As soon as he hit the parking lot, his phone started to ring. He fought to get it out of his pants pocket and when he finally had the damn thing in his hand, he looked down at the caller ID. "Shit," he hissed. He'd forgotten to call Marshall.
Erik sighed as he lifted the phone to his ear. "Hey."
"Is everything okay? I didn't hear from you. It worried me."
"Yeah. I got mixed up with an overdose and his boyfriend. Leaving the hospital now."
"You've always had such a huge heart. I often wondered how you did it, how you could take in everyone's pain and try to fix it all. I wondered how you didn't go insane."
"I drank," Erik said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. The long silence only made an already tense situation worse. Maybe he shouldn't have spat out the answer like did, but the words fell from his lips before his brain had enough sense to stop them. The best thing he could do now was change the subject. Erik looked down at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. Where did the time go? "I guess it's too late for dinner, huh?"
"I've already eaten, but we could meet for coffee," Marshall offered. "I would love to see you."
"I would love to see you too," Erik said. His voice grew heavy with desire and he could've slapped himself for getting his hopes up like he did. He leaned against the driver's side of his car, lowered his head and said, "I mean, I would love to catch up with you."
"Then let's meet for coffee. I'm staying at the Palomar in Westwood. There's a Starbucks close by. Does that sound okay to you?"
"Yeah, sure. I can be there in thirty, maybe forty-five minutes."
"Great. I'll see you there."
Erik hung up the phone and tossed it into the passenger side of his dirty old beater. Was he seriously going to Westwood looking like something puked up from the bowels of Hollywood's underbelly, in a car that most people in California would consider criminally hazardous to the environment? He sat down in the car and twisted the key in the ignition—nothing. He twisted it again and the car only groaned in protest. On the third try, the damn thing finally came to life.
As he reached the edge of the parking lot, Erik hesitated. Slowly turning his head, he looked to the left, then to the right. He sat for almost a full minute, trying to decide if he would just go home and call Marshall or if he would actually venture off into Westwood—into a night that would probably leave him wishing he'd never taken Marshall's call in the first place.
At forty-nine seconds, he took a left turn toward Westwood, watching the road that led to his inner peace disappear in the rearview mirror.
Chapter Ten
Erik pulled into the parking lot of the Starbucks on Wilshire Boulevard and parked his rusty old beater between a gorgeous, black Mercedes and some sort of exotic sports car thing that no normal person would drive for a quick trip to the coffee shop. He called those 'compensation cars', because normally, the owner of such a beast wanted to compensate for some other shortcomings. Not that Erik would judge—he just didn't understand the need to spend such a gross amount of money on a car.
He crossed the parking lot, and as soon as he stepped through the glass door, the rich, dark scent of fresh-brewed coffee hit him hard. He took a deep breath and a lazy-eyed grin spread across his face. He'd always loved the smell of coffee. When he finally searched the crowded shop, he spotted the soft sprigs of Marshall's dirty-blond hair, contrasting with all of the boring brown, conservative coiffures filling the room.
"Marshall," he called out softly, but loudly enough to get his ex's attention. He held his hand up and Marshall grinned, his tender green eyes sparkling. It nearly melted Erik's heart.
"Can I help you?" the barista asked.
Erik fought to compose himself, to find his brain and his voice. "Venti vanilla latte, soy milk, no whip," he said almost robotically, as if the words had become programmed into his brain. He held out his debit card, but Marshall's fingers wrapped around it.
"Make that two and give us two blueberry scones. I'm paying," he said with a perfect, bright white smile that seemed to glow in contrast to his tanned skin.
"Thank you, but…" Erik said as he slipped his card back in his wallet.
"I know. I wanted to." Marshall handed the barista a twenty and told her to keep the change.
They moved to the end of the bar to wait for their coffee. An air of intensity blossomed between them—an awkward moment brought about by sexual desire from one, which may or may not have been reciprocated by the other. Erik needed Marshall to love him and want him back, but he doubted Marshall would ever want or need him like that again.
"You look good," Marshall finally said. "You've been taking care of yourself."
"You mean I haven't been drinking. I look good because I'm sober."
Marshall shrugged. "Maybe. I'm glad you're sober. I've been counting the days. I'm proud of you."
The barista came back with their lattes and all conversation about the virtues of being sober ceased. Erik was thankful. Sure, being alcohol-free gave him a sense of pride he hadn't had in a long time, but hearing Marshall talk about it reminded him how badly he'd screwed up. He knew Marshall didn't mean to rub anything in his face, but he had. The last thing Erik wanted was to be upset with his ex. Not for this reunion.
"So, how is your heroin addict?" Marshall asked after taking a large sip of his drink.
"He has a really hard road ahead of him, but he has decided he needs help." Erik took a nice long drink of his coffee. "I think he'll be okay." He rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. "As long as his partner sticks by him, I think he'll be okay." Marshall lowered his head. Erik sighed and started to reach for Marshall's hand, but thought better of it. Obviously, his ex had taken the words as a jab, though Erik never intended them that way. "I didn't mean…"
"No. I know you didn't, but I… I should've stayed by your side. I shouldn't have kicked you out."
"Marshall, you kicking me out made me realize I had a problem in the first place. I might still be drinking if you hadn't. You saved me from myself and in a way, I'm thankful. I just hate…" Erik choked up. He could hear the rawness in his own voice. "I hate that my problem cost us so much."
Marshall reached out and touched his hand. "I hate the way things ended too, Erik, but it saved your life. That's all I wanted. I wanted you to see what you were doing to yourself."
Erik's head lowered, jaw clenching. He had to take a silent moment to push away the painful memories of losing the one person who'd ever really stood by him.
"I think about us."
"Me too." Marshall leaned in closer. His voice softened as he added, "I haven't stopped thinking about us."
Erik turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Marshall's. It took everything he had not to cry in the middle of the packed Starbucks. He would give anything to have his ex-partner back in his life. Marshall had made him happy—incredibly happy. Helping people break their addictions might've been rewarding, but Marshall made waking up every day a treat.
He gave Marshall's hand a squeeze. "I still love you."
"Erik, I still love you too." Marshall glanced around the room. "Let's go back to the hotel and talk. It's too loud in here."
Marshall stood. Erik's hazel gaze met his sparkling green eyes. He couldn't say no to that beautiful stare or that perfect, winning smile. He held his ex-partner's hand and together, they walked out of Starbucks and straight to Marshall's Land Rover.
It took no more than ten minutes to drive back to the hotel, no more than five to stumble through the door of Marshall's suite. Their lips locked. They held each other tight as Erik's tongue dove deep into his ex-lover's mouth.
They stumbled past the sleek, black sofa and chrome-legged coffee table, somehow kicking out of their shoes as they passed the dinette and into the darkened bedroom. By the time their intertwined bodies reached the luxurious, king-sized bed, neither of them had their shirts on anymore, and their pants were well on their way to falling to the floor.
With muffled, hearty laughter
, they both fell to the bed, leaving their twin khakis piled on the floor. Erik let out a contented purr as Marshall's hands carefully studied the muscled lines of his chest. He lavished kisses down Marshall's slender throat.
"I love you so much," Marshall said with an airy moan.
Erik stopped kissing him and their eyes met. "I love you" wasn't the first thought to enter his mind, though those three words encompassed everything he felt. No, he had something much more important to say, something that felt more sincere than three hopelessly romantic words he'd said a million times before. So instead of returning the big "L" word, Erik said, "I don't want you to leave."
Chapter Eleven
Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound had lulled Angel to sleep, but every so often a sudden pain or wave of nausea ripped him away from his dreams. Not that he would complain. His dreams weren't made of fairytales with happy endings. Hell, he would've taken fanged monsters with claws or a high-speed chase. But no, Angel got to relive all the stupid bullshit he'd done and every dumb decision he'd made.
His eyelids fluttered, but he couldn't really make out his surroundings. His fingernails gnawed at the medical tape holding the IV to his arm. For a second, he forgot about overdosing or being hospitalized. For a moment, he thought it'd been nothing more than a bad dream. One eye opened, then the other. It took a few tries before he could actually focus enough to see Jon sitting in a chair beside the bed with a hospital blanket curled around his body. So it wasn't a bad dream after all.
"You stayed," Angel said in a gravelly voice.
"I swore I would," Jon said, lifting his head from the back of the chair.
"How long have I been out?"
"Hours. I don't know. I've been dozing off myself."
"Damn. Whatever they put in that IV is kicking my ass."
"I think it's probably morphine, but I'm not a hundred percent sure about that."
As Jon eased up from the chair, a little booklet fell to the floor. Angel saw the white fluttering pages from the corner of his eye. He caught the word "Heroin" in big black letters on the cover. "What's that?" he asked, finger stretching down toward the floor.
"Oh, um… one of the nurses brought it to me. It's a brochure or something. Has to do with heroin addicts and how loved ones cope with someone who wants to kick the habit." Jon shrugged. "It's pretty interesting, I guess. I fell asleep reading it, but I think it's just because I needed to get some rest."
"Oh," Angel mumbled, head rolling back on the pillow so he wouldn't have to keep looking at the one person who'd always been good to him despite his always being a bastard. The way he'd seen Jon acting, how happy he seemed and how attentive he'd been, Angel sort of figured Jon expected them to be together or something once rehab ended. Just because Angel planned on getting clean didn't mean he planned on settling down. Angel didn't see himself being that guy.
He felt fingers squeeze around his; he hadn't realized Jon had been holding his hand the entire time. Jon leaned over the bed and kissed his cheek. Angel's rich brown eyes fluttered again. "You feeling any better?" Jon asked. Angel couldn't mistake the caution in his voice, the way the words came out slow and quietly.
"No," Angel croaked. "I want to get high."
Jon's adorable, dimpled smile turned into a frown. "No, you don't really. Do you?"
Angel shrugged. "I wouldn't feel like shit anymore if I did."
"Want me to call the nurse?"
"No. They won't do anything else for me." He felt Jon's fingers release his hand and saw Jon reach back to grab the cloth he'd been brushing across Angel's forehead.
"Let me rinse this. I'll be right back," Jon said, and the promise of a break from the touchy-feely madness was the best relief Angel could've asked for—not that he didn't appreciate Jon staying or anything like that.
Jon walked around to the bathroom and Angel couldn't tear his eyes away. He honestly didn't know why Jon had such an obsessive need to be so good to him. He treated Jon like shit—had since they'd met. Jon loved him. He was well aware of that fact. And Jon knew the feelings weren't returned, yet he'd stayed by his side, took care of him, and continued to love him despite his cruelty.
For a second he wondered if—when he got off the smack—he would be capable of loving Jon the way he deserved. He wondered if he could ever return the kindness, the care, and the tenderness Jon had always shown him. Angel wondered if he could ever love anyone or if he was doomed to pay for the shit he'd done in his short time on earth forever.
Angel hissed as soon as he felt Jon brush the warm, damp cloth across his forehead. It wasn't until the moist heat hit his skin that Angel actually realized he'd been shivering. His fingers knotted the blanket at his waist and Jon helped him pull it up to his chin. "Thanks," Angel muttered, staring up at the ceiling instead of watching Jon take care of him.
"Are you hungry?" Jon asked.
Angel made a sickened face. "I don't think I could hold anything down."
"You need to eat something."
"I can't, okay?" Angel's voice grew loud with frustration. His stomach knotted and turned. Thinking of food just made the shit that much worse. No, he didn't want any damn food. "I want to get fucking high! I want out of this place!"
"Baby, you can't go."
"Fuck them!"
Angel started to rise up in the bed. He knew he wouldn't get very far. They had him too doped up or maybe he was too weak. Probably a combination of the two. Whatever it was, it resulted in him being stuck in the hospital bed while Jon worried over every little breath he took. He hated this shit—hated it more than the thought of Jon finding him almost dead in a tub.
"I want out of here!" he demanded again, his voice almost a growl.
Jon shook his head. "Please don't, Angel. Please stay."
"You gotta help me get high, Jon. I can't stay here. I feel like my fucking skin is crawling. Please, just score a hit for me. Just one hit. That's all I need."
"Let me get a nurse," Jon said as he started to walk away, but Angel grabbed his wrist and wrenched him back with what little strength he had left.
"Come on, bro. You love me, right?"
Jon nodded.
"Then do this for me. Please, go see Trez. He'll hook you up."
Jon shook his head, pulled his arm from Angel's grip. "I can't," he choked out, eyes filling with tears. "I can't help you kill yourself."
"Fuck you, Jon! You don't love me! If you loved me, you wouldn't let me suffer like this!"
Angel glared. Jon hugged his body tight as he backed away from the bed. In a soft, defeated voice Jon said, "I'll get a nurse for you," and with that, Jon left him lying alone in his hospital bed, shivering and jonesing for just one harmless little hit.
Chapter Twelve
Erik stared down at Marshall. His ex's bright green eyes filled with a confusing mix of love and remorse. His fingers brushed through Erik's soft caramel-colored hair.
Marshall said, "Make love to me, please? I've missed that almost as much as I've missed waking up next to you every morning."
Lowering his head, Erik pressed his lips to Marshall's mouth. The idea of Marshall staying was a pipe dream, and he had all but confirmed it when he made no promise to stay or even visit. At this point, Erik would take what he could get because it meant time with the man he couldn't seem to get his mind off of, the man who still held his heart. And if they never had another night together, at least they had this one.
Marshall reached down between their bodies. His hand encircled Erik's arousal, thumb stroking the sensitive curve of the head. Erik moaned against his mouth. It had been a long time since he'd felt another man's touch—far too long. The love he still felt for his ex made this whole thing more intense than it might've been had it been any night in their old lives.
"I love you," Erik breathed. He couldn't help himself. Instinct gave him a voice and his heart gave the words life.
"I love you too," Marshall returned in a voice just as airy, filled with lust and need.
Erik
's hands smoothed around Marshall's hips, down his cheeks, down the back of his thighs until his palms pressed against Marshall's calves. He gently pushed, leaning against the backs of his ex-lover's legs until his cheeks parted and the head of Erik's erection teased Marshall's warm opening.
Marshall drawled out a low moan. "I haven't been with anyone since you."
"I haven't either," Erik said as he pulled back. "I haven't wanted anyone else." He pushed forward again, toying with his ex-lover's body.
"I'm tight."
"I know."
Marshall rolled his body, leaning for the overnight bag beside the nightstand. "Let me get the lube," he said in a husky, lust-laden voice.
Erik was surprised, to say the least. For a man who hadn't been with anyone in over a year, Marshall sure seemed prepared. Had he come to Los Angeles expecting Erik to have sex with him? Did he expect to leave like nothing had ever happened? For a moment, Erik felt like Marshall might use him for a night of mind-blowing sex, a simple tryst then leave him with his heart aching again. And he might've pulled his pants back on and left, but Marshall's silky, gooey palm wrapped around his hardened sex and Erik lost the will to say no. His eyes rolled back as a moan rumbled up through his body.
"Make love to me, Erik."
Without a moment of hesitation, Erik rolled Marshall's body back into place. His ex-partner's legs pressed against his chest as he leaned down to take Marshall in a way he hadn't in such a long time.
He arched his back, pressed his erection to Marshall's ready opening. He eased the head in, pulled back then pushed a little harder. Marshall's body relaxed, accepted each and every inch until Erik was fully inside of him, bobbing in and out, in and out again.
Patient Privilege Page 5
