Deeper Than Need: A Secrets & Shadows Novel Read online

  Trinity sighed and looked up at the house. She’d known this was going to be a costly mess. But she’d also seen the house, looked at pictures of the pretty little town, the river that rolled so lazily by. She’d felt it, deep inside. She belonged here. This was someplace she needed to be. She just felt a weird little click.

  Of course, it was possible she was insane, because when she saw Noah for the first time she’d felt the same damn click.

  She’d looked at him and it was like, There you are. Where have you been?

  She felt like she’d been waiting her whole life for him, only she hadn’t realized it until the very second their gazes locked.

  Yeah, it was very likely she’d lost her mind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MYDPP.COM/FORUMS

  I need a drink, Preach. The nightmares are awful.

  —CTaz

  The forums for the Madison Youth Drinking Prevention Program were a brainchild Noah had crafted maybe five years ago. One of the kids he’d known back when he’d still been a youth minister had shown up at his door.

  I tried to stop, but I can’t. I don’t want to tell my parents, but I gotta tell somebody.…

  Kids needed a safe place to talk.

  Noah understood the need to hide the secrets, the need to bury himself in a bottle, to drink away the pain. He’d been all of seventeen the first time he picked up a bottle, hoping it might help silence the screams, wash away the blood he saw every time he closed his eyes. For a while it had worked. Then booze wasn’t enough, so he’d turned to women. That spiral had lasted for far too long, and every time he took a drink, every time he took a woman to his bed, the misery and the pain had continued to fester inside him.

  He knew that pain, knew how it could eat at the soul.

  Maybe if Noah had felt he had a safe place to turn, he wouldn’t have fallen so far, so hard. So he’d opened his door to the kid, listened as he cried. Eighteen years old, full of pain, and desperate. It had been June; Noah remembered that. The kid’s parents seemed to be decent people, but Noah knew better than most what masks some people wore.

  Misery and pain were little demons, eating away at Paul Browning. The boy had told Noah if he didn’t get away he was going to kill himself.

  Noah had reached out to a friend in Louisville and Paul had been gone within a few days. A month later, he was ready to enlist in the military. Paul hadn’t come home since, but sometimes he e-mailed Noah. Always with a request: If you talk to my folks, don’t mention me. I don’t want them to know you still talk to me.

  Because the boy’s pain had to come from somewhere, Noah had honored that request.

  A few months after Paul had disappeared, Harrison, a friend of Paul’s, had come to Noah’s door, looking just as battered. Just as bruised. Harrison didn’t want to talk much, but he had mentioned Paul.

  For a minute, Noah had thought the boy would open up, talk about whatever was eating at him. In the end, all Harrison had said was, I’m glad Paul got out, Preach.

  Out of what?

  Harrison wouldn’t say anything else. He’d left. A week later, he’d hung himself in his parents’ garage.

  Noah never could get past the guilt, the feeling that he should have done something … more. Reached out to the kid, made him understand that Noah would help. Somehow.

  Thus the forums were born.

  A lot of adults in town hated them. Others were reluctant to admit it, but they were glad the site was there. Teenage drinking was a problem, even in small-town Indiana. For a town that small, it seemed like drinking and drugs were actually a lot more prevalent than Noah would have expected, especially with the teenage boys. They also had a number of runaways, and in the past ten years, six boys had committed suicide.

  Something had to be done. Noah didn’t know if the forums were the answer, but at least it was an action.

  Some didn’t really like having an alcoholic, even a recovering one, in charge. The way Noah saw it, nobody but a man like him was going to understand the challenges some of those kids faced. Plus, they trusted him.

  That was what they needed.

  He’d fought for these boards, and he’d won.

  He wanted to believe having this safe haven helped.

  He didn’t know if he was right, but he chose to believe he was.

  It had been a lousy day, though, and all Noah really wanted to do was go to his bed, tumble facedown and just fall asleep.

  Maybe once he fell asleep, he’d have another sweet dream about Trinity. He wouldn’t mind that a bit. On the other hand, if he fell asleep too early he’d wake up before four, and that would really suck.

  Better off if he just stayed awake until midnight or so. But he was so tired. Gritty-eyed, he focused on the computer and took a sip of coffee as he read the message again. It left him feeling sad and even more tired.

  I need a drink, Preach.…

  Yeah. Noah knew that feeling. Even understood about the nightmares. He’d drowned his own sorrows for more years than he cared to remember. CTaz was one of the kids Noah didn’t know if he’d ever be able to help. The boy had been fighting these demons for a long time, and each time Noah thought they were making progress the kid slid right back down into the pit, sinking a little further each time.

  Just talk it out, C, Noah typed. You fight it off each time. You can do it again.

  This conversation was one Noah had had dozens, hundreds, of times over the years. It worked for some. It didn’t work for others. But if he could help even one kid, keep even one kid off the road where Noah had crashed and burned, it was worth it.

  He didn’t keep his identity private here. He was the only one who wasn’t anonymous, although he’d managed to figure a few of the members out—and he knew the other moderator/co-owner of the forums.

  Noah used his real name on his profile and he had his cell-phone, home, and work numbers listed. The kids knew they could call him, anytime. More than a few had.

  But most preferred to keep the contact online.

  Talking ain’t enough anymore. I need a fucking drink, Preach. I can’t sleep.

  Dragging one hand down his face, Noah blew out a breath and stared upward for a second as he reached for the words. How did he explain to the boy that he understood? He knew what it was like, to have the nightmares eating at you, vicious teeth that tore chunks out of you until you didn’t think you’d survive another night.

  CTaz didn’t need that, though. He just needed to talk.

  You maybe want to meet up? Talk? It might help.

  It might. It might not.

  Noah didn’t know if there was anything anybody could have said to him twenty years ago that could have helped him.

  CTaz’s answer was immediate and swift:

  No. I don’t wanna meet. I just want a fucking drink. Shit. Shoot. I’m sorry. I don’t need to be cussing so much. Sorry, Preach.

  A reluctant smile curled Noah’s lips.

  You don’t need to worry about that as much as the other problems, C.

  With a hope and a prayer he added in:

  Why don’t you tell me why you need it? I didn’t think you’d been drinking that much lately.

  There was a difference between wanting a drink and needing it. The forums were there for both groups of kids, but their end goal was to keep kids from drinking and to help those who were already addicted. Noah ran this site with a friend of his, but he was the only one qualified to counsel anybody, so things like this usually fell to him. He got tagged whenever things looked rough or it looked like one of the kids might be in danger. Noah and his friend had a protocol set up and they did everything they could to keep these kids safe. If a threat looked imminent, the cops were brought in.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Nothing was ever enough.

  Noah didn’t think CTaz was an alcoholic. Yet. But the way the kid was fighting, if he ever fell, he was going to fall hard and fast.

  I just do. I can’t sleep. Hey, I don’t think I wanna ta
lk about this anymore. I’ll be all right.

  Sighing, Noah tapped out a response before CTaz could leave the chat:

  If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. We can talk about something else. But at least hang around until you think you can get through the night without a drink. If you get so tired, you fall asleep on the keyboard, we’re in good shape.

  There was a pause, and then finally CTaz typed out:

  That’s some screwed-up shit there, Preach. You ought to be telling me to get a good night’s sleep and all that. Not telling me to pass out at the computer.

  True enough. Rubbing the back of his neck, Noah debated on how to respond to that and finally went with the truth:

  You probably get that from your parents. I’m not here to be your parent. I’m here to help you get through whatever is bothering you. If you go to bed and lie there, worrying about whatever is bothering you, that’s not going to help you avoid the need to drink, is it? I’d rather you be tired and sober than rested and hungover. Sounds better, doesn’t it?

  The chat box stayed empty. CTaz’s name remained, so Noah knew he hadn’t left. A minute ticked away before there was a response, and Noah groaned. “Please, God. Let me get through—”

  A letter appeared in the box.

  I

  For a second that was it.

  Then finally, the rest of the kid’s answer came up.

  Just don’t know anymore. It’s all getting too hard. Drunk. Sober. It all sucks.

  Noah understood that feeling.

  You know, C, I understand that. I’ve been there. Drunk, sober … it all sucks. Every day, it seems to get harder,

  he told the boy, each word coming from him like he had to carve it out of his own flesh.

  If you get drunk tonight, and it makes it a little easier, you’ll want to do it again tomorrow. The next day. The next. But sooner or later, the drinking doesn’t dull whatever is hurting you. It just makes it harder to get through the day. The only way to fix it is to deal with what’s hurting you. I’ll help … when you’re ready to let me.

  He would help.

  If he could.

  After he’d finished chatting with CTaz, or rather when CTaz had decided he’d had enough, Noah had shut down the computer for the night. The forums had been oddly quiet. Sometimes it would be sheer chaos; and other times, next to nothing.

  Adam would keep an eye on it for the next few hours, and that left Noah free to deal with his own demons and then collapse. Maybe he’d even be tired enough to sleep.

  But first …

  Like a puppet on a string, he found himself being pulled to the kitchen. Over the refrigerator, tucked into a cabinet, there was a bottle. If he hadn’t been a tall man, he’d need a ladder or a chair to get to it, but he stood six foot three and getting to it was no trouble.

  He pulled it down and stood there, staring at the cut glass, watching as the amber liquor caught the light.

  Mesmerizing, really.

  His own personal genie in a bottle.

  His own personal Pandora’s box.

  Moving over to the table, he sat down and placed the bottle in front of him. After Dad had died, this was a ritual Noah had carried out almost every night. It was even the same bottle. Unopened.

  Staring into it, tormenting himself, taunting himself.

  Reminding himself.

  You pulled yourself out of that bottle. You only go back in if you make that choice.

  Those had been some of the last words his father had said to Noah before he slid back into a drug-induced stupor as the cancer ravaged his body. Noah had all but begged him not to die. Please, Dad. I’m not strong enough to do this alone.

  You’ve always been strong enough. You just never wanted to see it. It’s time to stand on your own two feet, son.

  His own two feet.

  Sometimes it got damn hard to balance. Those demons nipped at his heels and he could all but feel himself ready to tumble straight back down into that pit. Over the past few years, though, it seemed like life had gotten easier.

  Empty, all but meaningless, except for the kids, but easier. He moved through life in a grey cloud, no color, finding little pleasure in anything, but he managed to exist. It was boring. It was empty. But it was easy.

  Days passed when he didn’t crave a drink—the burn of whiskey, the smooth glide of vodka, the casual ease of a few beers, as he just drank the pain away.

  He’d even managed to get past the craving for a woman’s soft arms around him, pulling him through the nights so he could sleep without the screams, the memory of bloody swipes on glass, the ghostly echo in his ears: Trust me.…

  Those physical needs became his own personal cross, one he soldiered with until even those began to fade and he all but forgot the way it had felt to slide between a woman’s thighs, to tangle his hands in silken hair as he buried himself inside a welcoming body.

  On nights like this, though, when he talked to a kid like CTaz who reminded him so much of himself, it was harder. Nights when all the scabs on the unhealed wounds inside him were ripped off and all the ugly poison came boiling out.

  Staring at the bottle, he could almost hear a siren’s call.

  Just one drink …

  But it had all started with just one drink.

  Shutting the voice down, he continued to sit there. Stare.

  Just one drink. He could all but hear the bottle singing to him.

  He could lose himself again. Just for a while. A few days. A few months. The rest of his life.

  Would anybody really care?

  “No,” he said softly, uncertain if he was answering his question or denying the bottle, once again.

  Five minutes ticked away and he let himself get up. Tuck the bottle away.

  He’d won. Again.

  * * *

  Trinity waited until Micah was sound asleep before she made herself walk through the house.

  She’d never, ever admit it to anybody, but this place creeped the hell out of her at night. If she’d come down here to actually look at the place before buying it, she didn’t know if she would have made this leap.

  She was kind of glad it had turned out this way, though, because she’d needed to get away from New York, from the mess her life had become, away from the stares, the whispers, the pity she saw in everybody’s eyes.

  For the most part, she didn’t even regret it.

  It wasn’t until nightfall that she had any problems. But come sundown, it was like the house became some nightmare creation. The shadows lay in thick, heavy piles that no amount of light could penetrate and the odd, eerie noises she tried to pass off as the normal sounds of an old house often kept her awake for half the night.

  The floorboards seemed to all but vibrate under her feet as she moved across them. She had some horrible, fanciful idea of them shattering under her feet and her falling through into some unknown hell.

  “Stop freaking yourself out,” she muttered as she checked the front door. “Otherwise, you’ll have another night where you don’t sleep until three a.m.”

  She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since she’d moved here. When she wasn’t tossing and turning because of nightmares about the house, she was tossing and turning because of restless, hot dreams about the oh, so sexy contractor.

  Man, what she wouldn’t give for him to be dominating her thoughts just then.

  She checked the windows in the living room and reminded herself—the windows were being taken care of soon. They couldn’t be first because a few structural things had to be done, but soon the windows would be done. Soon everything would be done.

  The windows, opaque and dirty no matter how many times she washed them, never seemed to let enough light through, and she’d taken to leaving them open until it was time to get ready for bed. Paranoia always drove her to double-check and make sure she’d shut and locked them all, and she was finishing up that very task when she came to the final window, the one in the kitchen, facing out over t
he slow-moving Ohio River.

  The distorted mess of the window made it hard to make out anything, but she could just barely make out the way the moon reflected off the water. One day soon, she’d be able to stand here and watch through a gorgeous big window as the sun set over the river. She could even see it. Leaning in, she checked the lock, tried to tug the window up—

  Something moved.

  Her breath froze in her throat as a shadow, darker than the other shadows, separated itself from the rest, moving away from the densely wooded section of trees.

  There he stood, in the moonlight, staring across the distance at the house.

  A man…?

  She swallowed, her heart leaping up into her throat.

  Instinctively she moved to the side. The lights in the kitchen were off. Nobody could see in—

  Leaning back in, she stared back out.

  But there was nobody there.

  Nothing.

  At least nobody she could see.

  * * *

  Sheets tangled around him.

  Sweat gleamed on his skin.

  His hands clenched into fists while the muscles in his arms bunched. Everything in him was poised, aching, ready.

  That was reality.

  In his dreams …

  Her hair tangled around his hands.

  Sweat gleamed on her skin.

  And he wrapped his hands around her waist, bowing her back over the bed as he bent over her, pressed his lips to her belly.

  Noah …

  His name was a ragged sigh on her lips, fractured and broken. Nothing had sounded that sweet to him in a long, long while and he eased her back down, settled her on the bed—hers? His? It didn’t matter. Levering himself over her, he stared down into her flushed face, watched as her eyes came to his. She reached up and touched his face.

  This isn’t real. A smile curved her lips. If it was real, you wouldn’t touch me.

  That’s because in real life, I can’t. Here … He lowered his mouth, touched it to hers. I can.

  She wrapped her arms around him, arched up so that the wet heat of her slid against his cock, teasing and taunting. Why not?

  But he couldn’t think. Not when she moved against him like that. Sliding one palm up the firm length of her thigh, he caught her behind the knee, opened her. The swollen hot flesh of her sex parted slowly and he groaned as he sank into her like glory.