then he’d know what he was dealing with. The way he and Ross saw it was Finn would either accept the explanation and move on, or he’d chuck a wobbly and get rid of Mitch. But surely if Finn were going to do that, he’d have already done it by now. Rocky hadn’t reacted any differently to Mitch, and neither did any of the other brothers. So what on earth was going on with Finn?

Mitch pulled into the drive of the ramshackle house. Usually Finn gave his goodbyes and jumped from the Range Rover as soon as they pulled up. But not this time. He just sat there, unmoving. The interior of the car was dim, but Mitch couldn’t see Finn’s face anyway due to the position of his arm and hand.

Oh well, someone’s got to do it, and it may as well be now.

He took a breath and prepared to kick off the much-dreaded conversation, but the small groan from Finn stopped any words he was going to say.

“Finn? Are you okay?”

Finn moved slowly. He lowered his hand and turned his head to look at Mitch. Mitch could see the grimace in the low light.

“Headache. I’ll be okay. Just need to lie down.”

Finn’s voice was hardly above a whisper, and Mitch strained to hear over the rumble of the idling engine. Finn fumbled with the door, flinching when the interior light of the car came on. He went to exit the vehicle, only to jolt back when the seat belt held him firmly in place. As Finn fumbled with the buckle, it was obvious something was definitely wrong.

“Hold on.” Mitch threw the Range Rover into Park and turned off the ignition. He flew around the car, arriving on the other side just in time to catch Finn as he tumbled from the car. Finn relaxed into his arms for a moment before putting both hands on Mitch’s chest and pushing upright. Mitch gave him the space he needed but prepared to catch him again should he fall.

Finn didn’t protest when Mitch walked beside him to the house. He didn’t argue when Mitch took the house keys from his shaking hand and opened the door. “Alarm?”

Finn nodded and moved to the panel on the wall, where thankfully he entered the numerical code with no issue. Mitch trailed behind Finn as he made his way through the darkened house to the kitchen. Once there, Mitch stopped in the doorway as Finn opened the fridge. He left the door wide open without reaching inside. Instead he moved to the kitchen counter and opened one of the drawers. He withdrew a bottle of pills before pouring a glass of water directly from the tap, using a glass from the drying rack, then took both the pill bottle and the glass of water to the small table. Finn’s movements were slow, and it was if he was unaware of Mitch’s presence. For a moment Mitch tossed around the idea of quietly leaving, but when he saw Finn struggling to open the small bottle, he moved forward instead of retreating. He dropped to his haunches at Finn’s side.

“Here. Let me do that.”

Finn looked up from the bottle and blinked a couple of times before holding out the pills.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“How many? Two?” At Finn’s nod, Mitch passed over two of the little pills, noting there were only two more left in the bottle.

Finn threw them back with some water before staggering to his feet.

Mitch stood, bringing them close together. He looked down into Finn’s face, and even in the dim light of the open refrigerator, could see the strain around his eyes and the tension in his features.

“Migraine?”

“Yeah. I get them every now and then. I just need to go to bed, and I’ll be right in a few days.”

“A few days?”

Finn nodded again, grimacing at the action. “Most likely. They usually last two to three days. Sometimes only one, if I’m lucky.”

Mitch resisted the urge to reach out and touch Finn although the impulse was strong. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I just need to sleep. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Mitch said. There was no way in hell he was leaving Finn stuck all the way out in the boondocks when he wasn’t feeling well.

“You don’t have—”

“Like I said, I’m not leaving. So how about we get you settled into bed, and then you can tell me what else you need.”

Surprisingly Finn didn’t argue. He just left the room and headed in the direction of the bedrooms. Mitch moved to follow, but not before he fetched a fresh glass of water. The glass Finn had used was chipped, so Mitch left it in the sink and opened a cupboard to look for a new one. Empty. He tried a few more doors until he came to a cupboard that held a single glass, a few mugs, and a small pile of mismatched plates. He ignored the prickle of confusion at the mostly empty kitchen, took the glass, and filled it before grabbing the pill bottle. He closed the fridge door on his way out, plunging the room into darkness.

Mitch stopped at the doorway to Finn’s bedroom. It was clean and neat but appallingly decorated and looked like a relic from the 1950s. Striped wallpaper in shades of brown and blue, sheer curtains over an antique roller blind, an armchair, and an old bed. There was a simple timber wardrobe and a small dresser, both of which looked like op shop finds or something from the council cleanup. But his attention was quickly drawn to where Finn sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap and head hanging. He raised his head at the sound of Mitch’s steps on the floorboards and offered a small smile.

It was difficult finding space on the bedside table due to the pile of paperbacks that took up most of the surface, so Mitch collected the books and deposited them on the floor, the job made easier by the dim glow from the digital alarm clock.

“I’m going to turn on the lamp,” he said in a low voice.

He angled the globe away from the bed so it cast a gentle light onto the floor, leaving the bed mostly in shadows. It didn’t take long to divest Finn of his clothes and shoes, leaving him in his boxer briefs. As difficult as it was, Mitch kept his focus on the practicality of helping Finn and avoided looking at his body, no matter how much he wanted to. Finn was obviously unwell and didn’t need Mitch studying him. However, it was hard not to notice his lean strength, all long limbs and taut muscles, as Mitch pulled the fabric from his body. He helped Finn stand and drew back the bedclothes, holding them up so Finn could slip between the sheets. Mitch couldn’t help seeing the hint of something dark on Finn’s skin, stretching from his shoulders and right across his chest. The low light made it impossible to discern clearly, and Mitch only allowed himself a brief glimpse before covering Finn with the cotton sheet.

“Thanks,” Finn murmured.

“Do you need anything else? What can I do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Just leave me. The pills will work soon.”

Mitch could tell what an effort it was for Finn to even get those few words out. He reached down and flipped off the lamp, stepping carefully through the darkened room. He pulled down the roller blind to prevent the morning sun from waking Finn, hoping he slept that long, and shut the door closed behind him. At the last minute, he decided to leave it open a fraction so he’d be able to hear if Finn called out, if he needed anything.

Now Finn was safely tucked away, Mitch could turn on some lights. He flicked the switches in the hall and the living room before heading back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He idly traced the pattern of the old laminate benchtop as he waited for the water to boil. Once the tea was made, he took it to the living room, but it was impossible to relax. For one thing, the couch was shit, with sagging cushions and zero lumbar support, another piece of furniture that should be on the scrap heap. Why on earth does Finn live like this?

While he sipped the English breakfast, Mitch contemplated his next steps. While he’d been in the house a few times when coming to pick up Finn or dropping him home, Mitch mostly stayed in the car. He’d only had a chance to take in the house on the surface, and because nobody had lived there for years, it hadn’t been searched as part of the investigation. Now was the perfect opportunity for Mitch to do some recon while Finn was out for the count, and he wouldn’t be interrupted. There wasn’t much to search, anyway, so it wouldn’t take long.

Tea finished, he rinsed the mug in the sink and left it on the drainer with the other dishes that were obviously from Finn’s breakfast and decided he’d start with the kitchen. He made his way systematically through the cabinets and drawers, even looking in the oven and the fridge. Nothing. Next he tackled the living area, rummaging through the entertainment unit—not even a DVD collection, just a board game and a few old copies of Australian Shooter. He flicked through the pages and wondered who the hunter was, but based on the date of the magazines, they most likely weren’t Finn’s. His dad’s, maybe, or perhaps the dead brother?

Dice rattled as Mitch picked up the battered box of Yahtzee. Finn’s name was scrawled in childish block letters on the top corner of the box. Mitch traced the letters, imaging the young Finn playing this game. Was it a favorite? Did he play it with his brothers? It was hard to imagine the Cummings clan sitting around for family games night.

Mitch recalled his own childhood and the weekends his parents insisted he and his sister, Vanessa, join them for board games or cards. Vanessa repeatedly voted for Trivial Pursuit, something that always pissed Mitch off. She was a whiz with general knowledge and could beat Mitch and their parents hands down. His mum favored Monopoly, and his dad liked playing 500. Mitch always preferred outdoor games, but he wouldn’t have traded those hours he spent around the table talking, bickering, and laughing with his family for anything. He hoped Finn had experienced even a moment of this type of happiness when he was growing up.

He pushed the box back into the cupboard and stood, stretching his back and enjoying the pop of vertebrae—it had been a long and tiring day after a restless night. A quick look around confirmed there was nowhere else to search in the room, and rummaging in the two drawers of the hall console table only took a moment. That only left Finn’s bedroom and the couple of other bedrooms. The first room Mitch checked was empty, with a stale, abandoned feel compounded by the musty odor. The second room was more fruitful, filled with packing boxes of varying sizes.

Mitch grinned. It looked like the contents of the house had been packed away and stored in this room. Bingo!

But a further glance wiped off the smile, and he hunched his shoulders. The boxes were new and stamped with the details of a moving company. He was obviously looking at Finn’s belongings shipped from Melbourne. Damn!

With a heavy sigh, Mitch raised the flaps on the first box. Someone—Finn, presumably—had already removed the packing tape. He pulled out the first newspaper-wrapped item, a plain white porcelain plate. Next came other items of crockery—more plates, bowls, and mugs—all of them in the same simple design. The next box held glassware, including heavy green glass tumblers and wineglasses in various sizes. Nothing looked particularly expensive, but it was tasteful and fairly new. Fifteen minutes later he’d unearthed pots and pans, cutlery, towels and sheets, and a myriad of household appliances. There was a box full of clothes in Finn’s size, and another containing books.

There was a stab of unease as Mitch pried into Finn’s things, but he swallowed it back—he had a job to do, and the fact he liked the guy shouldn’t even enter into it. He pressed his lips together and got on with the task.

The box of books was the most enlightening thing he found. It spoke a lot about Finn that the books he read were so varied. It appeared Finn enjoyed everything from thrillers and biographies to romance. Mitch hadn’t read romance before, but he picked up the biography and found it fascinating. He looked forward to the opportunity to discuss it with Finn, to find out his thoughts, but as he looked around the box-filled room, he realized that discussion wouldn’t happen for a while because it wasn’t like Lance Armstrong was someone to naturally come up in conversation, and Mitch couldn’t let on he’d searched the room.

Mitch closed the door on the little slice of Finn’s life, but the curiosity didn’t dissipate. Why were his possessions in boxes? Finn had been in the house for a couple of weeks—you’d think he would have unpacked, at least the basics. Instead his perfectly nice dinnerware was wrapped in newspaper, and he was drinking from cracked glasses.

Mitch tiptoed along the hall so as not to disturb Finn, but stopped at the sound coming from the bathroom. At some time while he’d been engrossed in Finn’s belongings, Finn had crossed the hall, but from the sound of retching, he wouldn’t have been in any fit state to investigate Mitch’s whereabouts, anyway. Mitch didn’t want to intrude on Finn’s privacy any more than he already had, but he couldn’t ignore that the guy was so unwell. He swallowed the guilt and knocked softly on the door, pushing it open at Finn’s muffled reply.

“Are you—shit.” Mitch rushed forward at the sight of Finn sitting on the tiles.

Finn had a towel folded on the edge of the toilet seat and one arm resting on it, making a pillow for his head. He briefly flicked his eyes up to Mitch before he raised himself and heaved into the bowl. He dropped back down once the heaving subsided, but it was obvious from his unusual pallor that he still felt horrendous.

There was a washer on the edge of the tub, so Mitch dampened it, then sat on the side of the tub when he could reach Finn. He held the cool cloth to Finn’s forehead.

Jesus, if this was what a migraine was like, he wouldn’t wish one on his worst enemy.

“ROCKY. IT’S Mitch.” Mitch dragged on his cigarette as he stared into the backyard.

“What’s up?”

“Finn’s sick. We won’t be in for a couple of days.”

“What the fuck!”

Mitch held the phone away from his ear. He gave Rocky a moment to rant before interrupting his tirade. “Like I said, he’s sick.”

“There’s shit going down here, Mitch. I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

“It’s not a choice. I’m sure he’d be there if he could.”

“Well, you can get your goddamned arse in here. I don’t pay you to be a nursemaid.”

The thought of leaving Finn unattended, especially while he was so ill, didn’t sit well with Mitch. He was staying whether Rocky liked it or not. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s not up to you,” Rocky snapped.

“What the—”

Fuck. Tread easy.

“Think about it. Someone took a shot at him on the weekend. Until you sort this crap out with the Brutes, you’re all sitting targets. Why don’t you focus on that and I’ll focus on doing my job. If I stay out here, I can keep an eye on Finn and make sure he’s safe.”

Rocky mumbled something, but he didn’t outright argue the point. Instead he got the last word by issuing orders. “I expect you back as soon as he’s on his feet. He’s needed on the books. You keep an eye out and let me know if you see or hear anything suspicious. I’ve got a plan for the Brutes, so don’t worry yourself about that.”

“Sure, Rocky. I’ll take good care of him.” Mitch rolled his eyes as he accepted Rocky’s directive, something he was bloody well doing anyway.

The instinct to take care of Finn didn’t give him any other option.