by Whitley Gray
* * * *
Dark. The mournful tones of Sarah Vaughan singing the merits of black coffee greeted him. No aroma of cooking, and it was Dean’s turn to make dinner.
“Deano?”
He followed the music into the living room and snapped on a light. Dean lay sprawled on the couch, mouth slack, eyes closed.
Full-blown fear hit like a sledgehammer. An adrenaline blast sent his heart racing, and possible outcomes blazed a burning path through his brain. Dean took a breath, and relief flooded the panic raging through Zach’s body. He grabbed Dean’s shoulder and shook him.
A slit of blue between the golden lashes. “Wha…?”
The metallic odor of chemicals assaulted Zach’s nose, along with a hint of whiskey. “What did you take?”
Dean’s eyes drifted shut.
Zach smacked his cheek. “I swear to God, I’ll call an ambulance if you don’t keep your eyes open.”
Like uncooperative shades, Dean’s lids went up. “Nuh, no. ’M fine.”
“Bullshit. What’d you take?”
“Fen…na…nyl.”
“Fentanyl?” A hard-core narcotic. His boyfriend had officially relapsed. “Where’s the patch?”
“Chest.” Dean raised one hand, then let it flop on the couch.
Zach jerked up Dean’s T-shirt and ripped the patch off. Damn it, who had Dean conned into giving him narcs? “If you’ve got this shit, please tell me you have Narcan.”
“La’top bag. Took it.”
“Don’t you go to sleep, or I’ll kill you myself.” Zach yanked the satchel off the couch and dug through the pockets, coming up with an empty vial of the narcotic-reversal agent. “I’ve got to get you to the hospital.”
Dean’s eyes cranked open. “Nuh…”
“Yes.” Zach stabbed Emergency on his cell.
“Nine one one.”
* * * *
A monitor gave off a bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep, and Zach slammed into the present. He jumped to his feet. The cardiac monitor showed no rhythm, and Zach’s heart stuttered. “Dean?”
Dean let out a groan, and the loose monitor wire slipped from beneath the gown. False alarm, thank God.
“Wake up, Deano.”
Zach reattached the wire and hit the call button as he studied the sweaty face of his ex-lover. My God, Dean. You have to make it back. This time, the road stretched out long and hard and fraught with hazards that would leave visible scars. Zach couldn’t desert him again.
* * * *
All quiet on the home front.
As Beck turned into Marybeth’s driveway in the afternoon, he surveyed the yard. The grass needed one last mowing before winter set in. The maple in front of the house raised half-naked limbs to the cement-colored sky, and leaves carpeted the lawn.
More work.
He parked and stepped out of the car. A hint of damp leaves mixed with wood smoke carried on the breeze. The crisp bite of fall made him glad he’d worn a coat. Halfway up the sidewalk, he spied a couple of newspapers languishing on the doormat. Nothing moved. As he tried the door and found it unlocked, unease prickled his neck. Beck reached beneath his jacket, freed the snap on the shoulder holster, and pulled his weapon.
No point in ringing the bell and alerting an intruder. He ran in a half crouch past the garage door, took the corner at speed. At the last second, he avoided crashing into the trash cans. Damn it, what was he? An overeager rookie? Slow down.
At the corner, he scanned the back yard. Trees, toys, no intruders.
Easing along the back of the house, he ducked under the windows. The back door was closed. He swung open the screen door and tested the doorknob, frowning as it turned in his hand. With a slow push, he opened the door and trained his gun over the kitchen.
Empty.
A faint odor of fish hung in the air, and dirty dishes covered the counter. Bowls with dregs of cereal sat on the table.
Wrong. Just…wrong. Unease ticked up a notch.
Backup. He should call for backup. It could be an ambush. But he was a cop, for chrissake. And he had a gun. Besides, it was broad daylight. Probably nothing but heightened awareness.
Or not. Surely the case hadn’t dragged in Dan’s family…
Edging around the corner, he took a peek at the living room. Sunlight streamed through the open blinds. Couch, chairs, TV. Fireplace. Unoccupied by anything except dust motes. Still, that niggling instinct had him clearing the rest of the main floor. Nothing in the laundry room, nothing in the bath.
He crossed the kitchen, pushed open the door to the garage. Bikes, tools, the lawn mower. The sight of Danny’s golf clubs triggered tightness in Beck’s chest.
Any intruder had likely gone.
Something thudded on the second floor.
He worked through the house at speed and proceeded up the stairs, gun pointing at the floor. At the top, he paused. Quiet. Too quiet. Anyone up here would have heard him, tried to escape. Unless they were waiting to ambush him.
In a few seconds, he cleared the boys’ room and bath. The open door to the master bedroom revealed the dim interior, the edge of the bed, the cream duvet half on the floor. The silence picked at him. Fuck. He’d never been in Danny’s bedroom, didn’t know the layout. Dangerous. Sweat ran down the back of his neck. If his heart beat any harder, it’d echo off the walls. Breathe.
No choice. Staying out of the line of fire, he shoved the door open.
Gun raised, he whipped around the door frame. A gunman held a weapon pointed at him.
Beck whirled away into the hall. Shit. He needed backup. Phone. He dug in his pocket but came up empty. Where was the fucking phone?
He’d have to go with bravado. “Drop the weapon, asshole.”
Silence.
He sneaked a look around the doorjamb. No one. But he hadn’t heard the intruder move. Jaw set, he pivoted and panned the room with his weapon.
Gun.
In the moment before he would have pulled the trigger, he recognized his reflection above the dresser.
“Fuck.” He’d turned into a raw recruit, nearly blowing away a mirror.
Systematic. Be systematic.
Closet empty. No sign of a struggle. A dark smear on the doorway to the master bath stood out in stark relief. Oh God. Blood? The walls closed in, and the room dissolved into a sweltering street. Beck squeezed his eyes shut. Shots fired. White-hot pain in his shoulder. Sirens—
No. No. No panic, no flashback. Marybeth might be here, might need him. He forced his eyes open, recited in his head the words Jay had taught him. I see my reality. I live my reality. I’m okay.
The room emerged out of blurry memory and became clear: closed window blinds, unmade bed, the smell of dust and disuse. Taking a shaky breath, he moved to the bath and pushed open the door.
It whumped into something solid. Putting his good shoulder into it, he shoved until he could get a look. The metallic smell of blood hit him first and then alcohol. Marybeth lay on the floor, her face streaked with blood.
“Aw, fuck.” Beck squeezed through the doorway and knelt beside her. The pulse in her neck throbbed beneath his fingers. Thank you, Jesus. He patted her cheek. “Marybeth.”
To his relief, she opened her eyes. “Danny?”
The name punched him in the gut. “No, honey. It’s Beck. Can you sit up?”
“My head.” She touched her scalp. “I’m bleeding?”
“Where is he? The one who attacked you?” He squinted at the dim interior of the bedroom.
Marybeth frowned. “No one attacked me. Fell.”
Relief warred with aggravation. At least she was safe. “Let’s sit you up.” He got an arm around her waist and dragged her into a sitting position. Pain like a hot knife went through his shoulder and stole his breath. Jesus Christ, that hurts. Gritting his teeth, he leaned Marybeth against the cold porcelain of the tub, reached beside him, pulled a towel from the bar, and wiped at the clotted blood.
“Ow. That hurts.” Marybeth stuck out her lower
lip.
“We’ve got to get you cleaned up.” And how the hell was he supposed to do that? No way he’d shower off Dan’s wife. Washcloths for now. “How much did you drink?”
“Not much.” Gin-scented breath puffed in his face. She burped. “Stomach hurts.”
Great. Vomiting would come next. “It’s the middle of the day, for God’s sake. What happened?”
Tears ran down her face. “The house, Beck.”
“What about the house?”
“The mortgage.” She shook a crumpled paper at him. “Underwater.”
As he took the paper, she hiccuped, and Beck flipped up the toilet lid in time for her to empty her stomach of alcohol, holding her until she sat back. He passed her a towel.
One look at the document and the whole mess made sense. A foreclosure notice from the bank. Aw hell. “Why didn’t you tell me? I can help—”
“It’s too much. I can’t go back to work when the boys need me here, and we needed that salary to afford the house. And it’s not just the house. It’s the car loans, helping my mom, special tutoring for Artie. I can’t do this without Dan. I miss him so much.” She sobbed. “So damn much.” She hung her head, and great hoarse wails poured out of her. She buried her face in the towel.
For what seemed like an eternity he sat on the floor, holding her until she’d cried herself out. Afterward, he managed to get her propped on the toilet seat. Beck cleaned the scalp wound with a washcloth, thankful to see the cut didn’t appear to need stitches. “Okay, Marybeth, let’s get you to bed, and you can sleep it off. Do the boys need to be picked up at school?”
“No. My mom’s got ’em.”
“Here we go.” He threw a couple of bath towels over his shoulder and hauled her to her feet using his right arm. Thank God Marybeth was a small woman. In an awkward waltz Beck got her across the room and into bed. When Marybeth’s breathing evened out, he headed for the kitchen.
Time to clear the place of everything alcoholic. After that came the hard part about what to do.
* * * *
“What happened?” Dean grunted.
Zach jerked into consciousness. Somehow, he’d drifted off in the recliner. “You’re awake.”
For a moment, Dean squinted through the masklike bruises around his eyes. In a rough voice, he asked, “What— Why are you here?”
Thank God. Zach stood. Much as he wanted to hug Dean, he settled for squeezing Dean’s hand in both of his. “You got hurt. They called me because of the health-care proxy.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Since midnight.” Zach nodded toward the window. The sun sat low in the sky, cruising toward the horizon. “It’s about four in the afternoon.”
Dean lifted a shaking hand to his face, explored the bruises, and winced. “Car accident?”
“No. You were found behind a club downtown. Beaten up.”
“Didn’t go clubbing.” Dean shook his head, which brought on a moan. “Head hurts so bad.”
Zach rolled that around. How had Dean gotten behind that club? The whack on the head must’ve messed up his memory. “The doctor says you’ve got a concussion.”
Dean’s tongue licked over his chapped lips. “Water.”
“Let me call someone.” Zach hit the button for the nurse.
By evening, the doctor had declared Dean had a mild concussion, the eye socket would heal normally, and Dean could transfer to a regular floor. For his part, Dean continued to refute the claim of clubbing but couldn’t recall what’d happened after he’d gotten off work.
After accompanying Dean to his new room, Zach took twenty minutes to grab a real meal in the cafeteria. While eating a bowl of bland vegetable soup, he mulled over the events. True, Dean had never been one for the club scene. They’d met three-plus years ago at a Minneapolis Gay Men’s Association coffee event, and in that time, Dean had never gone clubbing to the best of Zach’s knowledge. So why had Dean been downtown? Shaking his head, Zach carried his tray to the dish cart and headed back upstairs.
Outside of Dean’s door, Zach glimpsed a young redheaded man sitting at Dean’s bedside. The guy didn’t look old enough to be a doctor, and he held Dean’s hand. Who was this guy? Dean hadn’t mentioned anyone new. Had Red been with Dean at the time of the assault? Protective instinct roared to the forefront. Zach shoved the door wide and stalked in. The redhead whipped around, pulling his hand free of Dean’s.
Dean leaned around the man. “Hey. C’mon in.”
Zach slid closer to Dean. “I don’t know if Dean’s up to company.”
The visitor’s reddish brows rose. Dean’s dropped into a frown. “Company’s fine, Zach. Gif knows what happened.”
Was he there when those homophobic bastards beat the shit out of you? Zach bit back the question and said, “Sorry. Dean and I have known each other for a long time.” Eyeing the stranger, he held out a hand. “Zach Littman.”
“Gifford Gleason.” A steady green gaze held Zach’s as he shook. “I work with Dean.” A faint smile curled Gif’s lips. “He’s told me a lot about you.”
Like what? Their former relationship? Zach pulling out of said relationship? It wasn’t Zach’s business. Not anymore. He glanced at Dean, who watched the exchange through a mask of eggplant-colored bruises, the white of his left eye a startling red.
“I was supposed to meet Gif for dinner last night.” Dean shifted upright and swallowed hard, closing his eyes.
“You okay?” Zach grabbed the call button.
“Just a bitch of a headache.” Dean’s eyes opened. “Tell him, Gif.”
The redhead nodded and tipped his head at Dean. “We were supposed to meet at eight, after I got off work. Dean never showed, didn’t answer his phone. Didn’t seem right. Anyway, this morning when he didn’t make it to work, I figured something had happened. Finally tracked him here.”
Was this the guy Dean had met for dinner a few days ago? Gif seemed to feel more for Dean than friendship, and Zach had no doubt Gif was gay. “You weren’t planning to meet at a club?”
“Zach,” Dean said. “Stop.”
“It’s important to establish what happened.” The police had yet to appear for Dean’s statement. At this point, Zach wasn’t optimistic that their investigation would yield much. “Was this restaurant downtown?”
“No. It’s closer to the university,” Gif said.
“Have you talked to the cops?”
“Not yet.” Gif shot a look at Dean and caught Zach’s gaze. “Should I?”
“Maybe. Any information might help. Did—”
Zach’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, and his heart skipped as he checked the screen.
Call from Beck.
“Hey, I’ve gotta take this. I’ll stop back in a bit, okay?” He squeezed Dean’s shoulder and turned to Gif. “Nice to meet you.”
Gif’s faint smile reappeared. “Pleasure.”
Zach nodded, angled for the door, and stepped into the hall. “Hey there.”
“Hey. Is this a good time?” Beck asked.
“Sure.” Zach headed toward the window at the end of the hall. “What’s up?”
“How’s Dean?”
Zach stared at the orange lights of the parking lot and the twinkling lights of downtown Minneapolis. “He’s awake. A concussion and a broken eye socket that they repaired surgically. Not as bad as they’d made it sound.” Not as bad as it could’ve been.
“Good.” Beck blew out a breath, apparently relieved. “Do they know what happened?”
“Someone jumped him downtown and left him in an alley. But Dean said he wasn’t anywhere near there.”
Silence. Zach could practically hear Beck rolling those facts around.
“He was meeting someone for dinner but never made it. The restaurant isn’t near the club, and Dean doesn’t remember anything.” Zach rubbed his eyes. God, had he really been in Denver this morning?
“You think it’s more than random?”
“I don’t kn
ow. The police haven’t been by to get a statement.”
“But he’s okay,” Beck said.
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to make it back to Denver?”
Zach couldn’t help grinning at the hopeful note in Beck’s question. “Soon. I’ll call you later. Promise.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Zach ended the call. Before he could stuff it in his pocket, it buzzed. This time, a picture of a dune in the desert. Taking a deep breath, he took the call. “Littman.”
“I got your message. Why the hell are you in Minneapolis?” Sands asked. A match strike hissed in the background.
“I’m dealing with a personal emergency. Dean got…hurt.”
Pause. “Sorry to hear it. He’ll be okay?”
Zach cleared his throat. “He’s stable.”
“Good, good.” Sands made the puff Zach associated with exhaling smoke. “Are you able to return to Denver, or do I need to send a replacement?”
“No. Looks like I’ll be returning in the morning.”
“Very good.” Sands disconnected.
Zach sighed and slid the phone into his pocket. Was there anyone who didn’t want something from him? True, there was no compelling reason to stay. Dean was awake, concussed but functioning. On the other hand, who would keep an eye on Dean and the narcotics? Zach shook his head. He’d have to find a way to broach the subject with Dean’s doctors.
Okay. Time to let Dean know Zach had to return to Denver in the morning. Then to the house, make a plane reservation, and sleep in his own bed tonight. Zach headed toward Dean’s room.
Through the doorway, Zach caught a glimpse of Gif’s palm covering Dean’s. Maybe Gif could stay with Dean, do the concussion checklist, and ride herd on the narcotics until Dean had improved. For a moment, Zach hesitated. This time, he felt like the interloper, which was ridiculous. Dean wanted him there. Two minutes to tell Dean the plan and say good night. Squaring his shoulders, Zach stepped into the room. This time Gif didn’t let go of Dean’s hand.
Swallowing, Zach looked away and said, “Hey, I’m going to stay at the house tonight. Sands is kicking me back to Denver tomorrow, but I’ll stop by in the morning before I leave town.”
