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  Seeking Enrique

  Austin Bates

  With help from his brother, Aiden Bates

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  The story may be over but

  Chapter One

  Jules hung up his phone in frustration and blew out an agitated breath.

  “Artists!” He used the word as an expletive, slamming his fist down on his solid oak desk.

  He checked his watch, flipping his wrist aggressively. He was anxious to meet his boyfriend for lunch; Steven always seemed to know just what to say to soothe his mind and renew his spirit. He was as calm as Jules was busy, and the balance had worked well for them for nearly a year now. Jules dialed his phone once more before he left the office. It rang five times before the all-too familiar voicemail message began to play.

  You’ve reached Rick. Enrique. Whatever. Leave a message.

  “Artists,” Jules muttered again.

  He locked his office and jogged to the elevator, looking forward to an easy lunch utterly devoid of authors, writers, and their various eccentricities that made his job infinitely more difficult than it needed to be.

  The elevator doors opened onto the busy lobby. People rushed back and forth, carrying on with their business. Through the chaos, Jules spotted his lover, taking their usual table in the cafe. His long, blonde hair flowed down his back as he settled into his usual seat. Jules was so relieved to see him that he didn’t notice the dark cloud lingering on his pretty face.

  “Hey, sugar!” Jules said happily, kissing Steven’s face.

  “Hi.”

  “What’ll we order today? You still on that paleo thing, or do you want a sandwich?”

  “Jules…”

  “I think I’ll get the chicken salad, seems like a chicken salad kind of day…”

  “Jules.”

  “Or maybe the soup and sandwich, that looks good too…”

  “Jules!”

  “Hm?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Worry settled onto Jules’ shoulders, and he rolled it away impatiently.

  “Sure, hun, what’s up?”

  “So… I stayed the night at your place last night.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware,” Jules said with a little smile.

  “And, um… I went for a run this morning, you know, like I do…”

  “Sure.”

  “And, well… I forgot to bring a change of socks, you know how I need a change of socks after a run.”

  Jules’ gut tightened, and he closed his eyes. He knew what was in his sock drawer. It wasn’t time yet, he’d had a whole thing planned.

  “That was supposed to be a surprise,” he said apologetically.

  “Yeah, um… well maybe it’s a good thing I found it, then,” Steven said, turning his big blue eyes up at Jules.

  “Why do you say that?” Jules asked.

  The tightness returned across his shoulders, and he rolled them again. It didn’t help.

  “Well… you see, Jules, our relationship is fine. I mean, it’s a little one-sided a lot of the time, but I’m alright with that… at this level. I was willing to wait it out, to see if balance would eventually be restored, but if you’re thinking long-term… I mean, you obviously are… then I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of our journey together.”

  “What… what are you talking about?”

  Steven’s soft eyes took on a steely gleam.

  “I’m talking about emotions. You know, those things you pretend don’t exist? Well, you have plenty of them, but you have no idea what to do with them. I’ve helped you manage them, helped you find your own personal balance, again and again. You’re like a child, Jules. You don’t know if you’re angry because you’re hungry or tired, you can’t tell when you’re stressed about work or you just need to get laid, you’re so completely out of touch with everything going on underneath that you just feel and explode and expect me to be there to pick up the pieces. Now, I like you, Jules. I might even love you. But I am not so masochistic that I’d willingly put myself in the position to pick up your pieces until death do us part.”

  “Hey there! What can I get you boys today?”

  The waitress’ presence barely touched Jules’ consciousness. His world was falling apart right in front of him, and he didn’t know how to fix it. There had to be a fix, right? Something he could do, right now, to stick it back together? The look on Steven’s face told him no, but he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. They’d spent almost a year together, how could he not have seen this coming? It just wasn’t possible.

  “No,” he said out loud.

  “Excuse me?”

  He finally noticed the bewildered waitress at his elbow.

  “Sorry love, no lunch today,” he said.

  “Then we’re going to need the table back, please. It’s lunch rush, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  Jules pushed away from the table and beckoned Steven over.

  “Let’s go for a walk and talk about this,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Jules. I’ll go get my stuff. I’ll leave the key under the mat. Maybe someday you’ll find your inner peace. If you do, give me a call. I still see potential in you.”

  “But Steven… you can’t just—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, love,” Steven said, gently touching Jules’ cheek. “I can do whatever I damn well please. Goodbye, Jules.”

  Jules watched him leave, watched him walk right out of his life. In that moment, something snapped inside of him. His tasks rose to the surface and demanded his attention, shutting out every thought, every feeling outside of work. He stormed back to his office, and redoubled his efforts to get in touch with the damned Mr. Enrique R. Dominguez, the bestselling fantasy author and infuriating recluse.

  “Rick, dammit, pick up your phone,” he said to the voicemail.

  He’d left a dozen messages and called three dozen times. Enrique was either ignoring him or dead. Either way, he was bound and determined to find out. He looked at the time and drummed his fingers on the desk. Enrique lived on the opposite side of the country. Jules had only met him in person once, when he’d flown down to get a professional photo for the back cover of Rick’s first book. He hadn’t liked him much. Rick was squirrely, impatient, and had a tendency to twitch when he was uncomfortable. Everything made him uncomfortable, especially strangers and cameras. Trying to get his picture taken in a way that didn’t make him look like a raving lunatic had taken an entire day; Jules had no idea how he was going to make him go on his tour, but he’d be damned if he’d let a diva ruin his plans.

  “How’s it going?” His partner, Ernest, stepped into his office.

  Ernest was large and red, with a bombastic voice and a splashy fashion sense. He should have been Enrique’s agent, b
ut they’d drawn straws and Jules lost.

  “He’s not picking up.”

  “I told you, you shouldn’t have emailed him first. You gave him a chance to run.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Better go find him then, hadn’t I?”

  “I’d say so. He won’t be at his apartment.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know the type. Remember J.D. Cummings?”

  “Oh God, don’t remind me,” Jules groaned.

  “He had a cave. Do you remember the cave?”

  “I remember the cave.”

  “At least you didn’t have to go pull his crazy ass out of it,” Ernest laughed from his belly. “You better find out where he’s holed up.”

  “How?”

  “Eh, guys like him don’t really think too far ahead. Check land sales. He’ll have purchased an out-of-the-way plot somewhere just after he hit the bestseller list.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “Just a hunch. Look it up, let’s see if I’m right.”

  Jules ran the search quickly. To his surprise, he found the sales record, just as Ernest said he would. A plot in the middle of nowhere, a forty-five-minute drive from Rick’s apartment. Purchase paid in cash by one Richard E. Dominguez, two years ago, just after his second book hit the bestseller list.

  “You’re wasting your talents here, Ernest. You should be telling fortunes.”

  “Just good at my job, son,” Ernest said, clapping his hefty hand down on Jules’ shoulder. “Stick with me, you’ll be the second-best agent in the business in no time.”

  “The best being you, I imagine,” Jules said wryly.

  “Of course! Can’t let you top me,” Ernest said with a wink.

  He thundered off to his office on a rolling laugh. Jules chuckled, shaking his head. He’d have to remember to tell Steven about this, he’d get a kick out of… reality slapped Jules in the face like ice water. He wouldn’t be telling Steven anything. Steven was gone. A sick feeling tore up Jules’ gut, and he threw himself back into his work. He ordered a plane ticket and locked up his office. He considered going home to pack, and decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Steven might still be there. Instead, he indulged in a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip, gathering everything he would need for the trip down to Rick’s place, plus everything he would need for the tour.

  Which they were still going to do, even if he had to drag Rick from his cave kicking and screaming. He wouldn’t be thwarted by two eccentric men in a single day. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Fully stocked and full of indignation, Jules boarded the plane.

  Jules usually enjoyed flying. It was fast, efficient, and a feat of engineering that he could appreciate as a layman. This flight, however, was a disaster from beginning to end. He found himself squashed between Snorey and Smelly, his drink spilled all over his lap, and they hit turbulence thirty minutes in that didn’t let up until they landed an hour later. His mood suffered significantly for the minor annoyances, and he was snappish and embittered by the time he exited the airport.

  He gave the cab driver Rick’s official address, fully expecting disappointment. Ernest had been right; Jules pounded on Rick’s door for a full fifteen minutes, to no avail. Finally, Rick’s next-door neighbor, an older woman with a kind face lined with a lifetime of worry, opened her door.

  “He isn’t at home,” she said timidly. “He left this morning.”

  “Do you know where he went?” Jules asked, monitoring his tone.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” she said, her brows furrowing. “He packed his bag, which means he may be back in a week, or he may not return for months. They nearly evicted him last time.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Oh, he pays six months in advance, but he was gone for seven. I asked them to save it for him, just in case, and it was a good thing too. He showed up a few days later and paid in full.”

  “Are you his landlady?” Jules asked, wondering at her knowledge of his account.

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Just his neighbor. People tell me things, you know. Don’t think a little old lady would cause any trouble.”

  “I bet you would, given half a chance,” Jules said with a grin.

  “Oh, you,” she said, blushing.

  “It was lovely to meet you, miss…?”

  “Cornthwaite,” she said, holding out her hand prettily.

  “Ms. Cornthwaite,” he said, taking her hand. “Jules Golias. If you happen to see Rick, please have him call me.”

  “Of course, Mr. Golias.”

  Jules bid her farewell and returned to the cab. He asked to return to the airport; if he was going to be running all over the state looking for Rick, he was going to need his own wheels. He rented a sturdy SUV, and checked his GPS. The property was over an hour away, and Jules was tired to his bones. It had been a long, infuriating day, and all he wanted to do was take a shower, have a stiff drink, and go to bed.

  “He isn’t going anywhere,” Jules told himself.

  He checked into the hotel across the street, and treated himself to a couple of drinks with dinner. He bought a bottle from the bar, and took it upstairs to his room. I deserve it, he told himself. Between Steven’s betrayal, Rick’s absence, and the horrific flight, he truly felt that he did. So he drank himself into a stupor and passed out into a heavy, dream-filled sleep.

  He awoke with tears on his pillow, staining his cheek, but he could not remember the dream that had elicited them. He chose to ignore the emotional crisis because he couldn’t fix it, and fixed his body up instead. A shower and a change of clothes later, he was back on the road.

  He had an hour’s drive ahead of him. He switched the radio on, flipping through stations until he heard a familiar chord. Operatic heavy metal shook his windows as he barreled down the highway, grimly determined to roust his most promising author.

  The radio cut off in the middle of a chorus, and he cursed it. The emergency broadcast system began its ear-splitting buzz, and he glowered.

  “Of course they can’t wait till the end of the song to test the damn thing,” he muttered.

  But it wasn’t a test. The radio informed him, with a retro-sounding recording, that a weather warning was in place, affecting the very mountain he was heading to. Heavy snowfall followed by flooding.

  “Lovely,” he said bitterly.

  The buzzing gave way to the final notes of the song, and he wriggled impatiently in his seat. Snow was falling thickly as he turned off the highway to climb the mountain, and he had to decrease his speed to an interminable crawl. His mood sucked at him, like a bubbling tar pit in his gut, drawing him into darkness.

  “Rick better thank his lucky stars that I need him,” he growled. “I’d happily leave his sorry ass out here to freeze.”

  He called Rick’s phone again. It didn’t even ring this time but sent him straight to voicemail. He hoped that Rick had just forgotten to charge it, as he habitually did; but with the storm building up speed and intensity, Jules began to be concerned. That irritated him and just made it more difficult for him to keep his temper. He knew, as he turned into the woods, that Rick would be getting the brunt of his mood; he felt like he should care about that. He didn’t.

  Chapter Two

  Rick’s phone vibrated on the bed, buzzing as frantically as it had been for the last week. He ignored it. If he ignored it long enough, maybe they’d give up. Maybe they’d accept that he wasn’t the person they wanted him to be, that he couldn’t give them what they needed. He threw the last of his clothes into a duffel bag and looked over his work. He’d traveled light, maybe lighter than he should have, but he wasn’t planning on seeing actual people anytime soon. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he zipped his bag closed. The phone started vibrating again, and he stared at it. He could leave it. He could disappear off the face of the earth, and never talk to anyone ever again.

  Sighing, he grabbed it. He could see a thousand different reasons why he might need t
he infernal machine over the next three months, and he begrudgingly admitted that those reasons superseded his need for solitude. He barely looked at his apartment as he left it. He knew what it looked like. The shabby couch, cluttered with notes and newspapers. The coffee table, decorated with overlapping moisture rings from endless cups of coffee. The TV, barely used, squatting on its table between two overstuffed bookcases. This was his world, his haven. But it was also the address everybody knew, which meant the longer he ignored the calls, the more likely it was that someone would show up to drag him out. He sighed as he locked the door, wondering absently how long it would be before he returned this time.

  He tossed the duffel bag carelessly into the back seat. He wasn’t so casual with his computer. He gingerly loaded the tool of his trade into the passenger’s seat, securing it with the seatbelt and obscuring it with his jacket. Nobody needed to know it was there. His phone began vibrating again, and he shoved it in the glove box. No distractions. He started the car and slid away from his building as unobtrusively as he could. He didn’t want anyone remembering when he left or what he’d packed.

  He turned the wrong way out of the complex, just in case. He wound his way through side streets, going every direction except the one he needed, just in case. It was his mantra, and he whispered it to himself every time he did something that looked crazy, lazy, or inefficient to the outside observer. Just in case, just in case, just in case.

  Just in case someone was watching who could give the pests some clue as to where he’d gone. Pests who wanted something from him that he couldn’t… or wouldn’t… give. If he’d tried to explain to anybody what he was terrified of, they would only laugh at him. He accepted that this terror was his, his own personal hell, and he didn’t expect anyone to understand. Instead, he simply moseyed through town with his heart thundering in his chest, on the run like a snail from the afternoon sun.

  Once he made it to the interstate, he took off, a little black beetle buzzing along at the fastest pace that could be reasonably ignored. He matched his speed to the right-hand lane, never pushing for more speed, never obtrusive. He faded into the backdrop of the freeway, just another car minding its own business. He sweated as he drove, checking the rearview mirror every eight seconds. He counted his heartbeats, and glanced in the mirror. Again and again, always to eight. Nobody was following him, but he couldn’t be certain.