Patient Privilege

by Allison Cassatta

  Erik moaned. Marshall groaned.

  It was a beautiful moment between them, a connection they hadn't had in far too long. Erik would've given his soul to keep Marshall in Los Angeles, but he knew better. He knew Marshall would never leave beautiful San Francisco for the hell of LA even if they had a chance of being happier than they'd ever been before. No, Erik needed to take this for what it was—a tryst, not a reconnection, just a one night stand with a lost lover—not a reunion of kindred souls.

  And that epiphany gave him the last bit of fortitude he needed to turn this… tryst into something so hot, so mind-blowing and toe-curling, neither of them would be able to easily walk away.

  Erik thrust deep inside him, rolled his hips, and pulled back before slamming home again. Each push had a new intensity to it, a new heat and desire. He wanted to make his lover come so hard he would never want to leave him. He wanted to be Marshall's addiction.

  He let one leg fall and reached down to grip his lover's throbbing erection, and each time Erik dove inside, his hand met the same hurried rhythm—up and down, in and out. He pulled out, teased Marshall's opening until his ex-partner whimpered in agony and need, then thrust back in again.

  They kept up that salacious dance, Erik stroking Marshall's body and his sex. Suddenly Marshall's back arched and he called out to God to help him. He panted and moaned, eyes closing as he cried out Erik's name. Erik couldn't have asked for better praise.

  As soon as Marshall's body gripped his erection, Erik picked up the pace until he felt his own pressure about to explode. He pulled back and stabbed down with so much passion he couldn't hold back a moment longer. He came so hard his voice cracked as he cried out Marshall's name.

  Panting, he let Marshall's legs fall as he slipped out of his body. Erik gathered his ex into his arms and held him tight. "I don't want to be without you," he rasped.

  Marshall's arms wrapped around Erik's waist, and he laid his head against Erik's heaving chest. "I don't want to be without you either, Erik. Come back to San Francisco with me."

  Erik couldn't respond. He would've killed to be back home with Marshall in their perfect little house with their perfect little lives. He would've given his soul to feel that love again. He opened his mouth to say something when his phone rang. It was the hospital. "I have to take this," he said as he reluctantly let go of Marshall's body.

  "Dr Daniels," he said into the phone as Marshall stood and padded toward the bathroom.

  "I'm sorry for bothering you," the voice on the other end said. "It's Jon. The hospital called you for me. I told them it was an emergency."

  Erik frowned. "What's wrong, Jon?"

  "He says he's leaving, Dr Daniels. Angel said he wanted to get high and no one could stop him. I told him I would leave if he did." Jon's voice trembled as if he were trying to hold back his tears. "I don't want to leave him. I don't want to see him do this to himself, but I don't know what else to do."

  "Just stay there. I'm on my way." Erik ended the call, looked over at Marshall as he pulled his khakis up his legs and grabbed his shirt. He slipped his feet back into his shoes and said, "I have to go. Please don't leave town before we have a chance to talk."

  Marshall closed the distance between them. He helped Erik settle his shirt into place then kissed him with a depth and passion Erik needed to feel. "I promise I won't. Please, think about what I said, okay?"

  "I will." Erik kissed him again. "I love you."

  "I love you too, Erik."

  He tore out of Marshall's hotel room, his mind so lost in the throes of passion, lost in the urgency of helping Angel and Jon, that he forgot he'd ridden back from Starbucks with Marshall. He waved his arm in the air and the first taxi to zoom by slammed on its brakes.

  "Take me to Starbucks on Wilshire and make it fast."

  Chapter Thirteen

  It took Erik maybe forty-five minutes to get to the hospital. He'd pushed his little import car to the limit and the damn thing whined in protest, but it got him there and in record time considering the never-ending LA traffic. In most cities, at almost one in the morning during the work week, traffic would've been nonexistent, but not in the city of lost angels where only the dead sleep.

  His brown leather loafers pounded against the off-white linoleum floor as he ran toward Angel's room. He didn't know what to expect, didn't know if Angel would be subdued or convulsively sick or in the abusive stage of a junkie's detox. He hoped, for Jon's sake, Angel hadn't reached the latter yet. Jon seemed a little too fragile to go through something that horrible and heartbreaking alone.

  Rounding the corner, Erik saw Jon sitting on the floor beside Angel's door, head hung low as he hugged his body, sobbing like he'd lost the only thing that ever mattered to him. As Erik's feet slowed, Jon raised his head. In a tearful voice, the kid said, "He's gone."

  That stopped Erik dead in his tracks. "What do you mean 'he's gone'?"

  "I came back after I called you and he was gone. He'd ripped everything out and left."

  "Shit," Erik hissed as he rubbed the back of his neck. "How long has he been gone?"

  "The nurses said he left about thirty minutes ago."

  "Do you know where he might be?"

  Jon took a deep breath and stood from the floor, but stayed against the wall. "He kept saying he wanted to get high. I know the area he hangs out in, but I don't know if that's where he would go, especially if he thought I would be looking for him."

  Erik reached out and gripped Jon's shoulder. He offered the poor kid whatever strength he could. "Don't worry. We'll find him. I'll do what I can to help him."

  As Jon's tears fell faster, he threw his arms around Erik's body and hugged him tight. Clearly, the kid desperately wanted to save his friend, but would his friend ever be desperate enough to save himself? If the doctor in Erik were to be completely honest with himself, he'd let it go because Angel was obviously a lost cause, but the humanitarian in Erik couldn't watch anyone slowly kill themselves, even if chasing down a patient who didn't seem to want the care slightly bent the rules.

  Something about the two boys kept Erik from letting go, though. Maybe he saw a little of himself in Angel. Maybe he saw a little of Marshall in Jon. Maybe the hopeless romantic in him had a need to kick his ass into proactive mode.

  "Come on," Erik said in a low voice. "Let's see if we can't find him. Maybe he got high and he'll be more willing to come with us."

  "When he's high, he likes to…" Jon's face flushed. Erik's brow arched. "He, um… might be a little easier to deal with," Jon finally said.

  "Easy is good," Erik said with a compassionate smile. "Addicts don't like to hear how bad they're screwing up, especially not from someone they care about." He walked Jon out to the car. "I lost the love of my life to alcohol. I lost my practice, my home and my dignity, all in one night." He opened the passenger-side door and Jon climbed in. Erik closed the door then leaned down to the slightly opened window. "I regret everything I did to Marshall and if I had to spend the next fifteen lifetimes making it up to him, I would."

  Jon gave him a confused look and said, "You don't know me. Why would you share that with me?"

  "I want you to have hope, Jon. I'm not perfect, but I changed my life. I live every day to right my wrongs. Have hope Angel will do the same. Give him the chance my ex didn't give me. Be his strength. Don't abandon him, okay?"

  Jon nodded slowly then Erik went around to the driver's side of the car. The engine groaned and whined as it came back to life. The headlights circled the drive as he backed out of the parking space and pulled out onto the road. This time, Erik wasn't heading back to Westwood to spend the night in his ex-partner's arms. He had a much higher purpose. He needed to save a life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Angel's hands trembled. Sweat beaded on his brow. The trick didn't seem to notice, didn't ask if he needed help. Good thing. Angel might've ripped his head off. He wanted to get this shit over with, get his drugs and go back to the motel so he could get high be
fore the cavalry came. Yeah, Angel wasn't stupid. He knew Jon would come searching for him, and he could deal with that as long as Angel got his fix first.

  He dropped to his knees in the damp, filthy streets of some random alley, bringing the john's pants down with him. An excited little cock bobbed in his face. If it wasn't for the dragon he wanted to chase, Angel would've laughed and walked away. He had to remind himself that this particular john paid well. A blowjob and a little finger action would be easy if he thought about where it would get him.

  Wrapping his mouth around the john's bobbing cock, Angel licked the hardened shaft. His palm caressed the tightened sac before he reached between his customer's thighs to push two fingers into his ass.

  The whole damn thing bored the shit out of Angel and it probably showed, but he had a feeling his customer wouldn't notice. The man gripped at the brick wall behind him so hard the skin of his knuckles turned white. As Angel whipped his tongue back and forth, over and over, across and around, the john's knees bent and started to quiver. The man moaned as his head rolled against the brick. Five minutes, maybe less, and Angel would have his money.

  He worked the trick's cock, worked it until he felt the pulsing and throbbing, and the tightening in the guy's sac. It was almost over. Then he could get high. Then he could erase every bad thought and feeling. He could satisfy his needs and forget about what had happened and his trip to the hospital. A few more minutes and it would be over.

  A salty explosion of warmth erupted in Angel's mouth, splashed over his tongue and he kept pulling hard until every single drop had been sucked from the john's body. He swallowed the shit down and let the flaccid cock flop out of his mouth.

  Standing, he held out his hand, didn't bother waiting for the customer to compose himself. "Money, now," Angel barked.

  With a shaky hand, the man reached for his wallet, fished out five one-hundred dollar bills and slapped them against Angel's palm. Angel didn't say a single word. He took his money and hit the streets in search of Trez.

  It didn't take long. His dealer was perched in the first dark hole Angel went to. Good thing. Angel's nerves were frazzled. His mood bordered on explosive and if he didn't get some of Trez's goodies in his veins soon, he knew he would have a meltdown.

  Angel didn't bother with conversation, only bought enough smack to get him a good high. He knew Jon would find him soon enough, and when he did, his best friend would expect him to put the shit down and get help. Normally, Angel would've told him to fuck off. Normally, Angel wouldn't give a shit what anyone else wanted. He did what pleased him despite what anyone else thought—but the look in Jon's eyes, the resolve in his voice… it scared the shit out of Angel. He knew he had a choice to make. It was Jon or the heroin. He couldn't have both, and giving up Jon would be a hell of a lot harder than giving up the drugs. Or, that's what he told himself.

  The next stop was another shithole motel. Not the same one he'd nearly died in a few days ago. That would be the first place Jon would look, and by his watch, Jon was probably already on the prowl… if he still cared enough to look for him.

  Angel got his room. He'd stayed there a few times before and Jon had found him there more than once. He might've asked for something different, but part of him wanted to be found. A small, desperate part of him wanted Jon to ride in on his white horse and save his life. Being high had been great for a while, but Angel needed more now. He needed substance. He needed the love and happiness he had back home. And as long as no one forced him to talk about it, he could almost live with needing and not having. Almost.

  Once he made it to the room and locked the door, Angel kicked off his shoes and stripped down to his boxers. He felt nasty wearing the jeans and t-shirt he'd serviced his customer in, not to mention the knees were soiled with God only knew what. He didn't have a change of clothes—didn't have shit to his name. Jon had taken his backpack and he hadn't thought to get it back before leaving the hospital. At least he could get high, take a shower, then… well, who the fuck knew what would happen next?

  As he tossed the baggy full of white, powdery goodness onto the table, Angel realized he didn't even have the shit to shoot up with. Everything he owned or cared about had been stowed away in his backpack. "Fuck," he muttered. He really hated snorting heroin, but he had to do something. He would lose his mind if he sat there staring at the only bit of peace this world offered him.

  Angel looked around the grungy motel room. His brain was going haywire, nerves on the blackened end of fried. His shaking hands dug through drawers, searching for anything thin and solid enough to chop the heroin down into fine lines. He ended up with one of those stupid advertisements for local pizza delivery places that every shitty motel had next to the phone. It wasn't perfect, but it worked in a pinch.

  He sorted out five lines with the intent of doing them all before the cavalry came, if his savior even managed to find him this time. Those five, sweet white lines stared back at him, almost seemed to be smiling with satisfaction because they had so much control over him.

  Angel rolled one of the bills Mr Nasty from the alley had paid him with, snorted one line, then another. The high wasn't as intense as it could've been, but definitely better than nothing. He flopped back on the bed and a grin stretched across his face as he slid his hand up and down the center of his chest.

  Okay, maybe he couldn't give up the high so easily. Maybe he'd been kidding himself thinking he could get clean and possibly have a normal life. The dragon made him feel too damn good to just walk away. It gave him a warm, disembodied feeling, like floating through the sky, almost like the bliss of being loved.

  There was a sudden pounding on the door and Angel lifted his head, though he refused to climb out of the bed to get it. His bare legs dangled over the edge. His moist, naked chest glistened in the yellow light of the room. His arms spread out just like the smile on his face. Angel laughed.

  "You're getting good at this," he yelled toward the door.

  "Let me in, you asshole!" Jon called back.

  "I ain't fuckin' movin'," Angel said, voice lazy, giving away just how high he really was. "C'mon, kick it down, Jon. You're good at that shit, right?"

  "Fine. I'll call the cops and tell them someone overdosed in room one-twenty-nine."

  With a few haphazardly delivered curses and a groan that rumbled up through Angel's body, he hefted himself from the bed and started for the door. The remaining three lines caught his eye and stopped him where he stood. Jon pounded on the door again. "Give me a fucking second, okay?" He snorted one more line and stood there for a moment, gripping the edge of the table. The initial jolt had to pass before he could face Jon.

  Somehow, Angel managed to stumble to the door. His hand locked around the knob and when he wrenched the damn thing open, his eyes shot straight past Jon and on to Dr Daniels.

  "What the fuck is he doing here?"

  "Angel," Jon said as he reached for his hand.

  Angel ripped his arm back. "Fucking answer me, Jon!"

  "He came to help."

  "I don't need any help!"

  "Yes, you do!"

  Angel started backing away only to trip over the shoes he'd left in the middle of the floor, landing flat on his ass. He shook his head wildly. "Get the fuck out of my room! Leave me alone!" he demanded. "And take that asshole with you!" He threw his arm out, slicing through the air, stabbing his finger toward the doctor, who still stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

  He waited for Jon to argue, but his best friend didn't say a damn word. Jon only stormed past him, marching toward the table like a man on a mission. Angel's eyes followed every step, followed the line of Jon's sight and landed on the lines of white powder carved out on the table.

  "Jon," Angel called out, pushing himself up from the floor and stumbling toward Jon's determined, enraged body. He'd never seen such strength in Jon before. "Dude! Stop!"

  But Jon didn't stop. He headed straight for the table, gripped the edges and dumpe
d the whole thing over onto the floor. Angel's eyes shot wide and his arms stretched out, fingers splayed. He tackled Jon, took him straight down to the shag carpet and was about to hit him when the good doctor locked his arms around his body and pulled him back.

  "Do you know what I had to do for that shit?" Angel growled as he struggled to get away from Dr Daniels.

  "Fuck you," Jon spat. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

  "I had to suck off some nasty fucking old man in a Goddamn alley for that shit! I had to swallow his cum and you just wasted it on the fucking floor!"

  "I don't give a shit what you did! You did it to yourself!"

  Angel finally broke away from Dr Daniels's hold. He pushed past Jon and pressed his nose to the scattered pile of white powder dusted all over the brown carpet. He inhaled as much as he could, as fast as he could. He didn't give a shit how desperate that made him look.

  He rolled over, leaned against the wall and stared up as Dr Daniels held Jon's trembling body. Tears filled his best friend's eyes and Angel hated those soggy little reminders of the piece of shit he'd been. He hated everything he'd put Jon through in the last few days. And most of all, he hated to see someone else holding Jon while he cried over the shit Angel had put him through.

  In a soft, understanding voice, the doctor said, "I get it, Angel. I do, but look what you're doing to the only person who loves you enough to try to save you. Look how badly you're hurting him. Is this the life you want to live?"

  Lowering his head, Angel mumbled a soft, "No." He wrapped his arms around his own body. He curled against the wall and sobbed. "Fucking help me. Please, God, somebody fucking help me. I don't want to be a whore anymore. Fucking help me."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Erik gave Jon a light nudge. Jon looked back and Erik nodded toward the scared, warm body curled against the wall in a silent way of telling the kid to go to the man he seemed to love so much, hold him and help him. Erik knew better than anyone how much Angel needed support right now. He needed love and compassion, understanding and care. He definitely didn't need to be treated like a pariah, and Erik knew if Angel thought for one second the only person he trusted had turned his back on him, rehab would be the last thing on his mind.