by Kelly Jensen
A hand squeezed his. “Dillon?”
“Can’t see,” Dillon said. Aside from the growing roar of the crowd outside the club, he couldn’t hear much, either. Had everyone started yelling at once? A sudden panic pierced his chest. Dillon clutched at the hand wrapped around his. “Lang?”
“Taking you back inside. Hold on.”
“What’s happening? Why is everyone yelling?” The panic pressed harder, grabbing hold of his lungs and constricting.
“No one is yelling. You are experiencing sensory overload.”
“Now?”
“Hold on.”
Lang sounded angry and frustrated. Squashing the urge to pull his fingers from Lang’s, Dillon drew in a long and careful breath. Well, he tried to. His throat kept closing halfway, his pulse thrumming and filling his head. And the music—God, had it been this loud before? His body had become a ripple of sound, dipping back and forth. He still couldn’t see a thing, but he could feel the press of bodies all around him—and the floor was swaying. The floor was moving, right? Something cracked into his knee, and Lang’s hand jerked from his.
“Dillon!”
Arms circled his shoulders, lifting him. The world was spinning now, and his eyes hurt, as though someone had started hammering nails through his optic nerves. Terror plucked at his thoughts. No one would hear him if he whimpered, would they?
“I’m right here. Hold on, going to get you somewhere quiet.”
Dillon bounced off several soft and hard objects—people?—and then he was stumbling against something low. The press of people and sound cut off abruptly as he fell. A strong arm caught him around the waist and turned him so that his butt landed on a flat and forgiving surface. A chair or couch. Dillon opened his eyes to flashes of orange and purple.
“Dillon? It’s Micah.”
Dillon turned toward Micah’s voice. “I can’t see you.”
“Take a deep breath for me.”
How is that going to fix my eyes? Dillon took the breath anyway, because he needed it. The grip on his lungs had eased enough that he could fill them halfway. He gasped and tried again, shuddering as he managed a full breath. The roar inside his skull began to fade into individual voices—echoing shouts. Lang’s stress vibrated through him, transmitted through the fingers clutching Dillon’s. Then another hand touched his arm, and Dillon managed another breath. It was Micah’s hand. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he recognized the man’s presence.
Dillon had first met Micah and Josh in Central Park over the summer, the same day someone tried to steal his father’s ashes from his backpack, knocking Lang down and breaking his hip. The same day Dillon learned that Lang was actually an alien—from another planet, as aliens generally were—and quite possibly dying.
After all that, he’d barely remembered Micah or Josh, until Lang suggested he talk to Josh about his idea for a school. Now, he couldn’t imagine not knowing them.
Wait, his school. How in nine hells was he going to teach art if he couldn’t see!
“What happened?” Micah asked.
The couch dipped next to Dillon, bringing Lang’s scent a few degrees closer. A little farther away, Dillon could hear Josh breathing. Since when did he recognize the way Josh breathed? Dillon squeezed the hand that remained tucked around his and concentrated on staying present and focused as Lang answered Micah’s query.
“It was one of the cameras across the street. A very bright flash. Dillon suffers from photophobia. His eyes are extremely sensitive.”
“Which usually isn’t a problem at night,” Dillon complained.
“I’m going to put my thumb on your cheek and touch right above your eye, Dillon,” Micah said.
Dillon gave a brief nod, appreciating the heads-up.
Micah’s fingers were gentle. Reassuring. “Your eyes are the most extraordinary color.”
At first glance, Dillon’s eyes were blue, but if someone got the chance to study his irises, they’d see the streaks of purple that identified him as only half human. Thankfully, ocular albinism explained the variance. The condition wasn’t an exact match, but close enough.
“Can you look down for me? Up? Left and right.” Something clicked. “Tell me what you see.”
“Orange and purple swirls with black lines. Like an afterimage of the street outside.” Dillon wondered how much of what he thought he could see was simply a memory. Was he going to lose his sight permanently? Micah’s soothing proximity helped quell his panic, even though Lang continued to send spikes of concern through his fingers.
“Do you have sunglasses with you?” Micah asked.
“No.”
“I have some,” two voices interjected. Josh and someone unfamiliar.
Josh and the other person, the stranger, conferred, apparently comparing their glasses, and it was decided he could take the stranger’s pair.
Dillon had been trying to follow the conversation, but he still couldn’t see anything. Lang pressed his thumb into Dillon’s palm and made a soothing sound. An ache gripped the back of Dillon’s skull, throbbing in time with the beat of his heart. The emotions pushing at him—Lang’s anger and Micah and Josh’s concern—began to fade, leaving him to deal with his own dimming panic. “Head hurts.”
“I’m not surprised,” Micah said. “I’m going to recommend covering your eyes until you can see your specialist, and I’m going to recommend you do that as soon as possible.”
Something warm touched his free hand. “Sunglasses,” said the unknown voice.
Dillon turned his head in their direction. “Thank you.”
“Security,” Lang murmured from his other side.
The friendly stranger introduced himself. “Ivan.”
“Thanks, Ivan.” Dillon’s tongue nearly tripped on the thanks. Man, he was tired.
“We’ve cleared some of the reporters from out front, but we can’t officially chase off anyone who stays across the street,” Ivan said. “When you’re ready, I’ll show you the back door.”
“Who were they taking pictures of?” Dillon asked. He’d missed someone super famous, hadn’t he? Had the reporters called out a name before going nuts with the cameras? Dillon remembered several minor flashes before the one that had caught him full in the face.
Who had they been so excited about?
Beside him, Lang was breathing oddly, his thumb pressing a hole through Dillon’s palm. The tension between them ratcheted up by sixteen or sixty notches.
“What?” Dillon asked, reaching clumsily to pat their joined hands.
Lang swallowed audibly. Drew in a quiet breath. “It was me. The reporters were trying to get a picture of me.”
Being one of the wealthiest men in Manhattan—and perhaps the world—wasn’t something Lang took for granted. He’d accumulated his wide and varied holdings with a very specific purpose in mind, but didn’t regard his… status, for want of a better word, as unusual. Celebrity fascinated humanity, though, and almost any characteristic could be considered noteworthy, given the right spin. Lang’s steadfast refusal to join the merry-go-round only made him a more enticing target.
He didn’t spend his days dodging the attention of reporters, but he’d had to do it often enough to expect what had just happened. Tonight, of all nights, was not a good time to be out in public—or anywhere he might be recognized—and his carelessness had hurt Dillon. Guilt and anger prickled Lang’s skin anew, prompting him to clutch Dillon’s hand a little tighter.
Dillon winced and patted their joined hands again. “Babe?”
“Sorry.” Lang loosened his grip, but didn’t let go. “This is my fault. I should have anticipated—”
“Not your fault.” Dillon sounded confused rather than agitated. “I’m the one who wanted to come out tonight, remember?”
Lang ground his teeth and remained quiet.
Ivan cleared his throat. “I’ll be right outside. Open the door when you’re ready to leave.”
Micah also stood, helped to his feet by J
osh, who’d been fidgeting at his side.
Josh put a hand to Lang’s shoulder. “We’ll give you guys some quiet time. Let us know when you’re leaving, okay? We can walk out with you.”
Lang stood and offered his hand first to Micah and then to Josh. “Thank you, but you go on and enjoy the rest of your evening. Dillon and I will be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Josh asked.
Lang bobbed his head. “We’re going straight home.”
“Let me know what the specialist says,” Micah put in with a nod toward Dillon.
Dillon returned the nod he probably couldn’t see. “Thanks.”
Josh gripped Dillon’s shoulder. “Call me in the morning.”
“I will.”
As soon as the door closed on Micah and Josh, Dillon pushed to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Are you sure? How are your eyes?”
“The orange is starting to fade. I can see a little bit. It’s like the world is covered by a hazy film, though. Headache is the worst part of it. Also, I’m suddenly very, very tired.”
“Your repair cells are working overtime,” Lang murmured.
“As long as they fix my eyes, they can do whatever they want.” Dillon touched his midsection.
“Feeling sick?”
“A bit. I think I drank too much champagne.”
“We can have Upero run a diagnostic when we get home.”
Dillon’s smile was brief and could have been related to either the mention of Lang’s near sentient AI, Upero, or home. Lang hoped for the latter—they’d only been calling his apartment home, for both of them, for about a month.
Lang opened the door to find Ivan standing sentry.
“Ready to go?” Ivan asked.
“Yes, please,” Lang said.
Rather than lead them back out into the noisy nightclub, Ivan gestured toward the other end of the long, quiet hallway. “This way.”
The door at the end had an exit sign over the top, a quick-release bar in place of a door handle, and a notice warning of a fire alarm. Lang held his breath as Ivan depressed the bar. Thankfully, no alarm sounded. He didn’t think he or Dillon could cope with any more loud noises. The frosty night nipped at his skin, and Lang breathed deeply, despite the chill and ever-present tang of humanity. He would never tire of this: breathable air and the scent of other living beings. He filled his lungs again, and willed the agitation swirling through his veins to depart, or at least fall dormant until the next time he had to worry about Dillon.
Not that he expected it to be soon, but… He studied Dillon’s long face, the features he found so attractive—sharp brows, arrow-straight nose, small lips, the glint of metal at each—and gave into the surge of affection that wanted to encompass him at all times. As though sensing his scrutiny, Dillon turned to him and smiled.
A soft scuff drew Lang’s attention to the left as a slim shape separated from one of the dumpsters lining the narrow lane behind the nightclub. Ivan pushed forward, both hands raised.
The intruder raised his own hands. “I’m here to help.”
Stepping in front of Dillon, Lang asked, “Who are you?”
“Wesley Kohen. GoStar News.”
Growling, Lang surged forward.
Kohen rocked back on his heels as Dillon and Ivan also advanced.
Ivan spoke for all of them: “You have ten seconds to leave the property before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
Though he looked ready to flee, Kohen remained where he was and lifted his chin. “And you have about thirty seconds before the paps at the end of the lane figure out you’re sneaking some VIPs through the back entrance and start pointing their cameras this way.”
“Then you had better get moving,” Lang said.
“If you give me that same thirty seconds, I can distract them. Provide you with a clean getaway.”
“Why would you do that?” Lang asked.
Dillon tugged on his hand. “Let’s go the other way.”
Ivan was leaning around the dumpster, peering down the lane in the direction the reporter had indicated. He glanced in the opposite direction and frowned. “There’s a truck blocking end of the alley. We can probably squeeze past it, but as soon as we step out, they’re going to see us.”
“This is ridiculous!” Anxiety colored Dillon’s otherwise pale cheeks. “How are we supposed to get home?”
Kohen raised his hands again. “I’ll run down there and tell them you stepped out this way, saw them, and are trying for the front entrance again.”
“Why would you do that?” Lang asked again.
Kohen lowered one of his hands carefully, as though being held at gunpoint, and dug in his pocket. A moment later, he produced a card. “For a chance to interview you. Both of you. Time and place of your choice.”
“I can call the rest of the team out here to block the lane,” Ivan said.
Lang could already picture the ruckus that would cause. A line of security and the press of too many reporters. The flashes and yells. He didn’t want to think about the photos that might pop up the next day and for weeks afterward as everyone speculated on why he was sneaking out of back doors. Would they think he was trying to hide his lover?
Stars, why did humanity obsess over who slept with who?
Lang studied the card Kohen held out. Like the man, it was fairly unassuming. Name, number, email address, and a brief list of affiliations. He didn’t waste time wondering why Kohen wanted to interview them. Instead, Lang weighed the pros and cons of agreeing to the bargain. He wanted to get Dillon home, now, with a minimum amount of fuss, and what could Kohen ask him that hadn’t been asked before—or speculated about, endlessly and uselessly?
Lang touched a fingertip to the corner of the card. “I do not want to talk about my relationship with Dillon.” What he and Dillon shared was their business and theirs alone.
“Fair enough.” Kohen pushed the card into Lang’s hand, danced back a step, and disappeared around the corner.
“Why did you do that?” Dillon asked.
Pocketing the card, Lang turned. “I am an extremely uninteresting person. Once Mr. Kohen confirms that for himself, perhaps this attention will cease.”
“Good luck with that,” Ivan murmured.
Dillon was grinning. He touched the side of Lang’s face. “Love it when you smile like that.”
“You can see me?”
“Not really. Too dark behind the sunglasses. But I can feel it.”
Lang’s smile widened. Taking Dillon’s hand in his, he nodded toward Ivan. “Is the shoreline clear?”
“Coast,” Dillon whispered.
“I know,” Lang whispered in return.
Chuckling, Ivan ducked into the alley and waved to them. “C’mon. Just to be safe, we’ll go past the truck. I’ll stay with you until we find a cab.”
Lang pulled his own business card from his pocket and handed it to Ivan. “If you ever tire of your current position, please call me.”
Ivan glanced down at the card. His eyes widened, and he glanced up with a sly smile. “So that’s why they want your picture.”
With an amused scoff, Lang pulled Dillon into the lane.
Chapter Three
By the time the cab pulled to a halt in front of the building overlooking Central Park, Lang teetered on the edge of what Dillon would call a meltdown. His anger had ebbed and flowed throughout the entire ride, with a substantial portion of guilt pooling in between. Reasonably, he wasn’t at fault, but Dillon had been hurt while out with him. Accepting the invitation to go out tonight had been a bad idea—except he’d known Dillon wanted to go. Would it have been better to stay home and risk Dillon’s disappointment, or should he count the bulk of the evening as a success?
Why was it all so complicated?
After paying the cab driver, Lang stalked past the doorman in the lobby of his building, entered a waiting elevator, and stabbed the button directing them to the penthouse—all witho
ut a word. He was having a hard time keeping a lid on his emotions and didn’t want to involve Dillon in his personal disintegration.
Either Dillon was letting him simmer, or was too tired to poke the rattlesnake.
“Welcome home, Steilang.” The voice coming from his smartwatch belonged to Upero, the artificial intelligence that filled many roles from personal assistant to pilot to friend. The AI could speak through the smartwatch at any time and often disguised important alerts as phone calls. When they were alone, Upero spoke freely. “Your heart rate and cortisol levels are somewhat elevated.”
“It has been a difficult evening,” Lang replied.
“And then some,” Dillon confirmed.
“Welcome home, Dillon,” Upero said. “Would you please recommend a diagnostic to Steilang?”
Dillon gave a tired grin.
“Perhaps we should get you a watch like mine,” Lang said. Not only did the watch allow him to carry Upero with him, it was also useful for monitoring his health when away from the apartment—something Lang had become somewhat lackadaisical about in previous years.
“I endorse this recommendation,” Upero put in.
Dillon took a turn at scowling and winced as the movement obviously aggravated his headache. The elevator pinged, and the doors opened to the penthouse.
Ignoring the stunning view through the windows across the apartment—a panorama of the city surrounding Central Park—Lang ushered Dillon directly toward the bedroom. “Upero, prepare the diagnostic array. Dillon experienced an episode of temporary blindness this evening after being exposed to a flashbulb.”
“Right away, Steilang.”
Lang touched a small square panel mounted in the wall beside his bed. A rectangle of blue light outlined a section of the wall: a transdoor leading to his ship, located approximately 3000 miles from Manhattan and a mile beneath a glacier in northern Greenland. As soon as they entered the small vestibule, the door disappeared. A quiet boom sounded as the lift activated, then the door shimmered open again.
