by Lynn Lorenz
Charlie had limited medical training; he could do the basics—first aid, take temps, pulse, blood pressure, even stitch together a wound if he had to, but something told him this kid needed more than just his meager skills.
He quickly undressed the kid, noting the ribs showing under pale skin, the patchy beard growing in, maybe three or four days’ worth, and the struggle to take in a breath.
Possibly pneumonia. The man in black was right to bring him in for help, and with most of the hospitals closed after Katrina, including Charity, the number of places to bring people had shrunk down to a handful.
The shelter was as good an option as any and a hell of a lot closer than the hospitals over near the river. He hadn’t seen a car, so he figured the man had carried him from somewhere nearby.
There wasn’t much left of the neighborhood where the shelter sat. Mid-City had experienced six to eight feet of water for four months, and only two years later, too few had moved back to reclaim the severely damaged homes and businesses.
The shelter, near the long-closed brewery on Tulane Avenue, was in an old building once used as an office annex. Built of concrete and brick, and raised, only three feet of the first floor had been damaged, and with the hard work of the local priests and some of the homeless men, they’d gotten it up and running as a men’s shelter only a few months ago. Charlie had transferred from the other shelter at the edge of the business district.
He stared down at the kid as he covered him with a blanket; then he sighed and went to the cabinet to get a chart, thermometer, and blood pressure cuff.
The teen stared up at him, coughed, then closed his eyes.
“What’s your name?” Charlie asked as he dragged a chair to the bedside with his foot. He sat and prepared to fill out the chart.
“Billy.”
“Billy what?”
“Just Billy.”
Charlie rubbed his forehead. “Okay, just Billy. I’m going to take your temp and blood pressure, okay?”
The kid nodded.
Charlie stuck the thermometer under Billy’s tongue and wrapped the cuff. He pumped it up, listened to the beat of blood through the kid’s artery, and wrote down the numbers.
A little low. That wasn’t necessarily bad.
The thermometer beeped. One hundred and two. The kid was burning up.
Charlie stood and got a couple of aspirin, a glass of water, and returned.
“Here, take these to bring down the fever.”
Billy sat up a bit, took the pills, and swallowed them down. He handed Charlie the glass, then flopped back on the bed.
Charlie sat on the chair again. His night was shot to hell. No more sleep. He’d have to keep an eye on the kid to see if his fever broke. If not, he’d have to determine if he needed to bring Billy to the hospital. For that, he’d need the priests to help transport Billy.
“Who was the guy who brought you here?” Charlie tapped his pen on the edge of the chart. The mysterious man piqued his curiosity. Something about the guy had gotten to Charlie, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His voice? His all-black clothing? The way he’d disappeared into the night? Or the way he’d held the teen, tenderly, as if he thought the kid might break.
Billy shrugged.
“How did he find you?”
Billy pursed his lips. “He just did.” He pulled the blanket up to his chin, rolled over, and curled into a ball.
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re protecting him. He did a good thing, maybe saved your life. It’s okay to tell me his name.” Charlie didn’t have to know the man’s name, but he wanted to know it. Wanted to put something real to the man who seemed as if he’d been a strange spirit, delivering the hurt and helpless to his doorstep.
A long silence stretched, and Charlie thought the kid had fallen asleep.
“He never told me his name,” Billy whispered.
“Oh.” Charlie sat back. “Big secret, huh?”
“I don’t know.” Billy coughed, then snuggled closer under the blanket. “I’m cold.”
Charlie grabbed another blanket from the next bed and tossed it over the teen. He tucked it in and brushed the shaggy sweat-dampened hair back from the kid’s flushed face.
“I’ll be right back, Billy.” The kid nodded.
Charlie left the infirmary, locked the front door of the shelter, then went to his room on the first floor. He slipped into warm socks, jeans, and a sweater, and headed back to sick bay, as he liked to call it.
In an hour he’d take the kid’s vitals again, and every hour until the fever dropped.
Chapter 2
DEVON TURNED the corner and then flattened against the wall of the building, his heart pounding in his ears as if it were about to explode. Had he done the right thing, dropping the kid off at the shelter, or had he just screwed his entire operation?
He ran his hand over his face and concentrated on breathing slower. If he showed up at the warehouse in this state, his men would know something was up.
He thought about the man who’d answered the bell at the shelter.
Man, if that’s how priests looked these days, sign him up. From what he’d seen, the man’s body was meant to be licked, from the top of his wild curly brown head to those sexy bare feet and every place in between.
He hadn’t felt such a rush, such an instant boner, in a long time. Fuck, it had to be over a priest. And despite what most people might think, priests weren’t all gay. Besides, they were supposed to be celibate.
So his body could just forget about it, because it wasn’t going to happen.
Devon couldn’t afford it, not in his position. He had no time for an affair, however brief, much less anything long-term.
Long-term. Devon snorted at the thought.
When had he ever thought of a man and long-term in the same sentence?
Never. And that was going to stay that way.
His breathing and cock under control, he pushed off the wall and headed back to the warehouse. He’d done what he’d promised the kid, and that was that. Back to business.
DEVON SLIPPED into the side entrance of the warehouse and over to the office. His men leaned over the desk and a coffee table, eating po’boys, as they waited for him to return. No one had been posted as a guard on the door, and he’d waltzed right in. Sloppiness pissed him off.
He slid the 9mm out of its holster under his armpit and stepped into the office.
“I ought to kill y’all and find a new crew.” He leveled the gun on the three men. They jumped up, knocking chairs over, dropping sandwiches, and reaching for their own weapons. “Lazy bastards.”
“Sorry, boss.” Jingo shrugged, hands out in defense. “My fault. We took a dinner break.”
Devon liked that about Jingo—the man could own his mistakes. That’s why he’d made Jingo his second-in-command. He trusted Jingo, and for what he was involved in, he needed a man at his back he could trust.
“Damn straight it is.” He put his gun away and sat behind the desk as the others scrambled for places to eat. “I left you in charge of this motley crew.”
“Damn, man, that was a good po’boy!” Mo bent down and picked up his fallen food. Then he sat and finished eating it, next to a much shorter version of himself, his brother Monty, who’d managed not to drop his sandwich. They’d called themselves Mo and Mini-Mo as a joke, and it had stuck. Devon and Jingo had recruited them from the neighborhood, and despite having a history of petty crimes, they were just the kind of men Devon had been looking for, the kind who blended into the area.
The two men finished, crumpled up the butcher paper wrappings, and tossed them in the trash.
“Mo, go watch the door of the warehouse. Take Mini-Mo with you.”
Devon waited until they’d left the office before speaking.
“Jingo, I want a full report on that bastard Marchand who thinks he can run drugs in my territory. I want to know where he’s operating out of, and I want the names of who’s selling for him.�
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“Besides that sorry excuse of a kid Billy?” Jingo laughed. “Whoever it is, if he thinks he can take over Mid-City with kids, he’s outta his mind.” Jingo twirled his finger around his head and rolled his eyes.
“Look, kids have been running and selling drugs for ages. This is no different.”
“What’d you do with the boy, anyway?” Jingo narrowed his eyes at Devon.
“Got rid of him, like I said. He won’t be selling for anyone any time soon.” Devon smirked.
“You sure? We don’t need the kid going back to Marchand and talking.”
“Don’t sweat it. I left him with the priests.” Devon lowered his voice. He didn’t want Mo or his brother to know he hadn’t killed the kid because, when he’d left with Billy, dragging him along, he’d given the two men that impression. Even Billy had thought he was a dead man, until he’d collapsed in a coughing fit. Devon had carried him the rest of the way to the shelter.
“Whoo!” Jingo rolled his eyes. “You gotta watch the brothers, man. They’re hardass, for sure.” He laughed.
“At least they’ll keep him until he gets better or move him to a hospital.” For a moment, the image of the priest flashed in Devon’s mind, but he quickly pushed it aside. “Either way, he’s not our problem anymore.”
He rose, went to a file cabinet, and pulled out a folded map of the city. “Now, where do you think this asshole is hiding?” He opened it, smoothing it out with his hands, then leaned over the map, his gaze searching for the most likely area.
“Well, I think the Mexicans are supplying him, so I think it’s somewhere off the interstate. Pull off, dump the drugs, get back on and outta here.” Jingo traced the interstate with his finger, coming to a stop near the St. Bernard housing project.
“Is there anything around the project he could use?” Devon squinted at the map. St. Bernard was one of the city’s several public housing projects that had been closed down after Katrina and slated for demolition, but there were several places nearby that could be used. “They don’t have to be large.”
“Nah. Not the project. It’s deserted and boarded up. If the cops saw any signs of movement, they’d be all over them like white on rice. I think he’s got to be someplace no one will notice his men coming and going, a place already doing some sort of business.” Their warehouse sat in the middle of the cluster of older buildings on Tulane Avenue that, before Katrina, had served as a city bus barn. Now, with the destruction of the city’s bus fleet in the floodwaters, it had been closed and slated for sale.
“Good thinking.” Devon traced the distance from Mid-City to the housing project. “What’s between them?”
“Nothing much but City Park.” Jingo shrugged. “Delgado College?”
“Not there.” Devon pointed to a spot on the map. “How about over here, this little strip of business on North Broad?”
“That could work. From there it’s a short distance to the Quarter and to Mid-City.”
Devon nodded. “Let’s take a little drive over there tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I want to check it out.”
“Fine with me.” Jingo folded up the map and put it away. “Go home; get some rest. Call first before you pick me up.”
“What about the brothers?” Devon jerked his head toward the warehouse.
“I’ll have them work the neighborhood; see if they can spot any more of Marchand’s men, er, boys.” Jingo laughed at his own joke.
“Fair enough.” Devon could use a good night’s sleep. He slapped his lieutenant on the shoulder and held open the door as they left the office. He flicked off the light, then crossed the cavernous empty space where buses used to sit as they waited to go on service. Oil stains covered the concrete floor in neat rows, showing where the buses had parked. On the sides of the building, six or seven feet up, a dark stain showed how high the water had risen.
At the side door, Mo and Mini-Mo waited, crouched out of sight on the floor behind a desk.
“Night, guys.” Devon waved at them. “Go home. Tomorrow, get back on the streets looking for more of Marchand’s men.”
“And when we find them?” Mo asked as he and his brother stood, dusting themselves off.
“Find out all you can about them. Names, addresses. Report back to Jingo. Do not make any stupid moves.” Devon gave each of them a hard stare.
Mo saluted. “Got it, boss.”
Devon slipped out the door into the darkness of the night and made his way to his car, parked two blocks over. He got in, waited until he decided no one had followed him, then started the car and pulled away.
Home wasn’t far, but tonight he needed to get some fresh air, so he rolled the window down and let the frigid breeze cool down his overheated body. His cock softened and his balls shrank against the cold, and he ran his plans over and over until any thoughts of the priest vanished.
Figured. First guy he’d been interested in ages, and it was fucking priest.
Devon laughed at God’s joke on him.
Chapter 3
CHARLIE FIGURED he’d never see the guy again, so it was a shock when, two days later, the man, still dressed in black, showed up just as Charlie was getting ready to lock up for the night. The last of the men were hovering outside the building, getting their smoke fixes and chatting among themselves, and Charlie sat on the half wall surrounding the wide front steps.
“How’s Billy?” The man buried his hands in the pockets of the black leather jacket as he looked down at his booted feet.
“Doing better. Fever broke. Good thing you brought him here.” Charlie patted the concrete next to him.
The guy looked up, glanced to each side of the street, and then slowly climbed the stairs. He sat next to Charlie with a soft grunt.
“Good. That’s good.”
“What’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know.” The man still hadn’t looked Charlie in the eyes, and that worried Charlie. You couldn’t trust someone who couldn’t look you in the eyes, and this guy had all the hallmarks of someone Charlie shouldn’t trust.
“No, I don’t need to know. I want to know.” Charlie had no idea if the guy was gay or not. There’d been no telltale signs, but he’d been wrong before, and he wasn’t willing to take another beating over that mistake. Besides, he was so out of practice it wasn’t funny.
“Well, I just came by to check on Billy.” The man stood and headed down the steps.
Damn, he was as flighty as a bird, and obviously Charlie had pushed too hard.
“Thanks, Father, for your help.”
Father? Oh, he thought Charlie was one of the priests that ran the place.
“I’m not a priest,” Charlie called out.
The man halted on the last step but didn’t turn around. Waiting.
“My name is Charlie MacAfee. I work here.” He figured if he gave a little info, he might get a little in return.
“Good to know.” He shook himself, as if settling into his jacket, but Charlie couldn’t shake the feeling this guy was going to bolt at any moment.
“Hey, maybe we could get a bite to eat?” Charlie seized on what he thought might be his only chance to make a further connection with the man who had him wondering.
“That isn’t a good idea, Charlie.” But he hadn’t bolted, not yet.
“I’ll be at Comeaux’s tomorrow night, around eight. It’s my night off.” He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but tonight he felt weak.
The man nodded. “Night, Charlie.”
“Night.”
The guy took off down the block, striding as if he had someplace to be and he was late. Charlie sighed as he watched the man’s tight jeans-covered ass flex all the way down the block until he turned the corner and disappeared.
It was a fine ass. Damn fine. Charlie’s cock stiffened at the thought of plowing into it, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen, even if the guy was gay.
Just once, Charlie wished he could touch someone without being reminded he didn’t deser
ve anyone. Even for a nameless fuck. He’d never allowed himself the pleasure, not in six long years.
Charlie’s cell phone beeped, letting him know time was up.
“Ten o’clock, guys!” He clapped his hands together. “Closing time. Everybody in!” Charlie stood aside as the men, bundled against the cold, muttering, and sucking down the last of their cigarettes’ nicotine kick, climbed the stairs and headed inside.
When the street was empty, save cars passing by, Charlie waited a few more minutes for stragglers, then closed the door and locked it for the night.
He headed to the infirmary to check on Billy. During the day Father Peder, the head of the shelter, had gotten an antibiotic pack for Billy, and he’d been responding well. The kid’s fever had broken; he was looking much better and breathing easier.
Where the drugs had come from, Charlie didn’t know and didn’t ask. The priests had people all over the city who helped them when needed, even doctors. In a city like New Orleans, where the dioceses held as much power as city hall, it was nearly impossible to separate the two.
And since Katrina, that bond had been forged even tighter as the wounded city struggled to heal itself.
So Charlie didn’t ask. He just thanked the elderly priest and gave Billy the meds.
Now, as he settled Billy in for the night, he gave the next dose with a glass of water.
“Feeling better?”
Billy nodded. “The meds really helped.”
Charlie sat on the chair. “Someone dropped by tonight to check on you.”
Billy frowned. “Really? Who?”
“The man who brought you here.”
“Oh. Him.” Billy yawned. “What did you tell him?”
“That you were improving.” Charlie still wondered at the connection.
“He was nice to me.” The young man shrugged as if his words explained everything.
“Was he?”
“Yeah. He could’ve killed me.” Billy’s eyes slid closed, then he blinked them open, as if fighting the inevitable sleep pulling him down.
