Thorne collapsed onto the bed, still hyper, his mind racing toward reality, toward a truth he wasn’t sure he could accept, toward a headlong crash.
This was not what he’d come up here for.
This was not what he’d wanted.
When he reached for the blindfold, his wrist was clasped and his hand pulled away to stop him taking it off. He struggled though he wondered if he just thought he was struggling. Fingers stroked the soft skin on the inside of his hip. Someone pressed up against his back and Thorne let himself be soothed and held until he dropped into oblivion.
He woke bewildered in an empty room.
Oh fuck. I’ve done something stupid.
His head still wasn’t right. His heart still pounded. The blindfold had gone but his vision was wavy. His cum had been wiped off his belly. His arse ached but not in a way that suggested he’d been fucked more than once. As he sat up, the bathroom door opened and Thorne froze. Mason stood there with wet hair and a towel around his waist. When he threw it aside and moved toward him, Thorne rolled the other way. This had to be one of the most idiotic things he’d ever done. On the brink of mega-fame and he was heading for notoriety.
He needed a shower but wanted more to get out of there as fast as he could. He pulled on his clothes with his back to Mason, left his top button and bow tie undone and slipped on his shoes. Before he turned, he made sure his mask of indifference was fixed in place.
“Good, yeah?” Mason said.
“I’ve had better.” Thorne walked out with Mason’s laugh ringing behind him.
When he went back into the ballroom, everything seemed too loud and over-bright. He worried he looked wrong, worried he was swaying when he walked. He checked his phone. He’d been gone for sixty minutes though it felt a lot longer than that. Thorne was furious with himself and even more furious with Mason, but there had been no point making things worse by slugging him. Though the way Thorne felt, he’d have had trouble lifting a drink without spilling it let alone hitting someone. His fingers were trembling.
He zigzagged across the room to Orlando.
“I’m only hearing good things about you.” Orlando smiled at him. “Mixed messages about the film, but you impressed the right people. I like the unfastened bow tie. Looks good. Makes you appear slightly dangerous.”
Thorne risked one word. “Great.”
“There’s a new project coming up with Reiver Films. Paranormal. Provisional title—Dirty Angel. About some guy who dies and ends up with a black wing and a white wing. Sounds interesting, particularly because they’re keen on you as the lead. I’ve said we’ll read the script. It’s being couriered over tomorrow. ”
“Okay.”
“You all right?” Orlando narrowed his eyes.
“Tired.”
“Tough. Put a smile on your face and circulate. Don’t say anything negative about Changing but don’t sing its praises either.”
Thorne nodded. He wasn’t going to be saying anything at all. He was going home before he made an even more stupid mistake.
When he stepped outside, he took a deep breath of warm night air which did nothing to clear his head, and set off on foot toward a Tube station. He ached. Why had he been so irresponsible? Because you were drugged, you dickhead. They drugged you and they— He’d considered telling Orlando what had happened because if anything came back to bite him, better that Orlando knew sooner rather than later. On the other hand, Mason was better known than Thorne. He was on TV three nights a week. He had more to lose, didn’t he? Why the hell had Mason spiked his drink? Who was the other guy?
A date-rape drug.
Thorne bit back his whimper.
So they could fuck me.
He walked faster.
Did I say no? Could I have said no? I wanted to come. Shit.
He staggered and stuck a hand out to steady himself.
I wasn’t in a fit state to consent. Shit. Shit.
Thorne walked and walked, ignoring the Tube and the cabs, trying to get his head straight. He worried about what he’d been given. He didn’t take drugs. He had, once upon a time, but not now. He guessed Mason had slipped G into the Bucks Fizz. That’s why it had tasted off. The fucking bastard.
He glanced ahead when he heard someone cry out. His eyes widened when he saw two men kicking a guy who lay on the ground.
“Hey,” Thorne shouted. He launched into a stumbling run toward them.
The two on their feet stared at him before hurrying away. Thorne gulped. They were big, tough looking men. That could so easily have gone wrong. If they’d headed in his direction… When he reached the guy they’d been beating up, he slammed to a halt. He lay curled up, eyes closed, blood all over his face. Oh shit. His pants were unzipped, partly pulled down, his T-shirt rucked up, and he was moaning, froth around his lips.
“You okay?” Thorne asked.
Stupid question. Obviously not. He called 9-9-9.
When the operator wanted his name, Thorne mentally groaned, but he knew he could be traced from the call. Too late to have reservations now. He gave his details, did as he was told, checked the man was breathing, then knelt at his side and held his hand. He kept talking to him, trying to reassure him that help was on the way. Poor kid. He didn’t look very old. Thorne stayed alert for the attackers, worried they might come back. Orlando would kill him if he got his face marked.
Nothing like seeing someone worse off than you to put things in perspective. Had this guy been raped? Thorne hoped he’d stopped it happening.
The moment he heard sirens, he let of the man’s hand and crossed to the other side of the road. The last thing he needed was for the police to see he looked drugged up. He called Orlando.
“Where are you?” Orlando barked.
“I left. Didn’t feel well. I came across a guy getting beaten up. I had to call the police. They’re here now.”
“What the hell have you done?”
“Nothing.” You fucker.
“I don’t mean that, you idiot. Christ. You should have left him. You didn’t need to get involved.”
“Left him? I’m a shit but not that much of one,” Thorne snapped. “I was just giving you a heads-up.”
Thorne ended the call and slipped deeper into the shadows. As soon as he saw the victim was being looked after, he walked away. He heard another siren before he turned the corner. Presumably an ambulance.
That guy could have been him. No more accepting drinks from anyone he didn’t know well. Maybe even if he did know them. Jesus. He knew better than to trust anyone. The contents of his stomach rose into his throat and he threw up in the gutter. Unfortunately, it didn’t make him feel any better.
By eight that night, Linton found himself taking long blinks as he watched TV, so he headed for bed. The flat felt like his own again. Most of the washing was done. None of the ironing, but he’d stowed it at the bottom of the wardrobe so he didn’t have to look at it. The odour of cleaning products now overpowered the smell of cigarettes, sex and Christ knew what else. There wasn’t a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. Yet something niggled at him.
Bloody Dirk. Where had he gone? Who was he with? Was he okay?
Shit. Linton knew he ought to call a locksmith, just in case. Not so much to stop Dirk, although he didn’t want a repeat of today, but in case any of his brother’s ‘friends’ had acquired a key too, with or without Dirk’s knowledge. But he was too tired to wait up for someone to come and too stingy to pay the call out fee for a Saturday night.
He rolled out of bed, grabbed all his saucepans from the kitchen and stacked them in front of the door to his flat. He’d definitely hear anyone entering.
Tired as he was, sleep was slow coming. What the fuck was he going to do about Dirk? He didn’t know how to help him, properly help him, not just engineer a move from one problem to what would undoubtedly turn out to be another. Linton needed advice but he had no idea who to ask.
His phone rang and he grabbed it. Unknown number but it might be
Dirk.
“Hello?”
“Linton. Don’t hang up. I want to see you. Meet me at Bells.”
Linton hung up, his heart pounding. How the hell did Pascal know he was back? He switched off his phone and hoped Dirk didn’t try to call him. Fear of something happening to Dirk subsided beneath anxiety about talking to Pascal. Three months without seeing or speaking to him and the sound of his voice still tripped Linton into a confused mess.
When Linton snapped awake out of a deep sleep, it took him a moment to register why. Someone was pressing the buzzer on his door. He checked his bedside clock. Three in the morning? It could have been kids, or even Pascal, but Linton’s gut told him it was more likely to be Dirk. He rolled out of bed and headed for the intercom. When he saw two uniformed officers on the video screen, his heart contracted.
“Hello?” he croaked and swallowed hard.
“Do you know a Linton or Dirk Williams?”
“I’m Linton Williams. Dirk’s my brother.” His heart hammered.
“Can we come up?”
Linton pressed the release on the outer door and slipped back to his bedroom to pull on some clothes. Oh God, oh God, oh God. He was back at the door of his flat by the time the two policemen stepped off the lift and he ushered them inside past the pile of saucepans.
“What’s happened?” Linton asked.
“An unidentified male was admitted to St. Thomas’s hospital in the early hours of this morning.”
Don’t tell me he’s dead.
“He was attacked and possibly robbed. He had no wallet or phone. But in his pocket, there was an electricity bill for this address and a photograph of a woman and two children on a beach. The names Linton and Dirk were on the back.”
Linton’s knees shook so hard he had to lean against the wall. Don’t tell me he’s dead. He couldn’t ask. He began to slide.
One of the policemen put his hand on Linton’s arm and held him up. “He’s not dead but he hasn’t yet regained consciousness. He’s in intensive care. It might not even be your brother.”
Linton couldn’t see how it could be anyone else. Then again…
“When did you last see him?” the other man asked.
“Yesterday morning.”
“What was he wearing?”
“I… I don’t know. He has dark hair like me. Longer than mine. Grey eyes. Tall. Six-one. He’s twenty-five.”
The two policemen glanced at each other.
“Is he all right?” Course he’s fucking not all right, you moron. He’s in intensive care.
Their hesitation made Linton’s heart thump painfully hard.
“You need to talk to his doctor. We can take you or you can drive yourself.”
“Take me please.”
Linton shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his wallet and phone.
It was impossible not to rerun his and Dirk’s earlier conversation. How he’d said he wished Dirk wasn’t his brother. Shit, shit, shit. He hadn’t meant it. Not really. Damn. While part of Linton wanted to wipe his brother out of his life, the other part of him felt guilty for even thinking it. Why had he said he didn’t want to see him again? He could have got rid of Dirk without being that cruel.
Linton climbed into the back of the police car. “Where was he found?”
“Not far from Leicester Square. He was lying in a doorway. Does he live with you?”
“No. He’s been staying in my flat for the last three months while I’ve been away. Without my permission. I…asked him to leave yesterday morning.”
He wished he’d not come back early from the States and then Dirk would have had time to clean up the flat, and they wouldn’t have rowed. Well, they probably would have but…
By the time they’d reached the hospital, Linton was sick with anxiety. The police led him up to the East Wing ICU on the second floor.
“It might not be him,” one of the cops said.
Maybe someone else had Linton’s bill and that photo. How likely is that?
It didn’t have to be Dirk.
But it was.
Chapter Four
His brother looked thin, pale and much younger than he actually was. He was attached to all sorts of machines, surrounded by enough paraphernalia to make Linton swallow hard. A cut above Dirk’s eye was held together with tape. There was a dark angry bruise on his cheek, his ribs stuck out and his breathing was raspy. Linton suspected he’d been ill even before he’d been attacked, and Dirk hadn’t want him to know.
“Is he your brother?” one of the policemen asked.
Linton took a deep breath. “Yes. That’s Dirk.”
“We’ll be back to speak to him when he’s regained consciousness.”
The police left and a doctor approached.
“I’m Linton Williams. Dirk’s brother. Can you tell me how he is?”
“He was admitted unconscious with bruises and cuts. He’s taken a heavy beating with fists and feet. The level of alcohol in his blood was at a dangerous level and there were indications he’d taken a large dose of heroin.”
Shit. Heroin? Was that why Dirk had hidden under the sheet? So Linton couldn’t see needle marks?
“Tests have shown he’s a habitual user of cocaine.”
Linton knew about the cocaine, and there were other drugs too, but… “Heroin?” You stupid, stupid…
“He doesn’t show signs of being addicted to heroin. This could have been a one-off use. We’ve given him medicine that reverses the effects of an overdose, but we need to do further tests on his liver and kidneys.”
Linton released a shaky exhale. Oh fuck, Dirk.
“Do you know what other drugs he takes?” the doctor asked.
“Apart from coke? G and ecstasy sometimes. I didn’t know he took heroin, but I’ve been out of the country for three months. He drinks. Smokes. Doesn’t eat properly.” Linton cast a lingering glance at his brother.
“He hasn’t been looking after himself at all. He’s underweight, anaemic and his lungs are congested.”
“I threw him out,” Linton whispered. “I made him leave.”
“This is not your fault.”
But it was. Linton could feel his world crumbling.
“Is your brother gay?”
His heart began to shred itself on his ribs. Don’t tell me he’s picked up some STD as well. “He’s bisexual. Why?”
“He was found semi-clothed and there were…indications he’d recently had anal sex. Rough sex.”
Linton briefly closed his eyes. Oh Christ. “You think he was raped?”
“We don’t know.”
“Have you—tested for… In case…?”
The doctor nodded. “Results aren’t back yet. How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.”
Linton hoped Dirk lived to see twenty-six.
He asked to sit with him and was told he could stay as long as he wanted.
On top of the bedside locker inside a clear plastic bag, he found his electricity bill and the photograph. Dirk had lifted it from Linton’s album. On the back, all those years ago, Dirk’s childish hand had written—Mummy, Dirk and Linton having fun at the seaside. Linton had helped him write it.
He stroked the smiling frozen face of his brother with his thumb, then put the picture down. There were very few photos of Dirk as a kid. After their father had gone, Linton had never seen his mother take a picture of her youngest son.
Linton sat by Dirk’s side and held his hand. He remembered the day that photo had been taken. They’d gone to the beach and their father had picked up the camera. Dirk would have been five or six. He and Linton had kicked a football around on the sand. Built a series of linked castles. Linton’s were elaborate constructions with walkways and staircases, and Dirk had been desperate to help him, carting water from the sea, hunting for pebbles and shells for decorations. Every time Linton had glanced at his mother, she was looking at him, not Dirk. Smiling at him, not Dirk.
Dirk had been an unwanted child. Linton
had heard him called a mistake more times than he could remember. Dirk had heard too and pretended he didn’t care but how could he not? How could any child hear that and not end up damaged? Linton blamed Dirk’s lack of self-worth on the fact that he simply wasn’t loved by the two people in the world who should have loved him unconditionally. Linton’s affection wasn’t enough. He did what he could but he was only a kid. His heart had ached for Dirk and it had been worse because Linton was adored by their mother, a child who could do no wrong. Dirk had every reason to hate and despise him, and he never had. Though maybe Dirk had seen through the relationship between Linton and their mother and known it wasn’t what it seemed.
He squeezed his brother’s fingers and made a silent promise to do whatever it took to get him the help he needed. There would be no more drugs, alcohol or cigarettes. No more chem-sex. No more selling his body. No more fucking heroin. Whatever Linton had to do, he’d do it. He wouldn’t let Dirk down.
“I swear it,” he whispered. “You’re going to get your life back. I’m not going to let you fail.”
Linton didn’t leave Dirk’s side. He sat for hours and talked quietly about anything and everything. He had no idea whether Dirk could hear him, but talking helped Linton remember all the good things about his brother and all that Dirk had had to put up with as a child. Though bad things hadn’t just happened to Dirk.
But this was Linton’s fault. If he’d not made Dirk leave… He remembered Dirk saying something about feeling safe in the flat. Why hadn’t he pushed to find out what he meant? Did he know who’d attacked him?
He only left his brother after a nurse persuaded him to go and get a coffee and something to eat. When he came back, he was stopped from entering the room by a different doctor.
Dirty Games Page 4
