Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Dexter
No one’s surprised that the moment we arrived in Los Angeles, Eddie bought a house.
Does he need it? Probably not. But that’s not the point.
It was never about need with him. It’s about control.
About care. About making sure the people he loves don’t land somewhere temporary, somewhere that squeaks underfoot or smells like strangers.
He didn’t want Cleo or Barret waking up in a rental house.
He wanted permanence. Even if we’re only here for a little while.
When I grow up, I want to be like him.
Not rich. Not powerful.
Just . . . protective in a way that feels like home.
The new house sits high above the Pacific—an architectural jawline cut into the cliffs of Malibu where glass meets air and silence costs a small fortune. It’s almost identical to the place he owns on that tiny island where we hide when the world turns to ash. Different view, same intent: sanctuary.
From the terrace, the ocean sprawls vast and black, endless in a way that makes you feel both small and untouchable. A strip of moonlight slices through the waves.
The air carries salt and jasmine, weaving into the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Inside, music hums low, threading through the walls like it belongs to the house. It’s one of Barret’s pieces—I’d bet my soul on it. Probably a draft he keeps replaying to figure out what it still needs. It floats like a thought he couldn’t bear to finish but couldn’t bring himself to silence.
The sound trails after me through the entryway, brushing down my spine like memory. It settles between my shoulder blades, where tension lives after too much scrutiny—where the camera’s red light used to burn, even after it blinked off.
I peel off my blazer. The fabric is damp at the collar from nerves or maybe sweat—I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore.
Eddie shuts the door behind us, but I still feel that blinking red light seared into my retinas.
My ears ring with the silence I left on stage.
Sunlight spills through the tall windows.
The living room carries voices—low, familiar, threaded with the hush that follows after something breaks and doesn’t quite mend.
There’s presence here. Not comfort. Not yet.
Just the quiet pulse of people who’ve made it through something together, sitting in the pause before anyone dares to name it.
Roderick’s on the floor, his long limbs folded awkwardly as he taps a soft rattle against the playmat.
Arlo squeals, reaching for it with clumsy hands before switching course and shoving a plush giraffe into his mouth.
My nephew babbles, drool pooling on his chin, utterly fascinated by the sound his own voice makes.
Rod smiles and mirrors it—patient, soft, like this small, slobbery moment is the most important part of his day.
Otis lies curled nearby, paws twitching in his sleep, like even the dog knows this house finally feels safe again.
Barret leans against the piano, hands poised above the keys without pressing down. He doesn’t play—just hovers like he’s afraid the notes might betray him. His fingers twitch once, then still.
Alec stands near the window, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed.
He’s barefoot, wearing jeans that look like they’ve seen too many rehearsal studios and a Henley with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows.
He taps a drumstick against his wrist in a steady rhythm, keeping whatever thoughts are rattling around inside his head to himself.
The moment they see me, something shifts.
They all give me that look—the one you get after bleeding out on camera and trying to convince yourself it was healing.
When really, it felt more like surviving a car crash where you’re not sure how many limbs you’ve got left.
It’s the look that says we support you even through everything.
That says you made it. That says you’re still here—even if you’re not sure what part of you survived.
“Hey,” Roderick says first, voice calm. “You made it.”
“Barely,” I answer, and I’m not sure if I mean physically or emotionally.
Barret nods. “You didn’t combust on live TV. I call that a win.”
“Feels like I did,” I mutter.
“You burned the right bridges,” Alec adds without looking away from the ocean. “The rest weren’t worth crossing anyway.”
The music softens behind us, bleeding into the cracks of the room. I step farther inside, feel the heat of it—all of them. They’re not hugging me, not offering speeches, just being here. Which is exactly what I need right now.
I sit on the edge of the couch. Arlo crawls toward me, offering his soft giraffe like it’s a gift. I take it. The giraffe’s body is soft with bright red spots that don’t make much sense. But Arlo doesn’t care. It’s squishy and probably covered in drool. I grip it tightly anyway.
“Is this for me?” I ask.
He grins—pure joy—and lifts his hands in that wobbly way that means “up.” I lean forward and scoop him into my lap. He settles instantly, like he’s decided I’m just another thing in this house that belongs to him now.
I exhale slowly and let my hand settle on Arlo’s back. He’s small—soft warmth in footie pajamas and a diaper that crinkles slightly when he shifts. And yet, the calm he gives me? It fills every space I didn’t know was frayed.
It sneaks up on me. This longing. Not for a child exactly, but for something that's mine. A life with less noise and more moments like this. The thought startles me, punches through my ribs. And just as quickly, it slips away. There’s too much still unfinished—too many things still dragging at my heels.
It feels like I need to earn peace before I can ask for joy. Fuck, before I can ask her for anything.
“Hey,” Roderick says again from the floor, his voice light but not flippant. He offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You survived.”
“Barely,” I murmur.
He nods, slowly. Like he’s lived through just enough fire to recognize the smoke still clinging to me. Like he knows what it costs to gut yourself in public and still pretend you’re whole.
“You were . . . brave,” he says. “Which, for a Vaughn, is like tap-dancing over landmines while the world watches.”
I huff out a laugh, more breath than sound.
Eddie doesn’t pause by the door. He walks straight toward Barret, who’s still at the piano, his fingers hovering like he hasn’t quite decided whether to play or stay quiet.
Without a word, Eddie leans in, cups the back of Barret’s neck, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Then, to his mouth, lingering just long enough to say everything he doesn’t voice aloud.
“Hi, babe,” he murmurs.
Barret exhales softly—like that small word unspooled something inside him. His eyes close, and for a second, it’s just the two of them, orbiting each other like they’ve always done, like nothing outside this moment can touch them.
After, B shoots me a look and says mockingly, “Hey, glad you’re back and we didn’t have to bail you out of jail.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “He didn’t go rogue, so I let him live.”
“I wasn’t betting on rogue,” Alec mutters from across the room. He still hasn’t looked away from the window. “I was betting on blood.”
“There was blood,” I say. “You just didn’t see it.”
Alec turns his head slowly, mouth twitching at the edge. “No, I mean more like—you were going to hire a hitman. Get Malcolm taken out the old-fashioned way.”
I arch a brow, and before I can answer, Eddie points a warning finger at me. “We’re not hiring a fucking hitman.”
I shrug one shoulder as if saying, But that would solve the problem.
Arlo squirms against me. I readjust him instinctively, letting him curl into the crook of my arm. His giraffe slips from my lap and lands between my feet. No one moves to pick it up.
“We’re cooking up something special for Malcom,” Eddie says, shifting gears like only he can. “Arthur Bradley. He’s good at finding things.”
The name sounds familiar but I can’t place it.
“And?” I ask, even though I already know where this is going.
“He’s digging into Malcom’s offshore accounts. A few suspicious donations. Some bribes he didn’t bury well enough.” He lifts both hands like a magician, revealing a trick. “It’s going to the cops. You don’t need to lift a finger.”
“Good,” I say, though my voice doesn’t quite land the way I want. “Because I’ve already lost enough sleep.”
I glance at Arlo. His lashes fan across his cheeks, and for a second, I envy how easily babies forgive the world. They just . . . trust. Even after everything.
I lean my head back and close my eyes.
“I meant it, you know,” I say into the space between us. “What I said out there. I’m done bleeding for people who want to sell the wounds.”
Eddie hums in response, but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
Roderick rises from the floor and picks up the giraffe, brushing it off.
“You did good, kid,” Roderick says.
“Because he gave me a giraffe?” I arch an eyebrow.
“No, I meant you,” he states.
“I’m fucking trying. Still an addict and a—”
“You’re a recovering addict,” he cuts in gently, but firmly. “And a recovering alcoholic.”
His voice doesn’t carry judgment—just weight. Just care.
“There’s a difference, Dex. Being in recovery means you’re doing the work. You’re not numbing yourself. You’re not destroying the people around you. You’re showing up, even when it costs you.”
I don’t answer right away.
“You need to give yourself credit for that. All these years? Staying sober? Choosing meetings even when it’s uncomfortable? That’s recovery. Wanting to go back to rehab doesn’t make you weak—it just means you’re aware. It means you’re still fighting.”
I drag a hand down my neck. His words are unexpected and probably something I needed to hear—again.
This is exactly what my therapist said when she asked if I’d be going back to Seattle after all this. I told her no, because Aly deserves someone who’s healed—not someone still bleeding out.
She deserves someone whole.
Not a man who still feels like he’s held together with duct tape and lies.
“So, when are we going back home?” Alec asks. “This new yoga place I’ve been going to sucks. It’s filled with pretentious people who just practice because it’s a thing.”
Eddie looks at me. “We need to finish a few things, but after that it’s really up to you.”
“You guys can leave if you need to,” I say, glancing at Arlo, who’s now fighting sleep with the determination of someone twice his age. His fist curls in my shirt like it’s giving him the strength to stay awake. “I’m sure he wants to go home.”
Roderick snorts softly. “He’s happiest when he’s surrounded by his uncles and Aunt Cleo. Everyone’s spoiling him, and Kit and I are loving the break. Someone else dealing with his teething for once. That’s luxury.”
“Told you last week,” Eddie says, nudging him with a half-smile, “if you ever need help, all you have to do is call. We’re happy to swing by and take him off your hands for a few hours. Or, you know, a couple of days.”
“I wouldn’t trust a child with me,” Alec mutters from across the room. “But I can help with the chickens or whatever.” He looks both sincere and slightly horrified, which makes Barret chuckle.
Yeah, I can’t imagine Alec alone with a baby. He would probably run away—after leaving the child with someone capable.
“Count me in,” I echo, not entirely sure if I just volunteered for baby duty or chicken duty. Maybe both. But I guess that’s what family is. You show up, even when you don’t know how. You give what you have.
A little silence wraps around us after that. Arlo has gone still against my chest, his breathing slow and warm. Otis stretches on the rug, groaning like he’s had a long day, too.
Barret plucks a few low notes on the baby grand, something soft and familiar, and the sound threads through the room like a lullaby none of us want to name.
“I think I want to record ‘Prometheus,’” I say, not looking at anyone in particular.
Roderick glances over. “You sure?”
“No.” I exhale, brushing my hand down Arlo’s back. “But I think it’ll be good.”
“Prometheus gave fire to humanity and got punished for it,” Barret says, his fingers never leaving the keys. “Maybe it’s time you stopped apologizing for what you gave away.”
I look down at the baby in my arms. He has no idea about any of this. The pain. The years. The price of carrying someone else’s fire.
But he trusts me anyway.
“I think I’m finally ready to stop burning for other people,” I whisper.
Alec crosses the room. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my shoulder once. It’s a quiet I’ve got you. Even the grumpy one with anger issues is beginning to calm; though I don’t know if all the demons he has inside can be tamed.
But maybe I’m wrong. This could be what healing looks like.
Just a room full of people who know all the worst parts of you—and choose to stay anyway.