Restoration
SKU:
MSCRBK0000048
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By Angel Martinez
Release Date: September 13, 2014
Word Count: 29,266
Victor and Cody have the American dream - a house, two cars, upwardly mobile income, and each other - but all is not well in paradise. Cody's trust in other people’s goodwill led to one recent assault. A few months later, a friend’s betrayal leads to another. Battered every waking moment by fear and shame, all his joyful creative energy transforms into brittle, aggressive lashing out.
Victor, wracked by guilt and shackled to a grueling, time-devouring career, must find a way to help Cody back from the darkness and to keep him safe from his self-destructive behavior. With the help of a common-sense therapist, some loyal friends and Cody's own impetuous nature, their recovery and their relationship might even stand a chance.
Please Note: This is a re-edited third addition with expanded content. (Formerly titled Aftermath)
Release Date: September 13, 2014
Word Count: 29,266
Victor and Cody have the American dream - a house, two cars, upwardly mobile income, and each other - but all is not well in paradise. Cody's trust in other people’s goodwill led to one recent assault. A few months later, a friend’s betrayal leads to another. Battered every waking moment by fear and shame, all his joyful creative energy transforms into brittle, aggressive lashing out.
Victor, wracked by guilt and shackled to a grueling, time-devouring career, must find a way to help Cody back from the darkness and to keep him safe from his self-destructive behavior. With the help of a common-sense therapist, some loyal friends and Cody's own impetuous nature, their recovery and their relationship might even stand a chance.
Please Note: This is a re-edited third addition with expanded content. (Formerly titled Aftermath)
Excerpt - Prologue
Three in the morning. Nothing good ever happened at three in the morning. Victor stared at the street as if by hoping hard enough he could conjure up Cody's truck turning into the driveway. He never came home this late and he wasn't answering his phone. Not even a text.
The phone still clutched in Vic's hand buzzed. A return text from that little weasel, Jonathan. There may have been other friends out with Cody, but Jonathan's was the only name he'd mentioned.
He's not with me. About 1, 1:30, Codes left with some guys
Vic struggled not to crush the phone, rage and profound worry waging a pitched battle in his brain. Two hours since his friends had last seen him, the offhand phrase some guys, and Cody's phone silence all cinched the worry's victory. Something had happened. He tried not to let his imagination dwell on what the something might have been.
Trying to keep his shaking hands under control, Vic pulled on sweats and a t-shirt, got in his car and started driving downtown, searching for Cody's truck. While he drove, he called the hospitals, the sick feeling in his stomach growing with every call. County, Cottage Hospital, Goleta Valley—his own voice rang hollow in his ears as he asked each emergency room reception desk to check if a Cody Fitzroy had been brought in.
Finally, when he called St. Francis his brain kicked in. "Cody Fitzroy brought in tonight? Or maybe a John Doe, about five foot six, hundred and fifty pounds, dark red hair?"
"Yes, we have a patient who's a possible match. Unconscious. No identification."
He pulled an illegal u-turn and raced to the St. Francis ER, where thirty minutes later, he had been able to positively identify their John Doe and he sat at Cody's bedside, willing his chest to keep rising and falling. The doctor said he'd been given a dose of ketamine large enough that he could have died if a group of college kids hadn't found him and brought him to the ER. Drugged. Raped. Dumped half-naked at the mouth of an alley. The medical staff had done what they could. It was up to Cody to live through the next day.
And all Vic could do was sit beside him and watch, helpless, grief-stricken, and hanging onto hope by his fingernails.
The phone still clutched in Vic's hand buzzed. A return text from that little weasel, Jonathan. There may have been other friends out with Cody, but Jonathan's was the only name he'd mentioned.
He's not with me. About 1, 1:30, Codes left with some guys
Vic struggled not to crush the phone, rage and profound worry waging a pitched battle in his brain. Two hours since his friends had last seen him, the offhand phrase some guys, and Cody's phone silence all cinched the worry's victory. Something had happened. He tried not to let his imagination dwell on what the something might have been.
Trying to keep his shaking hands under control, Vic pulled on sweats and a t-shirt, got in his car and started driving downtown, searching for Cody's truck. While he drove, he called the hospitals, the sick feeling in his stomach growing with every call. County, Cottage Hospital, Goleta Valley—his own voice rang hollow in his ears as he asked each emergency room reception desk to check if a Cody Fitzroy had been brought in.
Finally, when he called St. Francis his brain kicked in. "Cody Fitzroy brought in tonight? Or maybe a John Doe, about five foot six, hundred and fifty pounds, dark red hair?"
"Yes, we have a patient who's a possible match. Unconscious. No identification."
He pulled an illegal u-turn and raced to the St. Francis ER, where thirty minutes later, he had been able to positively identify their John Doe and he sat at Cody's bedside, willing his chest to keep rising and falling. The doctor said he'd been given a dose of ketamine large enough that he could have died if a group of college kids hadn't found him and brought him to the ER. Drugged. Raped. Dumped half-naked at the mouth of an alley. The medical staff had done what they could. It was up to Cody to live through the next day.
And all Vic could do was sit beside him and watch, helpless, grief-stricken, and hanging onto hope by his fingernails.