“Right here,” he said. “It’s just a cut, doesn’t look too bad.” He wanted to crack a joke about kissing it and making it better, but decided he shouldn’t go there. That was the last thing she needed.
She needed healing. She would require a lot of it, both emotionally and physically.
He stood up and shut off the water.
“You can go take a shower now, if you want.” He wanted her to leave the room before she noticed the effect that she’d had on him. His cock so hard that it ached. Poor Sam, this was probably how he felt most of the time. Brody had been neglecting him for months.
“I’m going to kill him.” Her voice was eerily calm.
“Who?”
“Bobby. The one who did this. I’ll see him somewhere. I’ll find out who he is. Somehow I’ll do it.”
“You don’t want to do that.” Brody shook his head. “Well, hell—you probably want to do that, but you can’t. Can’t just run around killing people. You want to call the cops now? I don’t have a phone, but the lady up the hall—”
“No!” Her voice was a shrill little squeak. “I don’t. What am I going to say? That he was supposed to pay to fuck me? That he wasn’t supposed to…” Her voice broke away.
Brody looked into the girl’s teary eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”
Okay. The same fucking thing he’d been telling Sam for so long he’d forgotten how to say anything else. What exactly was okay? The people who’d done this to her seemed to think it was perfectly okay to rape and beat this girl and then leave her naked in the snow to fucking die.
Okay was a word that didn’t fit what things should be, not for her, or for Sam. Things should be good, and he wished to hell he knew a way to make them that way.
She started to cry again, and he held her, not thinking about sex or drugs or alcohol, just feeling. Being.
It only lasted a few moments, but those brief seconds were good. Then her head felt too heavy against his chest. All he could think about then was taking a few sleeping pills and closing his eyes.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and suddenly things felt just…too intense. Too much. He didn’t want to care about her, but he didn’t want to hurt her, and yet mostly he didn’t want to hurt Sam. He’d already hurt Sam. Lied to Sam. Took Sam for granted.
“Thank you, Brody,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. “The wings on your back suit you, ’cause you’re my angel.”
Outside Krieger meowed. Brody felt emptier and emptier inside. He couldn’t remember if he’d given the cat anything to eat today. He had trouble remembering anything—except that the apartment smelled like fresh cat piss and he had her here, naked and all beat to fuck. Everything was fucked-up. Sam was going to blow a gasket.
“You should get some rest,” he said, pulling back from her.
“I’m not pretty, am I, Brody?” Her voice sounded very childlike.
He smiled at her, aware that she wanted something he couldn’t really give to her. He could feel the pain in her, pain that went beyond whatever ordeal she’d been through tonight. So much pain in everyone, him, Brody, her—even that poor fucking cat. Everything in his life was damaged. Nothing was okay.
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t sell yourself short.” He probably didn’t sound sincere, but if she thought he was some fucking angel who could somehow transform her shit life, she was sadly mistaken. The only thing he could do was make things worse. Like he’d done to Sam.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said. She’d told him that earlier, but he hadn’t admitted he’d seen her before too.
“Yeah. Probably.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’ve heard about you.”
“You…heard about me?”
“Yeah, you’re the new girl. The one from up by the liquor store, that everybody’s talking about.”
Her eyes got wide. “Who? Who’s talking about me?”
“Just…you know? Everybody.” He grinned just enough to give away the fact that he was teasing her. “Everybody’s saying there’s this new girl up on the corner, and she’s real pretty.”
She smiled back at him. “You’re full of shit. Nobody’s saying that.”
He traced his thumb over her swollen bottom lip. “No. But you know what? If anybody was saying that, they sure as hell wouldn’t be lying.”
“You ever been with a hooker, Brody?”
“I imagine I’ve been with just about everything by now,” he said. “Only fell in love once, though.”
“I’ll bet she was pretty,” Angel said solemnly. “I’ll bet she was way prettier than me.”
“You two are nothing alike. That doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty.”
He lifted her from the sink and set her down. She stared at him for a minute and then went to the sofa and wrapped herself in the sheet he had left there. She looked at him the way Krieger did, behind a haughty “I can take care of myself” front she needed someone to care for her. Someone to love her.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she announced.
“Bathroom’s right through that door.” She’d probably need another shower by the time she got done in there. It was filthy. He hadn’t really cared until now, but it was embarrassing that he lived like this. Sam wouldn’t clean it, not anymore. “It’s um…it’s pretty bad. I’m not much on cleaning, you know?”
“It’s okay. I appreciate you letting me use it.”
He seriously doubted she’d feel that way once she saw the state of the bathroom, but he managed a cordial smile until she disappeared through the doorway.
He was completely screwed. He couldn’t take care of a cat, couldn’t take care of the man he loved—there was not chance in hell that he could take care of her or make anything even remotely okay.
He paced while she showered, his skin feeling two sizes too small. He wished he could climb out of it for a while. He took several sleeping pills and sat down on the floor. His arms began to itch uncontrollably, and he scratched at them until his skin glowed pink. It didn’t help. They still itched. She had that same pit inside of her, that same hollowness…the same ache. Like Sam. Like him. Why was she here? Why was it him who had to find her? Caring about her was only going to jeopardize what was left of his ragged relationship with Sam. But Brody couldn’t let her go. Not back out there, and just maybe, if she really did have a place to go to…if he really thought hard—if he could focus long enough to actually think about what he was feeling deep down inside of him right now, he might still want her to stay.
Angel stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at him with eyes greener than any he’d ever seen. She was wrapped back up in the sheet, and her hair was still wet from the shower. The girl looked at Brody the same way that Sam did, something shining in her eyes. Adoration. Not some phony, moon-eyed look, like the ones the groupies used to give him when he sang. This was raw; there were real emotions behind those gorgeous emerald eyes. There was the same honesty in her gaze as Sam.
“Feel better?”
She sat down heavily on the sofa and swayed back and forth. “Not really, but I think I’m sleepy. I still don’t feel clean. Could I have a piece of paper and a pen?”
Brody found an old liquor store receipt and a blue pen with a chewed-up cap on the coffee table.
Her hand shook when she held it.
“What do you want to write? Maybe I can help you?” There was an almost laughable statement. He was aware that even on a good day his hands shook ten times worse than hers were right now.
“No. I want to do it. Just in case.”
“Nothing is going to happen to you.” He watched her scrawling on the back of the receipt, and then she folded it into a little square and pressed it into his palm.
“Keep this.” She lay down on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before her eyes slipped closed.
He started to unfold it, and her eyes snapped open as the paper rustled. “You’re only supposed to look at it if something happe
ns to me.”
“Okay.” He refolded it and laid the tiny square on the coffee table.
Brody sat down on the floor beside the couch. “Those pills are probably kicking in. You’ll be able to sleep good tonight.” I don’t have any more or I’d take them all. I’d take them all until I was high enough to deal with this shit.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and she again closed her eyes. “Brody?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for helping me.”
“It’s just what decent people do.” Decent people… Those would be people who weren’t like him, wouldn’t they? When was the last time he’d been a decent person? He stared at the little white square of paper.
Her hand found his, and she held it. He could feel her shivering.
“I’m sorry,” he said, smoothing the thin, ratty sheet down on her with his free hand. “The apartments in this building don’t have thermostats. The whole place is set to one temperature or something… I’m not really sure how it works. I just know I can’t turn up the heat.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get warm.”
Brody laid his head back against the old sofa. “You know what? One of these days—real soon—I’ll get you an electric blanket.” He was aware that the way he worded what he’d said, he was making it sound as though she would be staying here. The way things were right now, he wasn’t even certain if he’d be staying. Sam had every right to kick him out, and when Sam came home and found her here, he very well might.
“You don’t have to buy me anything.”
“No, but I will. What color do you like?”
Her sleepy voice was barely audible. “Purple. My favorite color is purple.”
He let her hold his hand until her breathing got slow and deep. Brody pulled his hand from hers, trying not to wake her. He wondered how in the hell he would ever be able to afford to buy her an electric blanket and why on earth he’d said that.
Brody left her lying there sleeping, picked up the square of paper, and went to the bedroom. Lying sideways on the bed, he stared up at the ceiling, listening to Krieger crying out in the snow. Brody thought he might cry too if he could, but he didn’t think he was able.
Slowly he unfolded the paper. He was already betraying her, but he tried not to give that much consideration.
His name is Bobby and he killed me. He said I should be thankful that I get to die, because it is more tragic that someone like me should be alive. He said I am a parasite…that I only take up space. I have spent most of my life feeling that way, but I didn’t want to die. My name was Angel Nichelle Molchene.
Brody stared at the childish, shaky printing on the paper and at the dried blood on his fingers from cleaning her up. The genuine tragedy of all of this was that someone like that piece of shit Bobby existed.
He crumpled the receipt into a ball and tossed it in the direction of the dresser. It bounced off the top of a pile of clothes before falling between the dresser and the wall. He should go and wash his hands, but he didn’t feel like moving right now.
Brody rubbed his eyes as another of his recurring headaches began thumping in his temples before settling in his skull behind his eyes.
He thought about Sam. Working. Probably exhausted. Brody should have told Sam that he loved him before Sam had left for work. He should have told him that a million times by now, because it was true, and Brody knew that was what Sam needed to hear.
He’d never be able to give Sam what he needed. Even if Brody told Sam that he loved him, that empty pit would still be there in Sam’s heart. Loving Sam wasn’t enough—it never had been. He was ruining Sam, and given the chance he’d probably ruin Angel too.
Angel Nichelle Molchene, her favorite color was purple, and she’s probably never had one good thing happen to her in her entire life.
The stained ceiling tiles above him blurred, and Brody was startled when he realized there were tears in his eyes. He let them close and felt the heat of his teardrops slide back into his hair.
Maybe nothing good had ever happened to her, but she was alive, and he’d finally done one good thing in his shitty life. He’d saved hers.
Chapter Four
Sam glanced out the side window of the car. The doorway by the liquor store was empty this morning. It was always empty in the mornings, but he looked anyway as he drove by after work.
She hadn’t been there last night either. He’d driven to work trying to convince himself that she was somewhere nice, somewhere that she was happy, though he was fairly sure that wasn’t where she was. She was working, and he had a feeling that happiness in her world was nonexistent.
He’d noticed her about two weeks ago on his way to work. He didn’t usually look at women, but this one had caught his eye. She wasn’t rail thin like most of the girls out here. She reminded him of the ones Brody used to bring home, round, plump ass. During their first year together, he’d seen Brody screw lots of girls like her. There was no rule about it.
Sam’s first lover, RJ, had been into women on the side, so Sam hadn’t found Brody’s interest in the opposite sex terribly shocking. At least Brody had some finesse and charm with the women he used. RJ was different. Sam never liked the way RJ treated women.
Pussy was once an hors d’oeuvre to Brody and honestly hadn’t made Sam jealous. It was actually fascinating to watch. Brody was always making them beg—either to stop, to continue, or for seconds—and it was a gigantic turn-on to Sam. Not the women, but watching Brody, his Brody, dominant and in control.
Brody liked power, liked to be an alpha, and Sam got that. He understood why Brody was the way he was, because just like him, people looked at Brody and expected him to be something he wasn’t. With the strikingly beautiful angles of his face and the soft fullness of his lips, there was almost a feminine beauty to Brody, yet there was nothing feminine about him.
According to Brody all human beings were bisexual; some would just never be able to admit it. Brody said it was impossible for some people to admit their attraction to people of the same sex, even to themselves. Sam got that too, but what he didn’t get was attracted to women. He’d tried. Once, only once, when he was still in his teens, he’d gotten a flicker of excitement from a female.
They were too soft. That’s what Brody said he liked about women, and that was why he didn’t like the little skinny ones. Brody liked soft once in a while. Personally, Sam preferred hard. Hard like Brody—exactly like Brody. Hard enough to hurt him; Sam liked that. Needed that once in a while.
The girl from the doorway kept bothering him. Why of all the women, in all the fucked-up times of his life, did he have to take an interest in her? She was interfering with his sleep. At first he thought he was just worried about her being cold or hungry, but now he was having dreams that were hard to process. He had enough shit on his mind. The problems he and Brody had were impossible to ignore—he didn’t need new problems.
Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Brody would probably like her. She was exactly his type. Sam’s attraction to her didn’t have a damn thing to do with Brody though. This was something different, something weird, and he wished it would just go away.
She was new to this street, young and pretty, and he’d had a feeling then that somebody would end up keeping her. Maybe someone would even take care of her. He hoped someone would take care of her the way he took care of Brody. It was a shame to think of her ending up dead in a Dumpster somewhere, or in some alley shooting up drugs. The girls on this street came and went all the time. No one really seemed to notice, or care, when they disappeared. He didn’t pay much attention to them himself, but he’d never seen one like her. She seemed out of place here. It wasn’t fair to any of those girls, but this one wasn’t some strung-out junkie. Whatever had made her desperate enough to start whoring, it wasn’t drugs.
A few nights ago he’d pulled up by the curb and stopped. Not because he had the money to pay for sex, but because he wanted to see what she looked like up close and to talk to
her. She hadn’t looked high. He knew what high looked like, knew it well. Every time he looked at Brody, he remembered exactly what high looked like.
Dead of winter and she didn’t wear a coat. She’d kind of wrapped her arms around herself as the wind stirred her dark hair. He’d rolled the window down slow, trying to act like he knew what he was doing. Smudged, black-rimmed eyes, green as a Heineken bottle, stared down at him.
“You looking for a date?” She’d sounded more bored than hopeful.
He’d cleared his throat and gripped the steering wheel of his car. His hands were shaking. “What kind of date?”
She’d flatly told him that fifty dollars would get him anything he wanted. While he highly doubted that, it would get him laid, something he sure wouldn’t have minded. It had been a stunning revelation. He wanted to fuck a woman. This one. With Brody or without Brody, either way the thought made his dick harder than it had been in months.
No. It wasn’t right, wanting that. What he wanted, really wanted, was to have Brody back. Brody was such a mess; he’d always been lean and wiry, but alcohol and drugs had decimated his body. His teeth were bothering him now, and coming up with the cash to get him to the dentist seemed nearly impossible.
Sam had told her no thanks, that he couldn’t afford it.
The price didn’t come down, but she had stood there for a few minutes looking at him, her hand resting on his window so that he couldn’t roll it back up. Ragged fingernails with chipped red polish had tapped nervously on the glass.
“Why you wasting my time?” she’d finally asked, chewing on her bottom lip.
“I don’t know. Guess I just wanted to talk to you.”
Her half-smile had appeared genuine. “Yeah?”
“You should have a coat on,” he’d told her. Hours later he’d still felt stupid for saying that; it was something his mother would have said once.
“Somebody stole it. Let’s go on a date and then I can buy me a new one. You’ll have a good time, and I’ll have some money for a coat.” She’d tried to laugh. “Everybody wins.”
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