Hating Cain

  Hating Cain

  Blooming Desire Book 2

  Anders Grey

  Copyright © 2019 by Anders Grey

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Cover Design by Cosmic Letterz

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Johnny

  2. Cain

  3. Johnny

  4. Cain

  5. Johnny

  6. Cain

  7. Johnny

  8. Cain

  9. Johnny

  10. Cain

  11. Johnny

  12. Cain

  13. Johnny

  14. Cain

  15. Johnny

  16. Cain

  17. Johnny

  18. Cain

  19. Johnny

  20. Cain

  21. Johnny

  22. Cain

  23. Johnny

  24. Cain

  25. Johnny

  26. Cain

  27. Johnny

  28. Cain

  29. Johnny

  30. Cain

  31. Johnny

  32. Cain

  33. Johnny

  34. Cain

  35. Johnny

  About the Author

  Also by Anders Grey

  1

  Johnny

  I expected the knocking at the door to be the building manager demanding my two-weeks-overdue rent payment. Instead it was a woman in an expensive suit and a somber expression telling me that my parents had passed away, and I was named the sole recipient in their will.

  To say the information hit me in the head like a bag of bricks was an understatement.

  My parents and I weren’t close. We hadn’t spoken since they had ruthlessly kicked me out when I was a teenager for the sole crime of liking boys. The horror. Since then, they never once reached out to me. They didn’t care if I was homeless or anything. I’d lived with the knowledge that the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally didn’t. So despite the grave news, maybe I wasn’t as upset as the lawyer was expecting.

  But despite my bitterness, I was still shocked to hear the news. A car accident and both of them gone in an instant. Even if they didn’t deserve it, my chest ached a little.

  After the initial shock passed, I invited the lawyer inside and we sat on lawn chairs at my plastic fold-up table. She introduced herself as Ms. Walker and patiently explained what all the legal jargon meant.

  The bottom line?

  “You’re inheriting the estate,” Ms. Walker declared.

  The words stunned me into silence. Estate barely captured the scale of the property she was talking about. It was an expensive mansion within a gated community on the rolling hills of Rosecreek. It could fit at least three crappy low-rise apartment buildings inside.

  It was the home I grew up in. The home my parents kicked me out of. The home I never wanted to return to.

  When she finished, I cleared my throat and asked in a small voice, “Um, did they say anything else?”

  “Like what, Mr. Hunter?”

  I gestured in confusion. I’d never been the recipient of a will before and I didn’t know how any of this worked. “No instructions? No letter or anything?” The word burned on the tip of my tongue, and I finally asked, “No money?”

  She paused for a moment, glancing around the apartment like she didn’t want to meet my eyes. “Not as of right now, no.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  Ms. Walker continued. “There was further information that’s not relevant at the moment,” she said slowly, with a look of sympathy. “For now, I think you should deal with your grief, Mr. Hunter.”

  Right now, I was mostly confused. “Are you telling me my parents left me the mansion, but not any money?”

  Ms. Walker nodded curtly.

  I stared at the thick cream-colored paper of the will in disbelief. Part of me wondered if this was some cosmic joke–if this lawyer was just someone hired to pull a ridiculously elaborate prank on me.

  But it wasn’t. It was legal, and binding, and I was now the owner of a McMansion whether I liked it or not.

  Ms. Walker politely cleared her throat after her briefing was over and stood, straightening out her pants as if to forget the memory of sitting on my cheap plastic chair.

  “There was a small fund to help with your move,” she said. “I didn’t realize you had so few items. I’ll call the moving company and hire a small truck to have it done within the week.”

  I tried not to grimace as I followed her gaze, which raked over my one-bedroom apartment. The only things of value were my half-used paints and a couple of precious spare canvases, plus an electronic graphics tablet that sat on the kitchen counter. The rest was rummaged off the streets, bought from the second-hand store or donated by friends.

  So, in Rosecreek terms, it was all junk.

  I bristled at the thought of Rosecreek and the fancy rich community. I’d escaped from it once, and now I was forced to return. I was cornered with my back against a wall, and the wall was named money.

  I balled my fists, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “This is my apartment. I pay rent to live here. I don’t need to be moved into the estate.”

  My last defiant stand failed spectacularly. The lawyer gave me a polite but thin smile. “That’s your call, Jonathan. But I’m pretty sure the man I passed in the hall on the way here was your building manager, and I must say, he didn’t look very happy.”

  I winced thinking about my late rent payment. This wasn’t the first time I was late and I had no doubt it would be the last.

  The truth was, I wasn’t making enough to get by. Turns out the term starving artist wasn’t just a cliché after all. It was hard to make it if you didn’t make it big. Living in the city didn’t help, either–the cost of living was too high for me to afford, and after stretching myself thin for years, I was exhausted in both body and soul.

  But now I didn’t have to be. If I moved into the mansion, I could wipe my slate clean. I wouldn’t have to worry about rent or a mortgage. I could get my feet back on the ground and move forward with my life.

  Even if it meant returning to the place I hated so much.

  “Well, Mr. Hunter?” the lawyer prompted at my silence.

  I shut my eyes and exhaled deeply as my mind waged war on itself. If I said no now, that meant arranging movers and all that later. And if I said yes, I’d have to face the memories of what I’d escaped from ten years ago.

  Even if it felt like failure, I knew I had to say yes. I didn’t have any other choice.

  “Okay,” I finally said. “Let’s do it.”

  The movers seemed relieved by my lack of personal possessions. Their work was done quickly. Once they left, I was left alone in the grand marble halls.

  Immediately, I felt very alone.

  The mansion was exactly how I remembered it–every gilded frame hung in the same spot, every sculpture on the same decorative pedestal, the expensive vase still sitting on the granite countertop in the kitchen, and the crystal chandeliers still glinted like a thousand shards of glass.

  Except now they were coated in a thin layer of dust.

  That’s right, I thought. It’s my responsibility to take care of the house now, isn’t it?

  That was one more thing I didn’t feel like thinking about right now.

  The gravity of the situation hit me at once, draining my energy. My parents were gone forever, and this
giant empty estate was mine.

  I was struck by a vague sense of panic. As if by habit, my legs carried me to the door, away from the belly of this whale of a house.

  The sun was dying on the horizon, painting the deep blue sky with pink and orange streaks of fire. It was summer, and still warm enough to wear a t-shirt. I shut my eyes and took a second to breathe. I took a deep drag of the evening breeze. It smelled light and sweet from the garden of flowers in the front yard.

  My eyes snapped open. The garden.

  If nobody was here, it should have wilted beneath the summer heat. But it was intact, prim and proper. No hedge out of place and no dry flower petals. Even the soil looked dark, obviously slaked of its thirst, even in the heat.

  I frowned. There had been dust inside the house, but the garden was mysteriously in perfect shape. So who was taking care of it?

  Confused, I called up the lawyer.

  “Sorry to bother you again,” I said. “But you said all the property staff were let go when my parents died, right?”

  “That’s right,” she confirmed. “Why? Is there a problem?”

  “No, not at all. Just that the garden looks like someone’s been taking care of it.”

  “Ah, that might be one of the neighbors,” she said, sounding like she was smiling. “Really friendly bunch. I wouldn’t be surprised if they came over to give you a hand with everything.”

  I held back a snort of disbelief. In my sixteen years of living in Rosecreek, friendly was the last word I’d use to describe the majority of the population here. Was she describing the same people that practically ran me out of town a decade ago?

  “All right, thanks again,” I said.

  Pocketing the phone, I gazed over the expansive front lawn and unnecessarily long driveway. I wondered which one of the neighbors would bother taking time out of their day to take care of a few plants. I wondered–perhaps a little bitterly–if their altruism was spurred by pity or sympathy. Mr. and Mrs. Hunter, both gone, leaving behind only an estranged son and an empty, dust-gathering mansion.

  I wondered what the people of Rosecreek thought of me. Would they be annoyed that homosexual Johnny had returned? Clearly, no one cared that the Hunters kicked out their only son back then. Nobody reached out to me in the past, so I assumed they didn’t care now.

  The thought irritated me. I grumbled and turned around towards the garden. Noticing something unusual, I paused.

  In between two rose bushes stood a winding patch of wild phlox flowers, shooting up from the soil like a snake. Despite my sour mood, I smiled at the white-and-pink striped petals. The phlox was out of place, obviously not planted on purpose. Maybe the wind had blown the seeds, and the stubborn plant took hold among the rest of the garden. Phlox was a wildflower that grew on hiking trails and the sides of highways–not really a distinguished garden flower. It was sincere. Real.

  I found myself strangely comforted by it, like its mere presence was defiant of Rosecreek’s mask of perfectness.

  I fished my small multitool from my pocket and whipped out the tiny pair of scissors to cut a few stems of phlox. They would look nice in the empty vase in the kitchen and serve as a reminder that maybe I could find a place here too, just like the phlox had.

  “Hey, you!”

  I flinched, nearly cutting my own finger at the sudden voice. I stumbled back from the flowers. A man on the other side of the hedge was rapidly storming over.

  “What’re you doing?” he shouted. “I just finished watering those! You can’t cut them!”

  This must be one of the ‘friendly neighbors’ the lawyer was talking about, I thought with a roll of my eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” he went on, leaping over the hedge in one fluid and dramatic motion, as if he was a stunt double in a movie. I couldn’t help but think he definitely resembled a movie-star with his good looks.

  But as the man approached, I tensed. My eyes went wide as realization slowly dawned on me, cold as ice.

  His hair was strawberry-blond, the sunset turning his head a bright orange, and his locks were unkempt in that aggravating way where you just knew he spent hours making it look like that. His blue eyes were so pale they were almost colorless. A fine layer of dark blond hairs dusted his soft jawline, like he couldn’t grow a proper beard.

  And I only knew one person in my entire life whose voice was as grating as his.

  No way. Not him. For fuck’s sake.

  Immediately my chest filled with fire. Fury lit my blood and my hands clenched into fists.

  “I’ll call security on you if you don’t explain yourself!” the man demanded, stomping closer with one finger pointed in the air and the other hand planted firmly on his hip–like he was going to call the store manager if I didn’t behave.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Maybe you should be the one explaining yourself.”

  “You’re trespassing! I have security on speed dial, right here, and–”

  “No,” I interrupted. “You’re the one who’s trespassing. This is my property, asshole.”

  The man abruptly stopped. His scowl melted into a look of confusion. “What?”

  I felt smug knowing that statement had practically knocked him on his ass.

  “That’s right, Cain,” I spat. “Johnny Hunter owns this mansion. So get the fuck off my property before I call the cops.”

  2

  Cain

  Holy shit.

  Of all the people I thought would be skulking around the Hunters’ garden, the last person I expected it to be was their son. I hadn’t seen him in ages–nobody had. He ran away ten years ago and basically fell off the face of the earth.

  I had to admit I was deeply relieved. Nobody really knew what happened to Johnny ten years ago, only that he disappeared one day. There were rumors, sure, but I didn’t care for people’s gossip. He’d always been wild, a bit unruly, but he had a heart of gold. That was the Johnny I remembered.

  Now that he stood in front of me, I couldn’t believe it. He looked different, to say the least. Bigger. Stronger. No longer was he a strangely proportioned teen whose limbs were too long for his body. No, he’d grown into his frame pretty damn well. His tight t-shirt made no attempt to hide his toned arms, and I wondered if he had a pair of abs to match. He’d grown taller and filled out with muscle, which was made even more evident by the way he glowered down at me.

  “Johnny?” I repeated, cautious and hopeful. “Is it really you?”

  “Don’t recognize me?” he growled. His voice had definitely deepened from the testosterone-cracked teenager’s voice that I remembered. It was deep and rumbly, and strangely hot—even though he looked pissed off for some reason.

  “I mean, of course, I’d never forget you,” I said with a laugh. “But you look different, man.”

  You look good. I didn’t say that part out loud.

  “No shit.”

  My smile quickly faded as Johnny made it clear he wasn’t too happy to see me. Then I remembered I’d just rushed him and threatened to call the cops on him for picking flowers from his own damn garden.

  “Oh, right. Sorry about that,” I said. “I thought you were some kind of creep. Y’know, like someone trying to loot the mansion, since it’s empty and all.”

  “Well, it’s not anymore, so I guess you don’t have to worry,” he said stiffly. “Now get off my property.”

  I frowned. I’d literally just apologized, so I didn’t know what he was still so angry about. My temper flared for a moment before I remembered why he was probably here.

  Right. His parents.

  My temper melted, turning into sympathy. I held up my hands in a peace gesture. “Hey, sorry. I know it’s probably been a rough while for you, so I’ll leave you alone. Just know that I’m just a hedge away, all right?”

  Johnny’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Uh. Over there?” I pointed over my shoulder at the mansion on the other side of the property line. “I live there, remember?”

  Johnn
y’s face fell. “Right,” he ground out.

  When he didn’t comment further, I stood there awkwardly, not sure of what to do. For reasons unknown, he clearly wasn’t too happy to see me. Then again, he did just get the news of his parents’ passing, and he was probably exhausted from the move. Maybe he just wanted to hit the hay early.

  “Anyway, I know moving’s a bitch,” I said with a friendly chuckle. “Just know that I’m right over there if you ever wanna hang or anything.”

  His response was an icy glare. I tried not to feel disappointed, but it wasn’t personal.

  The guy is tired and emotional, I reasoned with myself. Give him a break.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to chuckle again but probably sounding as awkward as I felt. “Later, Johnny. Glad to see you back in Rosecreek.”

  I was about to turn heel and leave when Johnny barked out an unpleasant laugh. Now he was pushing it. No amount of fatigue explained that.

  I faced him with a raised brow. “What?”

  “You’re glad to see me?” Johnny said. “Really?”

  My jaw hung open in disbelief. He’d been understandably upset up until now, but now he was just being downright rude.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Find that kinda hard to believe,” he muttered. “But whatever.”

  As I stood there, dumbstruck, Johnny stormed back into the Hunters’ mansion before I could say anything else. He stopped on the doorstep, and called out one more time, “Are you gonna go away or not?”