With his free hand, Angel fisted Jon's hair. "Roll over," he demanded after he released his best friend's nipple from the vice of his teeth.
Jon did just as Angel commanded and raised his ass in the air. Angel thrust his cock inside him and wrenched the blond ponytail until Jon's back bowed. Angel didn't go easy. He always loosened his playmate up first, but he never went easy once his dick got involved. He slammed inside, pulled back slowly then slammed inside again. He rolled and thrust and pushed and pumped against Jon's ass while the guy moaned and groaned beneath him. Angel loved that about fucking Jon; the kid could take whatever he dished out, and most times, beg for more.
Jon's legs opened a little wider. His back arched and his ass raised a little higher, cheeks spreading as Angel's more-than-average girth spread his warm opening. "Oh God," Jon moaned as Angel stroked that special spot inside his body. A few more thrusts and he would be milking Jon for every drop he had.
"You like that?" Angel rolled his hips and wrenched back on Jon's hair.
"Mhm," escaped Jon's lips despite his biting down on the bottom one.
"You ready to come?"
"Please," Jon whimpered.
Angel pulled back harder on Jon's hair, enough so when he leaned forward, his lips could almost touch Jon's ear. He said, "You have my permission, boy." Then he thrust Jon forward and slammed hard inside him, pulled back and slammed home again.
A release that could've been felt three worlds over shot through Jon's body. He cried out to God and begged Angel not to stop. Angel let go of his hair and started pounding faster and faster as Jon came… all over the nasty-ass comforter Angel would be sleeping under tonight.
The fleshy walls surrounding Angel's cock clenched and released with each breath Jon took. He kept the kid's ass in the air as he finished himself off. Once satisfied, he kissed the center of Jon's back and pulled his flaccid cock out of that glorious warmth. A hiss left both their lips and Jon collapsed on the bed. Angel pushed up from his friend's body then sauntered to the bathroom as if nothing had happened.
Angel ripped the condom off his cock and tossed it into the bathroom trashcan. As he washed his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror. Streaks of black mascara and black eyeliner rained down from his slack, brown eyes and over his gaunt cheeks. Sweat beaded on his brow, weaving around the little silver bar beneath his thick brown eyebrows. He hated the man staring back at him, hated what he'd become in his quest to find his freedom, but hey, at least he'd gotten far away from his shithead father. At least now, he could call himself a man.
"If only the kids back home could see me now," he muttered. He looked nothing like the conservative rich boy from Maine anymore.
Without bothering to put on any clothes, he sauntered back into the room, cock swinging in the breeze. He plopped down on the bed next to Jon's sweaty, limp body, reached into his goodie bag and pulled out a joint. Some people wanted a cigarette after sex. Angel wanted to get high.
"You staying the night?" he asked.
"You want me to?"
"Whatever." Angel shrugged. He knew Jon well enough to know the kid was fishing. Jon wanted Angel to ask him to stay, to show a little emotion or some of that romantic bullshit Jon seemed to be so fond of. He probably wanted Angel to bust out the big "L" word, but he wouldn't do it. Angel didn't love, and he sure as hell would never beg Jon—or anyone else for that matter—to stay the night with him.
"I guess I'll stay," Jon finally said.
"Cool," Angel said as he tucked a folded arm behind his head, closed his eyes and took a long, hard pull from the joint.
Chapter Two
No matter how many times Erik walked through the halls of West Clinic, he couldn't get used to the sickly yellow hue of the place. How did they expect people to get better when everywhere those poor patients looked reminded them of just how messed up their lives had become? Hell, even the nurses looked like they were dancing on the edge of death. But somehow, they all made it work. Somehow, the entire staff of West Clinic always managed to turn out patients who rarely ended up coming back or found their way into programs elsewhere. It was a pretty awesome track record, all things considered.
"Hey, Dr Daniels," one of the younger, newer nurses said with a grin and a wave.
Erik raked his fingers through his drab brown hair and cut his hazel eyes away as he staged a nervous smile for her. She always got a little flirty with him and he never had the heart to tell her not to bother. He would hate to let such a sweet girl down.
"Hey, Roni."
"Want to meet for drinks after work?" she asked.
Now, that was laughable—prancing through a rehab clinic, asking one of the doctors out for drinks. "No, I can't. Too much to do." Not to mention the fact Erik was a recovering alcoholic, just over a year sober—though few people knew that little fact.
"Okay," she said, quickly looking away. Her face flushed red as she tucked a fallen blonde curl behind her ear. He felt bad for continually rejecting her, but he just wasn't interested. Nothing personal.
Sadly, plenty of the women at the clinic seemed to have a thing for him. They were nice and made his transfer from San Francisco to Los Angeles a lot easier, but Erik Daniels wasn't a ladies' man. He had zero interest in the fairer sex, actually. Not that he really wanted to date right now anyway. He'd spent the last year and a half pining over the man he'd fallen in love with just after med school.
Right now, Erik only wanted to save lives.
"I should go," he said with a soft smile. "I have things I need to get done before I leave."
"Right." Roni's blush deepened. She chewed the edge of her lip and spun on her heel to make her getaway.
Poor thing, Erik thought. It was sad really and maybe a bit of his own fault. Anyone would've mistaken him for a straight man. He wasn't macho, but wasn't at all effeminate either. He was just Erik—khakis and a V-neck sweater or polo-shirt, according to the weather. Brown or Black leather loafers, depending on the color of his top. Wire-rimmed glasses. Modest hair-cut. Just plain ol' Dr Daniels, the doctor everyone seemed to love—everyone save for the one person who truly mattered, the one person he no longer had.
At thirty-three years old, he'd had more and lost more than most people do before they die. Losing Marshall hurt far worse than anything else, though. Throwing away six beautiful years with a man who loved him had nearly destroyed him. Just thinking about the night he'd lost his love and almost lost his life made his heart ache.
Christ, he could still remember the look on Marshall's face when he'd stumbled into their house in the early morning hours. Erik had reeked of booze—probably whiskey. That'd been his drink of choice back in those days. He and Marshall fought nearly every time they came in contact with each other. Marshall had asked him to slow down so many times, and then he'd just seemed to give up trying.
Early that morning, sometime before sunrise, Marshall met Erik at the front door and demanded he get the hell out of the house. He didn't want to see Erik's face ever again. Erik had laughed and headed back out to the car he'd just stumbled out of. Turning the keys in the ignition, he'd hit the road. He hadn't known where he would end up. He'd just started driving, and not even ten miles into his journey, he'd had a head-on collision with a parked car.
The cops said Erik had to have been doing about sixty miles an hour for the damage he'd done. Three weeks after the accident, he'd woken up in the hospital with absolutely no recollection of what happened that night, no job, no home, and no Marshall. So he'd checked himself into rehab, hoping to heal the emotional scars while his body fought to heal the physical.
Just over a year later, he seemed to have his life in some sort of order again. He'd returned to his career of choice: helping the people everyone else thought were hopeless, the people life gave up on. But he didn't do it in a swank San Francisco office anymore. He didn't have his amazingly handsome partner to go home to, and every waking hour of his life he had to remind himself how he'd lost everything to booze.
Eric pressed his palm against the door of his most tragic patient's room. Poor kid had never been given a chance. His mom smoked crack during her entire pregnancy, and because of her bad decisions, baby Chris had been born an addict. He'd started on the light stuff at an early age, said it made everything that came with being a crack-addicted child a little easier. After the cops hauled his mother away, he moved to the streets. Now, at thirteen years old, Chris was addicted to meth.
At least Erik had managed to make more headway with him than anyone else. The kid finally started to talk to people, letting them get close. In fact, Roni could now go into his room without him screaming bloody murder and throwing pillows or bed linens or shoes at her.
"Heya, Chris," Erik said as he stepped into the kid's darkened room. "How we doing today?"
"It's a good day, Doc," the kid said.
Erik could see the sweat clinging to Chris's forehead. He saw his trembling hands as Chris hugged his legs to his curled body. He'd apparently been lying in bed, writing in his journal, something that seemed to take his mind off the detox his body went through.
"What are you writing?" Erik asked as he nodded toward the journal Chris had left open, but face down beside him.
"Fantasy," the kid mumbled. "Where's my chocolate?"
"How could I forget?" Erik reached in the messenger bag slung around his back and pulled out a king-sized Snickers bar. He tossed it on the bed and Chris beamed. Erik loved that he could make the kid smile, but his smile reminded the world that meth had nearly destroyed him. There were empty holes in the spots where adult teeth should be. The teeth he had left were black and yellow. Erik swallowed and looked down at the chair he normally sat in for their little visits.
"Fantasy, huh? Like sci-fi or paranormal?" he asked as he took a seat next to the bed.
"Dr D, I told you, I don't do that wussy, chick-lit stuff. No bratty teen-agers and their vampire crushes. My worlds aren't even on this planet!" His eyes widened with excitement. "Cody, that guy that's like… five rooms down, he said he'd draw the art and we'd make our own comic books. How cool is that, Dr D?"
"Pretty cool, Chris. Will you make me into a superhero?"
They both laughed. Yeah, Chris was definitely having a good day… a very good day. Two days ago, he cried and threw up everything he tried to eat. Kept mumbling about how he wouldn't survive. Erik really worried. Now, seeing the kid thrive in the worst possible conditions, Erik loved this part of his job. This was the reason he kept coming to work.
After nearly an hour had passed, Chris kept on and on about his story, and the comic book he and Cody would start. No one mentioned drugs or rehabilitation. Erik learned long ago if he just let the patients have their moments and enjoy their good times, they would learn to trust a lot faster, and their healing would go a lot more smoothly.
So tonight, when Erik finally had a chance to lie down and try to sleep, he would have a smile on his face, because somehow, he'd managed to reach the unreachable. He wouldn't dwell on his lonely life without his ex-partner, or how badly he wanted to go back to San Fran and tell Marshall he was sorry and he'd screwed up. He would think of the kid everyone said didn't have a chance in hell, and this would all still be worth it, even without the love of his life.
Chapter Three
Dropping his worn brown leather messenger bag on the kitchen table, Erik breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to be home again. Twelve-hour shifts at West Clinic were kicking his ass, but apparently, they needed him… or rather, those kids needed him. He had been named the foremost drug addiction counselor in the area. Every concerned parent wanted Erik treating their addicted child… that is, every concerned parent who couldn't afford private, high-end healthcare. And with all the budget cuts, the staff had been trimmed down to almost nothing, so it wasn't like they had a ton of doctors to choose from.
Erik stopped at the coffeemaker. Caffeine made for a great "lonely man's" dinner. As he started a ten-cup pot of leaded goodness, he couldn't help but laugh. He'd traded one addiction for another: alcohol for caffeine. At least this one didn't turn him into an incoherent asshole. It actually kept him from stumbling about his day as a… well, an incoherent asshole.
Just as he reached toward the cabinet to grab his overdose-sized coffee mug, he noticed the red light flashing on his answering machine. He frowned, tilting his head. A little mutter of confusion tickled his throat and slipped between his pursed lips. No one ever really called him, only his mother—who, by the way, could talk the ears off Joan Rivers. Nobody else had time for Dr Morose and the world of the melancholy. And believe it or not, the idea didn't really bother him. He didn't mind the downtime. After all, people talked to him about their problems all damn day.
The little red indicator kept flashing. Did he really want to know? It was probably a bill collector or something anyway. But Erik Daniels had one more annoying habit that he couldn't seem to shake—his obsessive compulsive disorder. The OCD won every time.
He reached down, pressing the play button on the machine.
"Erik." The voice made his spine straighten and his heart sink. "It's Marshall." As if he wouldn't remember that velvety voice. "I, um… I just wanted to check on you. I hope you're doing okay. Hope LA is treating you well." God, it would be so much better if Marshall had come with him. "Look, I… I'm coming to town in a few weeks. I'm supposed to give a journalism seminar at UCLA. I'll be there for a few days. I would love to see you, maybe have lunch. Anyway, please, give me a call."
The machine beeped before Marshall could've said "I love you," not that he would end a call that way anymore. Marshall had once told Erik he would always love him, but things changed—people changed.
Damn, he missed San Francisco so much.
"Shit!" The word hissed from between his slightly parted lips. He leaned against the counter with his hand over his face while the wheels in his brain churned. Erik just didn't know if he could face Marshall right now. He hadn't really moved on. That particular break-up almost killed him—literally. It had taken just over a year to get his life back together. He finally had a firm grasp on reality. And now, the one addiction he missed the most wanted to have a lunch date.
"No. I can't do it. I can't."
He started pacing back and forth, imagining what it would be like to see Marshall again, thinking up every possible scenario, every possible disaster. Erik would grovel. The moment Marshall turned to leave, Erik would break down and beg him not to. He could see it as clearly, as vividly as he could see the stark, outdated mess of a kitchen surrounding him.
The alarm on the coffee maker beeped and gave him a start. He nearly climbed out of his skin.
"I'm losing my mind," he mumbled as he reached for a mug.
Only Marshall could make him doubt his sanity like that. Only Marshall could make him uproot his life and bend his will until it broke.
"God, help me. I want to see him."
With a sigh, Erik filled the mug then headed toward the bathroom. Something about sipping coffee while soaking in a tub of hot water made everything seem so much better despite how dire or dangerous or exciting things might be. He sat his mug down on the vanity and started to strip. His gaze wandered down his body, taking in every single jagged pink scar from the accident that had changed his life. They were little reminders of how badly he'd messed everything up.
Erik eased himself down into the scalding water of his bathtub. It wasn't the Jacuzzi tub he'd once owned back in San Francisco when life had been as perfect as he could've ever dreamed it being, but it was big enough that he could submerge most of his six-foot, two-inches into the water. He was mostly legs. They could hang over the edge of the tub because those muscles weren't the ones playing hell with him right now.
His neck had been giving him fits since he'd listened to Marshall's message.
"Lunch," he grumbled. "He wants a lunch date with me, after all this time with no contact, no calling to see if I was okay or anything. Now, he wants a lunch date?"
Erik could act offended, act a little pissed off, but in reality, he would jump on any opportunity to see Marshall again, even if a simple date had the very real possibility of breaking his heart again. He still loved that gorgeous genius. There was no denying it, but what wasn't to love about Marshall? Brains, beauty, personality, and heart—the guy had it all. He was the total package.
And Erik had let him slip away.
He sank further into the tub. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he still fantasized about being with Marshall. The things that man could do with his body… the thought sent a shiver down Erik's spine. Maybe he should be ashamed, but every time he thought about Marshall and the love they use to make, he'd get an excited twitch between his legs, a sudden tightening and throbbing. And thank God he lived alone or some poor, unsuspecting someone might've walked in on him relishing his fantasies with his right-hand friend.
Closing his eyes, Erik reached down and rubbed his palm back and forth over the length of his flaccid penis. It would only take a second of stroking and imagining Marshall's lips gliding up and down his shaft before he hardened completely.
What he wouldn't give to have his beautiful ex-partner's hand on his erection right now. Oh, who was he kidding? He would've given anything to have Marshall in the same room with him, the same bed. He would've sold his soul to have Marshall back in his life.
Patient Privilege Page 2
