by Aiden Bates
Pedro wasn’t cold. Pedro wasn’t ever cold. That was the problem. He wasn’t cold, or hot, or hungry, or thirsty, or walking, or talking, or calling me a “pigheaded sonofabitch,” or anything. All he did—all he’d done for the past three years—was lay in this forgotten bed, in this forgotten part of the hospital, in this coma the rest of the world seemed to have forgotten.
The rest of the world had moved on after the explosion. Sometimes it felt like everyone who was involved had gotten married, had babies, bought houses, and settled down.
But, not Pedro. Pedro hadn’t done any of that. He just lay in his bed.
For me, like for so many of my brothers-in-arms, the world existed in two, neatly divided categories: Pre-IED and Post-IED. Pre-IED, I’d had one blood brother and several brothers-in-arms, all with big dreams about the kinds of heroic things we would do overseas and the kinds of things we were going to do when we get home. We were going to serve, fight bad guys, and get promoted. Then? We were going to go home, buy our mamas houses, marry the omegas we’d left behind, and have babies. We were going to have the lives some of us had never had in the first place but all of us had always dreamed of.
Post-IED, Long had come back without an arm, Carpenter had come back with a third of his skin burned away, O’Rourke hadn’t come back at all, and Pedro had come back like this. The rest of my unit—the rest who had been able to come home, anyway—had to teach themselves to live again and to live in ways we’d never planned for.
As for me? I’d been “lucky.” Everyone said so.
I came back without a scratch on me. I still had both my arms and legs. I could still walk and talk. I was still in one piece. That meant I could still serve, and by god, I was going to serve.
So, like the Sentinels at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, I assigned myself to a never-ending post. Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, rain or shine, for the past three years, I had been at my brother’s bedside. The only difference was that, unlike the Unknown Soldier and the whole society of guards assigned to him, Pedro only had me. There was never a changing of the guards here. There was only me, and I never let myself be relieved. Not by anyone outside the family, not by anyone inside the family, and especially not by Mami.
“Mijo,” Mami repeated, fretfully. Mijo. My son.
“Don’t cry, Mami,” I said, shaking my head once again. “He wouldn’t want you to cry over him, I know that much.”
“Mijo, it’s not him,” Mami pleaded with a sniffle. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
“I’m fine, Mami,” I answered, barely keeping the impatience out of my voice.
Immediately, Pedro’s voice—the voice in my head that sounded just like Pedro, anyway—snapped at me.
What’s wrong with you, bro? Don’t talk to Mami like that!
I agreed internally and checked myself. Pedro was right, he and I weren’t the kind of kids who took tones with Mami. But it was hard to keep my cool when she and I had had this conversation so many times I knew exactly what we were going to talk about even before she started.
“You look skinny. You haven’t been eating. You don’t look well,” Mami insisted. “You can’t keep going like this. It’s been—”
“It’s been three years. Give or take. Si, Mami, I know. And, I am eating. I buy stuff out of the vending machine, and Jessie and Teresa bring me food on their rounds. Sandwiches and shi…sorry, Mami… And stuff.”
Mami shook her head sadly while softly continuing to rub at one of Pedro’s legs just like she always did when she came to see him.
“That’s not real food, Marcos. And you don’t hear yourself. You’re saying the nurses bring you food. That means you’re still not even leaving long enough to sit down and have a real meal. You don’t come home, you don’t see me and Papi unless it’s here. Mijo, this isn’t a life.”
I always bit my tongue when she got to that part. Of course this wasn’t a life, but it was more of a life than Pedro had. How could I be out there trying to live while he was in here barely alive? That was true when I’d started saying it three years ago, had kept on being true the whole time afterward, and was still true now even when I didn’t say it anymore for fear of starting the same, old tired argument with Mami.
“It’s just until he wakes up, Mami. Then we’ll come see you every Sunday, just watch.”
Mami moved back from Pedro’s leg, and I suddenly realized she’d been trembling the entire time. My eyes followed as she put her hand to her face to cover her mouth and choke down a sob.
That was different.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
This was definitely different. When we had first come back, Mami came with Papi and cried or prayed or did both. Papi usually cried too, even if it was in his own quiet, toned-down sort of way. Eventually, the tears had stopped, and Mami had started to seem more resigned to these weekly visits and to Pedro’s condition, at least when she wasn’t busy interrogating me about how often I was sleeping here and how I was managing to eat.
It started to dawn on me that this entire visit felt just like the old days, when Pedro being like this was still fresh. It definitely felt like something singular was happening, something I didn’t understand quite yet.
Mami was still sobbing into her hand and swallowing down little gasps and sniffles as she cried. It must have been minutes, but it felt like another three years before she finally lowered her hand and answered me.
“Marcos…” she said, taking a deep breath, like someone getting ready to give really bad news. “Your papi and I have been talking. I don’t think there’s going to be an ‘after Pedro wakes up.’ I don’t think… I don’t really think there was ever going to be one.”
“Don’t be like that, Mami. He is going to wake up. Watch and see. Anyway, he wouldn’t like you…”
“No, mijo, no,” Mami said decisively, stomping her foot down like she was trying to hold her ground in a fight. “No. Stop this. We have to stop this right now. We have to trust in god and accept his—”
“Mami?” I asked, suddenly unable to believe the turn this conversation was going. I slowly got to my feet.
“Mami? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying…” She took a steadying breath, obviously determined to say what she needed to. “That I’ve already lost one son, and I don’t want to lose another one. I’m saying we all need to accept god’s will for Pedro’s life so we can keep on living our own.”
I towered over her by about a foot and some change. She raised her red, teary gaze and locked eyes with me, very seriously like she used to whenever I was in trouble and she wanted me to listen to her very carefully.
“It’s time, Marcos. I think it’s time to let him go.”
Physically, I stood there, stupidly staring down at my mami. Mentally, I was back to Malmur, hearing the IED go off, going completely deaf for a moment except for a buzzing whine in my ears, trying to see through the scattered sand and debris and wondering what the fuck was happening all around me. Just like then, I blinked slowly in an effort to understand. Just like then, I slowly realized with gut-knotting horror my life was falling apart.
“You can’t do that,” I said in a hoarse whisper, my throat suddenly dry.
“Yes, I can, Marcos. I’m his mother. They’ll let me sign. Papi and I can’t do this anymore. Having you both here in this little room is tearing us apart. He doesn’t want to be the one to sign off on it, and that’s okay. I understand,” she explained as she quickly tried to wipe her eyes dry. “But I can. For all of us, for the family’s sake, I can and will do this.”
My mother was not even five feet tall. Everyone in her family were enormous alphas who looked twice as tall standing next to her. Even so, my mami was made out of tactical armor plate. Everyone in the family knew that when she got that look—the look of determination she was wearing right now, daring me to say a word back to her—you really needed to bow your head and just shut the hell up.
Boy, you did it now, Pedro’s voice chuckled in my head. Mami is about to take your shoe off and whoop your ass up and down this hospital in front of all of them nurses. Watch.
“Mami, please,” I begged, averting my eyes from her, unable to hold her gaze when she was like this. “No, please. Just a little bit more, just…”
“No, no, Marcos.” Mami shook her head, not even blinking as she held her stony, unforgiving expression. “No more time. It’s not good for me and Papi, it’s not good for you, obviously, and…” Mami looked down at Pedro, stepping back from her position of absolute determination for only a moment. “It’s not good for Pedro. I have to think of both of my sons and—”
“Mami, please, I don’t mean this with any kind of disrespect, but doing this will kill him. You understand that, don’t you?” I asked, searching my mother’s eyes to make sure she was hearing me. “You’d be taking away any chance of him coming back, Mami. You’d be killing—”
“I’m not killing him,” Mami retorted defensively. “The explosion killed Pedro three years ago. The holy father sees it this way and so do I. It is man’s intervention that is interfering with the plans of god.”
“Mami, please, not with this…”
“Yes, mijo, with this. I know we don’t see eye-to-eye on this, but I stand by what I believe in. I don’t know why, but god wanted to take Pedro home after the explosion, but I do know because of this…” Mami gestured at the ventilator and the machines that monitored my brother’s vital signs. “Pedro’s soul hasn’t been allowed to go home.”
“Mami!” I blurted out before I remembered that Pedro would have wanted me to watch my tone. Okay, okay. Maybe I could speak to her in terms she could understand. She was right. I didn’t believe in the same things she did, but I was willing to try anything if it would make her change her mind.
“Okay. Sorry, Mami. Sorry. But, look, if you believe this is all part of god’s plan, why wouldn’t he just do it himself? If he wants the ventilator off, why not just turn it off himself? Glitch it or something? Hm? Maybe, just maybe, he has a higher plan for Pedro, and just wants Pedro to stay like this. For now, right? Maybe it could be a miracle, Mami!”
Clearly, I wasn’t selling my sudden conversion because Mami wasn’t buying it.
“His soul is stuck, mijo, in this half-life, half-death. His soul is stuck in limbo and he must be allowed to go to move on. So you can be allowed to move on, too. This is what’s best for the family.”
How? I looked down at my brother. How is killing one quarter of the family something that’s “best for the family”? How could I “move on” knowing I’d let him down like this? Wasn’t family about responsibility? Duty? Love?
“I love him,” Mami said abruptly, as if reading my thoughts. “I love him and that’s why I’m doing this. And for you, too.” She tilted her head side-to-side, considering her next words carefully. “But, I know you. And I know this is hard for you. Believe me, mijo, I know.”
How? If you knew, you wouldn’t do it.
“One month, Marcos. One month to get used to the idea and say all the goodbyes you need to say. One more month is as long as I can take watching you both like this. No more.”
Mami finished with a tone I was very familiar with. The tone meant she had said what she was going to say and she wasn’t going to hear any more disagreements about it. So, instead of talking, we both turned our attention to Pedro. She rubbed his legs and his hands some more, and I sat back down with my head in my hands, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.
I didn’t say anything else the entire time Mami was here, and I didn’t say anything when she left; I just grunted a goodbye. I didn’t even raise my head. I didn’t want her to see my face, wet with the tears I’d let slide down my cheeks.
It wasn’t until she left that I wiped at them, but it was useless. They just kept coming. Finally, in front of no one else but Pedro, I gave up entirely and sobbed until I fell asleep in my chair.
2
Mitch
I’d always loved the hustle and bustle of Charlotte. The restaurant I’d chosen was beautiful, sleek, just like the city outside. Uptown always gleamed with glittering steel and glass of new skyscrapers. High-powered alpha bankers and lawyers paced outside, back and forth, their sharp tongues only softened by their slow southern drawls. Charlotte was the new south, shiny and modern—promising. It had been enough to draw me in years ago. But I soon found out that those new buildings represented jobs for the same folks who’d always had them and always would, and those gentlemen outside were just the same as any other alpha I’d ever met. All it took was a little whiff of an omega and all those manners fell right off. Of course, that had always been good for business. I had always been good for business.
Which was why I was here after all.
My tablemate looked at me in quiet disbelief. Rob Callahan was like those alphas outside. He tried to be a gentleman, but Callahan was a viper in fine linen clothing. It was how he lured omegas in, and it was how he convinced them to stay.
“I’m leaving, Rob,” I told him. Breaking up was always so hard to do.
“You can’t be serious, Mitch.” The waiter came by and topped off both of our drinks.
“Deadly,” I responded, reaching for my wine and taking a fortifying drink. If I looked too closely at all the ways this conversation could go horrifyingly wrong, I’d never get the words out. But sometimes some things were worth it.
“Leaving, though? Seems a bit extreme doesn’t it?” His voice was just as smooth and calm as always. Placid and still, like a deep lake, and just as mirror-finished.
“Not from where I’m standing.” And it wasn’t. No, to me this made perfect sense. Callahan’s business was made up of those alphas outside, and I, well, I was his merchandise. Emphasis on was. As in, not anymore. At least, as of this conversation.
Rob didn’t say anything for a minute, taking the cloth napkin from his lap and dabbing at his mouth. His cool, gray eyes looked out the window to the bright blue sky outside, just visible in slashes between the glass towers around us.
“Why?” he asked, coolly.
“Why what?” For a fleeting moment I thought Rob was going to ask me to explain the reasons why an escort might eventually get tired of the business. There were plenty of reasons, I was sure, but mine, as far as I was concerned, was the most important of all.
“Why are you leaving?”
His eyes cut over to me. Rob had, over the years, perfected that stony exterior. Reading his face often revealed nothing he wasn’t absolutely prepared to give away. Still, I wasn’t new to him either. He might as well have been narrowing his eyes at me and stubbornly jutting his chin like a nosey granny. For the first time, I felt my heart rate tick up, just a bit. When we met in places like this it was easy to convince myself the power dynamic was equal. But it wasn’t. Rob…managed, and all the omegas, including myself, offered the companionship to discerning alphas. What I was suggesting wasn’t impossible for Rob to understand. What it was, however, was a direct threat to his business.
“Rob, I’ve been doing this for ten years…”
“Yes, and you’ve always said you enjoyed it,” Rob said, busying himself with replacing his napkin in to his lap.
“I did, and I have. But, still, ten years, Rob. It’s all I’ve known, but it’s time for a change.” Rob had found me when I was sixteen and mixed up. Escorting had been quick money and often it was fun. A lot of the alphas paid good money and took me to nice places. I didn’t regret it. Not one bit. Still, my life was different now. It didn’t fit anymore.
Rob shook his head. “You know, you’re not the first omega to sit across from me and tell me that. But I’ll tell you something I’ve learned about this industry. There’s only three reasons omegas leave the work. First, they get sick or injured and just can’t anymore. Two, they get a better opportunity working for somebody else. Or, three, they fall in love. I’m curious which one it is for you, Mitch.”
I thou
ght of warm, brown eyes and the fine hairs at the nape of a honeyed neck that smelled like vanilla. I thought about white sheets and lazy breakfasts in bed. I thought about promises and commitments, and that deep overwhelming sense that maybe, just for once, something, someone could be my own. Oliver.
Oliver was everything. Oliver and I were worth any amount of difficulty. Always.
I thought of Oliver, and I said, “School, Rob. I want to make something of myself. I want to make my own opportunities.” No way in hell was I revealing my actual reasons to Rob. Not ever. Rob had been this overwhelming presence in everything I’d done for the last decade. Everything was calculated, and everything was planned in the context of Rob. But Oliver… God, he was nothing like Rob. Oliver was someone special. Oliver was mine. We’d carved out a life together, and I was determined Rob wasn’t going to spoil it.
Rob snorted softly. “You? School? My, things must have changed. If I remember correctly, you passed high school by the skin of your teeth.” He shook his head again, this time as if he were considering all the options and giving me much needed, though unwelcome, advice. “I don’t know, Mitch. Not like you can list this on a resume, can you? Not a lot of prospects out there for someone like you. So, making your own opportunities? That might be the only chance you have.”
Oh, fuck you very much, Rob. All that mocking concern. As if he gave a shit past the profit margin. Rob hadn’t been the worst manager I’d heard of in the business. He asked for a fairly reasonable cut, and if someone found themselves in a bind, Rob was there. For a price, of course. He wasn’t running a charity, after all, he would say.
Either way, my temper was still pulsing behind my eyeballs. How dare Rob see me that way? Like all I could ever be, all I could ever amount to, was an escort. To be fair, all I’d ever been was an escort. But still. It wasn’t the time, nor the place to get angry. Rob was an expert at reading people. Showing any sort of weakness right now would be like blood in the water to a hungry shark.
