by Lisa Henry
Quickly and quietly weren’t the most encouraging words when it came to the concept of justice. “Will it be fair? Will they listen?”
“Oh yes.” Mitchell nodded. “It won’t be swept under the rug. I just wish we’d listened to you earlier.”
It might have been easy to attack the man for that, for not listening when he must have known, deep down, that there was something wrong, something rotten with the system. But Rory hadn’t listened, either. He’d ignored his own unease, and all because Tate had seemed so willing and happy. Because he’d believed Lowell instead of his own instincts.
Lowell had had them all fooled.
And people like Aaron and Tate—Beulah’s most vulnerable—had suffered for it.
Even if things weren’t as simple as Mitchell made them out to be, Rory had to try.
He had to stand up for Tate.
Tate took a step back.
There was a room full of people staring at him.
“You’re not on trial,” Alexandra reminded him.
He wanted to reach out and take Aaron’s hand, but how would that look? And what did it mean anyway? The old Tate never would have held a guy’s hand, even if it didn’t mean anything. But hell, there was no part of Aaron that he hadn’t seen—or touched, or licked—so it seemed a little stupid to worry about something like hand-holding. Tate just didn’t know where the boundaries were anymore. Not after everything.
He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
He sat down at the seat Alexandra indicated. Aaron sat beside him. Tate still didn’t reach for Aaron’s hand.
One of the women sitting on the panel looked at her watch, like she was waiting for something.
Shit.
Tate turned around as the door opened and closed again and saw Rory standing there. Rory. When Rory sat down on his other side, Tate didn’t know whether to lean toward him or lean away. Didn’t know if his skin was crawling or he was breaking out in goose bumps. He stared straight ahead, afraid to look.
Afraid. Hell, Tate had never been afraid of anything in his life, not before Beulah, and not before the fucking chip. Sudden rage rose up in him, and he clenched his fingers into fists. What the chip had stolen from him, he’d never get back. Even though it was gone now, it had changed him, and that wasn’t fair. It hadn’t been a punishment; it had been a violation, and it always would be.
The panel started with him. A man with glasses said, “Mr. Patterson, can you tell us, in your own words, how you came to be in the restitution program?”
In his own words.
“I punched him.” Tate jerked his head in Rory’s direction. “But then he fucked me, so I guess we’re even, right?”
It felt good to be angry again. Anger, that was his. Something the chip had tried to take from him, but he was still here and so was his anger. And he didn’t have to be ashamed if he could be angry instead.
The woman on the panel cleared her throat delicately. “You two had a sexual relationship? After he became your sponsor?”
Tate narrowed his eyes. “I got an erection when I scrubbed his fucking dishes. Everything I did was to make him praise me. That was the only thing that mattered. It hurt when he didn’t. Of course we fucked. I would have done anything.” He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. Glared at the panel and tried not to hear Rory gasp beside him. Horror? Surprise? Didn’t matter. He didn’t care. Rory was a victim too, but he wasn’t Tate’s problem. All of the concern he’d felt for him previously had been washed clean by Tate’s anger. Fuck this place, and fuck these people.
“Did Mr. James force himself on you?” the woman asked.
“No.” Tate glowered, but a little of his anger at Rory slipped out of his fingers. “It was the chip. The chip made me initiate. I don’t think he knew that . . . but Lowell did. I’m not gay.” Then he did what he’d told himself he wasn’t going to do. Turned his head and stared right into Rory’s pale, shocked face. “I’m not gay.”
“Tate,” Rory croaked. He reached out his hand and then dropped it again. “I’m sorry.”
Tate refused to let Rory’s apology soften him. He needed this anger right now. Needed it.
“Justice Lowell?” one of the panelists prompted. “You say he was aware of the chip’s full capabilities?”
“That fucking pervert probably designed the thing!” Tate shuddered. “Yes, he knew, just like the doctors at the induction center knew. He knew that it made us . . . made us unable to say no to him. That’s why he framed Aaron for stealing . . . because he . . . because—”
“Because I said no.” Aaron’s head snapped up. “Because that whole night before my arrest, he’d been watching Tate and wanting a rezzy of his own, and because when I walked him home, he invited me in, and I said no. I didn’t steal from him, but I couldn’t prove it.”
“Because he’s a sick fuck,” Tate snarled. “He tortured Aaron and me, he—” So much for his anger carrying him through this. Everything Lowell had done was right there, playing like a movie in his head, but Tate couldn’t say it aloud. His voice would break if he tried. He would break. “He knew. Lowell knew.”
“You understand you’re accusing Justice Lowell of rape?”
Tate almost laughed at the way the panelist said the word like it tasted sour. Well shit, if she hated it that much, wait until she heard the details. He leaned forward so that the small microphone on the desk wouldn’t miss a thing. “Yes. I’m accusing Justice Lowell of rape, because that’s what he did. He raped us.”
Beside him, Rory shuddered.
“And you, Mr. James? Did Mr. Lowell . . .”
Rory shook his head. “Not him. He didn’t get a chance before my trial. But I don’t doubt he intended to. That wasn’t his aim with me, not like it was with Aaron—he just wanted to silence me—but I bet he’d have taken advantage of it as a side benefit.”
“What do you mean, he wanted to silence you?”
“I was suspicious of the chip. I suspected that he’d framed Aaron for a crime he hadn’t committed. I tried to confront him, and he told me to keep my mouth shut or he’d frame me and have me chipped too.”
Tate suddenly found it hard to breathe. He thought back to that moment in the living room when Rory had tried to defend him, tried to save him from Lowell’s control. He’d let himself be taken rather than go on hurting Tate. Let himself be taken and—
“Not him,” Rory had said.
Mr. Lowell may not have gotten to him in time to rape him, but someone had. That fucking induction center. Someone had. A part of Tate wondered if he should take grim satisfaction in that. How do you like that dose of karma, Rory? But the thought of Rory getting hurt like that just sickened him.
“But I—” Rory’s voice faltered. “I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t wrong. Not once I knew.”
“Oh my God,” said one of the panelists, at the same time one of the others said, “This is outrageous!”
“It’s true,” Rory said, raising his voice. “Take the chips out of all the rezzies. Ask them all. Ask them if they had a say. Ask them.”
He wasn’t angry like Tate. He wasn’t distressed like Aaron. Somehow Rory sounded calm and in control. He was the sort of man they would have to listen to, in the end. Tate frowned and risked a glance at him.
Rory was pale, but his face was determined. His jaw was set. His hands, resting on the table, didn’t shake. “Every single testimony heard in court by a rezzy is suspect. Every interview with a parole officer or a lawyer. And every answer given to a sponsor.” He turned his head and caught Tate’s gaze. His voice faltered when he spoke again. He never looked at the interviewers again. Just stared directly into Tate’s eyes. “Take the chips out, and listen to them. Listen to them before it’s too late, before you have the kind of guilt on your conscience that I do now.”
Tate sucked in a sharp breath. Guilt? Yeah, he wanted Rory to feel guilty. A part of him did, at least. But Tate had begged for it. So where did that leave it? It w
as unfair to blame the guy who only took what you were throwing at him. Wasn’t Rory’s fault, however much Tate wanted to blame him, because he was right fucking there.
It wasn’t Rory’s fault that he’d slept with—fucked? made love to? none of them were right—Tate. Wasn’t his fault that he’d been sweet about it, either. And it had felt good. Wasn’t Rory’s fault Tate didn’t know whether it only felt good because of the chip. Would probably never know . . . He fixed his gaze forward again.
“Mr. Patterson,” the lead panelist said, “you say that the chip gave you no control? Is that true?”
“Yes,” he said.
She shuffled through her notes. “You’re a convicted felon. You can’t blame the chip for your criminal behavior.”
Tate jutted out his chin. “I never said I did. But I can sure as fuck blame it for everything that happened after.”
Beside him, Aaron shifted restlessly in his chair. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
Tate reached out and put a hand on his forearm.
Aaron flinched, standing up so suddenly that his chair fell back. “You want to know what the chip does? You put one in your head! Go on! Put one in your head, and scream so much inside that you bleed!” He lifted his hand to his nose reflexively. “You put one in your head!”
“Aaron!” Alexandra broke free from her place in the audience and rushed to his side. “Calm down, please.”
“Don’t!” Aaron pulled back. “Don’t fucking touch me! Nobody fucking touch me!”
Tate rose to his feet, as well, looking around the room for police or orderlies or whichever assholes were going to try to take Aaron down. “Leave him alone! Just . . . just leave him alone.”
Alexandra stepped back, her hands fluttering.
Tate watched Aaron warily. He stood hunched over, fists clenched, like he was trying to squeeze himself into a tiny space. He was breathing heavily. Ready to snap, Tate figured. He turned to the panel. “Can we get a break here?”
Didn’t really know what he’d do if they refused, but Tate wasn’t the only one who saw how close Aaron was to losing it.
“We’ll take fifteen minutes,” the head panelist said.
“Hey.” Tate lowered his voice. “I can touch you, right?” He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. All it took was a nod, and Tate reached out and grabbed Aaron’s wrist and pulled him toward the exit. He checked to see if Alexandra was following. “Come on.”
They made their way into the corridor.
Aaron leaned his forehead against the wall. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Fuck them,” Tate said. He rubbed Aaron’s back. “Fuck them, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Aaron muttered.
People began to leave the conference room. The doors squealed open and closed. Most of them stared openly at Tate and Aaron, and Tate bristled. He kept his voice low. “Yeah, fuck them.”
Alexandra watched them through tear-filled eyes. “Aaron?” she said at last. “Do you want to go back to your room?”
He nodded, still facing the wall.
Tate saw Rory exit the conference room and stand awkwardly in the corridor. He lifted his hand off Aaron’s back. “Hey, you go with Alex, okay, and I’ll catch you up?”
Aaron tensed. “Where are you going?”
“Gonna see if I can score us something better than fucking pudding,” Tate said.
Aaron snorted. His shoulders relaxed, and at last, he let Alexandra draw him away. Tate watched him go.
“You’re not, um, going with him?” Rory asked.
“Nope.” Tate frowned past Rory at the guys standing nearby. ARR. He knew their faces by now. Knew they wouldn’t let Lowell get the jump on them. He looked back at Rory almost reluctantly. Would be a hell of a lot easier if he hated him. If he didn’t find himself staring at those lips and remembering exactly what they could do. “You just gonna stare at me in the meantime?”
Rory turned away sharply.
Tate opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure what to say. It’s not your fault? I’m sorry? He sighed. “Rory?”
Rory turned. Tate couldn’t read his expression. Fearful? Hopeful? Sorrowful? Maybe all those things at once.
“This is shit,” Tate said at last.
Rory managed a tiny smile. “Yeah.”
“I guess there are things I want to say to you,” Tate said, swallowing. “Mostly, I know you feel bad for what happened. But you had it in your head too. You know what it did. So, I’m not blaming you.” He wrinkled his nose. “That’s all, I guess.”
But it wasn’t all. There was something else. Something Tate needed to know for sure.
“I am sorry,” Rory said softly, and as calm and controlled as he’d been at the panel, his voice shook now. “I wish I’d have known earlier. I wish I’d have listened to my gut. I never wanted to hurt you. I hate that I did. I hate myself.”
Tate had to force himself not to reach out and touch Rory. Comfort him. But no, it was Rory who’d wronged Tate. It was Rory who should be comforting Tate. But once again, Tate’s righteous anger was failing him. “I don’t hate you,” he said, and then added, “but I don’t forgive you yet, either.”
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Rory said in a small voice. His eyes shone.
Well then. Good. Except . . .
Tate sighed. “Listen, I know I was pretty fucking convincing, okay? Even I—” his hands clenched into fists “—even I don’t know where the chip ended and I began.”
Staring at Rory, backed up against the wall, wincing, the epiphany hit him.
“Which is why I have to do this one thing. It doesn’t mean anything, okay? I just . . . I just need to know.” And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed forward, nudging their lips together. Because he needed it. Needed to know who he was and what he wanted. And maybe just needed a shred of that comfort he’d once had with Rory.
“Tate!”
He grabbed the back of Rory’s neck. “Shut up.”
Rory huffed in surprise, his breath hot against Tate’s lips. Tate kissed him—don’t think about it, just do it. It was familiar and shockingly new at the same time. He’d done this before with Rory, too many times to count, but it felt like the first time. Tate pressed his tongue against the seam of Rory’s lips, and Rory let him in.
Because whatever it had been for Tate, for Rory it had been real.
Rory let out a noise partway between a moan and a whimper, his body going limp against Tate’s.
When had Tate put his hands on Rory’s chest? When had this gone from an experiment—let’s see exactly how not gay I am—to something more? He missed Rory’s touch and missed touching him. He missed their closeness. He missed the smell of Rory’s shampoo, for fuck’s sake. Missed how gentle and receptive Rory could be, just like now.
A bad master. A good man. A friend. Tate remembered that, and it was still true. Even with the chip, some things could still be true.
This feeling was true. Despite everything, some part of him still wanted Rory. Maybe even could learn to forgive him, and then possibly to love him. In time. The potential was there. The seed of real affection, planted in those nights watching movies together, all those times Rory had proved himself. And now.
Tate didn’t have to be afraid of this thing inside him that he’d never stopped to examine before; the idea that he could feel these things for a man didn’t shake him to the core. Didn’t shatter him. Felt more like something in him was expanding, instead of breaking.
He wouldn’t hide from it.
He pulled away and stared into Rory’s flushed face. “I know you,” he said. “You don’t know me, but I know you. Shit, maybe I don’t even know me. But we’re not done. Not yet.”
Rory swallowed. “What?”
Tate gripped his shirt. “You and me,” he said fiercely. “We’re not done. Okay?”
Rory nodded, looking dazed. “Okay.”
Warmth spread through him. He released Rory’s shirt and scowled
at him. “Good.”
“Um, excuse me,” a third voice interjected. A young man with a drawn face approached them from down the hallway. “Tate Patterson?”
Somehow, Tate knew. Knew just from the man’s face that this wasn’t some interviewer looking for his story.
This was about Emmy.
Tate stepped forward. Stared into the guy’s face and just knew. Knew that this guy, this random guy out of nowhere, was about to ruin his life. The look on the guy’s face said that he knew it too.
“My name’s Daniel. I’m with the ARR. We checked the address you gave us. I-I’m sorry, but there was no one living there. It was abandoned. Boarded up. Looked like it’s been unoccupied for a long time.”
Tate knew exactly how long “a long time” was. Since he’d been arrested. That was how long. Tate had known this was a possibility. Had almost expected it. Had rehearsed the quiet dignity that he would display in receiving the news.
So much for all that.
The grief and rage hit him like a giant fist to his chest, knocking the wind out of him, knocking him right off his feet. He crashed to his knees and roared. Screamed. Smashed his fists against the floor over and over, until his hands ached, and then went on.
Months’ worth of feelings hit him all at once. Every injustice. Every rape. Every assault. Every fucking moment that he was trapped here was a moment they’d stolen, and now Emmy was gone.
“Tate—” Rory said, kneeling beside him, trying to touch him, comfort him, calm him.
Tate squeezed his eyes shut and tried to hold the breath in his lungs until he felt strong enough to speak. “I gotta . . . I gotta go.” He stared up at Daniel. “Maybe you checked the wrong address. Maybe you didn’t ask enough people . . .” He twisted around and frowned at Rory. “Am I still under arrest? Am I still a prisoner? I have to leave.”
“I don’t know.”
“I have to leave. I— When I woke up, I was cuffed. I’m not cuffed anymore. Does that mean I’m free? I don’t have a guard now, do I? Am I free? I need to be free. I need to leave.” He grabbed Rory’s hand. “Will you help me find out? Ask Mr. Mitchell?”
