Title: To Be Alive
Author: B. Rourke
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: August 3, 2020
Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 68100
Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, Contemporary, romance, family-drama, law enforcement, in the closet, therapy, hurt/comfort, mental illness
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At twenty-two years old, Rhett Hawkins
lives a life full of secrets and lies. Nobody knows the truth about his
childhood growing up in an abusive home, the eating disorder that threatens to
take his life, the obsessive thoughts about death that play like a movie in the
back of his mind, and the sexuality he hides.
Nobody until he meets Colt, that is.
Police Constable Colt Williams is the
only person ever took the time to look past the lies and see Rhett for who he
really is: a damaged, beautiful young man desperate for love and acceptance.
When Colt steps in and tries to get him help, Rhett makes a choice that takes
him further away from life than he’s ever been before.
With his world turned upside down and
his secrets laid bare for all to see, Rhett realizes it’s only by facing death
that he can learn what it truly means to be alive.
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To Be Alive
B. Rourke © 2020
All Rights Reserved
There are 206 bones in the human body.
Rhett Hawkins knew them all by name and
as he stood in front of the mirror naked, he counted the ones he could see
poking through his pale skin.
Count the clavicles.
One and two were there. He reached up
and touched them both reverently, his eyes tracing the outline of the twin
curves underneath his skin. Rhett loved how graceful they looked in the
reflection of the bathroom mirror. If he had to pick a favorite bone, it would be
the clavicle. His eyes got stuck on a small bruised mark on the right one and
he was captured there for a few seconds staring at it. It shouldn’t be there
anymore, yet it was. He was marked. Branded on the outside to mimic the inside
where he carried the wounds on his heart he’d caused all on his own.
Count the ribs.
A knock on the bathroom door jolted him
out of his ritual and he frowned. The knock was followed by a jiggle of the
locked doorknob and he called out to his roommate letting him know he was inside
still.
“Did you get lost in the shower or
something?”
“Just getting out,” he responded, as a
shiver raced through his body. Rhett briefly wondered if he was getting sick.
He seemed to be shivering a lot more than he usually did even though it was winter
outside. Dylan kept the townhouse warm enough that they could walk around in
shorts and be comfortable when it was freezing out but for some reason the heat
wasn’t warming him like it used to.
Footsteps moved away from the bathroom
door and he turned his eyes back to the mirror, noticing for not the first time
the darkened circles his eyes seemed to sink into. He was definitely getting
sick. Maybe Dylan had picked up some bug from work and spread it to him, or
maybe someone at the art studio gave him the gift of bacteria during class.
Rhett briefly considered jotting down a reminder to make a doctor appointment
before he gazed down at his body again.
Count the ribs.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. He
tapped each one with a fingertip as he counted in his head until he reached the
seventh pair. Rhett frowned as he dug his fingers into his skin, searching for
pair seven. He pinched the flesh between his fingers as his frown deepened.
Below pair six, the rest of the ribs were hidden under a layer of fat that made
him sick to his stomach. No matter what he did, those stubborn ribs never
seemed to appear. His gut bucked and heaved though it was empty, the handful of
carrot sticks he’d eaten at the reception having long been removed from his
system. Rhett huffed a disappointed sigh as he gazed further down his body at
the bruises on his hips.
He bruised easier than he really should.
The outlines of his lover’s hands were present in his flesh even though he
hadn’t been with the man in four days. Maybe that was a sign of whatever
sickness he had. Rhett nodded in agreement at himself in the mirror as another
loud knock broke his concentration again. “Jesus, Dylan,” he mumbled, “I’ll be
out soon.”
This time, Dylan’s voice smacked of
concern. “Rhett, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Dyl, I’ll be done soon. Just
shaving.”
“Can we talk about tonight when you’re
done?”
He shivered, though he didn’t know if it
was because he was cold or because he knew what Dylan wanted to talk about.
“Can we leave it alone right now? Please?” Rhett knew if he begged, Dylan would
drop the conversation. He always did; it was one of the reasons Rhett still
talked to him. Dylan wouldn’t pry and ask questions where he shouldn’t be
sticking his nose. There was a pause outside the door followed by a small noise
that sounded like agreement as his body relaxed. He didn’t want to unpack
everything that had happened at the wedding reception because then he’d have to
tell the truth and the mere thought of doing that was like bile on his lips.
Rhett grimaced as he gazed toward the
door, waiting for the footsteps to meander away as they had before, but he
heard no movement. Please don’t let this be the one time Dylan pestered and
prodded for answers. He had none to offer.
“I just think maybe we need to talk?”
Fuck. He hadn’t gone away.
They didn’t need to talk. The day had
started off well enough but had devolved into the usual shitshow he’d come to
expect of his family. On the ride home, he had realized Dylan’s reaction wasn’t
the same as his own response. His roommate had been shaken to the core by the
words his mother had spat at him, but he just felt numb.
When had he gotten used to her?
“I told you my mother is different.”
“You said different, not batshit.”
“Same difference.”
“Rhett, you know that’s not normal,
right?”
He paused, weighing his words carefully
before finally answering. “It is for me.”
A silence outside the door made a small
thrill of hope that the conversation was over lace down his spine. Thirty-three
vertebrae. He’d count them last.
Count the bones.
Rhett swung his eyes back to the mirror,
goose bumps pimpling his flesh. He was turning blue from the cold but couldn’t
put clothes on. Not yet. He had to count. As Dylan talked outside the door, his
voice faded into the background.
Two hip bones.
Back up.
Count the ribs.
He always got stuck on the ribs no
matter how much he tried to forge forward with his examination of his body. If
he could just see them all, he knew he’d feel better. He’d be better. Dylan
continued mumbling outside the door and he was growing annoyed with the chatter
behind the lock.
So cold.
Count the ribs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Deep breath. Find the seventh pair. Dig
fingers in. Jab. There they were.
Rhett’s head spun as he shivered in
front of the mirror. His knees knocked together as his body quaked from the
effort of standing for too long. How long had it been? It felt like hours.
Count the knees.
One.
Two.
“Rhett, I’m getting really worried.
You’re not even talking to me anymore.”
“I’m fine.”
Start over.
Count the bones.
Rhett’s impatience grew. He needed to
finish this so he could be warm and get some sleep. He was so tired, his body
shivering and shaking as he stood in front of the mirror wondering what it
would take to get Dylan to go away so he could be done.
The truth.
No. Not the truth. He couldn’t explain
that the person he’d been spending so much time with wasn’t a girl. That he’d
met him at the club, his devilish gray eyes promising freedom and comfort
unlike any he’d ever known until he’d wrecked it all. That he was the very word
his mother had hurled at him during her tirade of abuse.
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