by Kim Fielding
“Um, okay. That’s… romantic. So you knew you were in love because the sex was good?”
“The sex was fucking spectacular,” Nevin replied with a leer. “But that’s not why.” There was another long stretch of silence. “I realized that day that he could see the worst of me, and instead of kicking me to the curb, he just held me tighter.”
Was that what love was? Knowing someone’s biggest flaws and wanting them anyway? Not the kind of sentiment you’d put on a Hallmark card or commemorate in epic poetry. But it felt right.
NEVIN HAD to work his magic again at the hospital, where at first nobody wanted to tell him or Parker anything. Only next of kin, the staff kept insisting. But Wes had no next of kin. He had nobody at all. Eventually Nevin wore the staff down, and he and Parker were allowed into a waiting room reserved for family.
It wasn’t a happy place. These were people who’d planned on having a nice holiday with loved ones and ended up instead on thinly upholstered chairs, surrounded by ancient issues of Golf Digest and Prevention, waiting for news about someone they cared about. One young woman frowned as she furiously knitted a long green scarf. An extended family chatted quietly in Spanish. A middle-aged couple peered at their phones. And an exhausted-looking mother attempted to entertain her toddler. Nevin steered Parker to a chair and barked, “Stay put,” then went stomping out the door.
Parker remained, staring blankly at some health channel on the overhead TV.
When Nevin returned maybe thirty minutes later, he carried two cardboard cups of coffee and wore a scowl. He handed one of the coffees to Parker. “Tastes like crap compared to Rhoda’s,” he said and then plopped down into the adjacent chair.
He was right—it was shitty coffee. But at least it masked the bile that scorched the back of Parker’s throat.
“You want updates?” Nevin asked.
“God yes.”
“Wanker’s in surgery. Serious condition.”
Parker’s throat threatened to close. “What does that mean?”
“Means the docs don’t know shit yet. But serious is better than critical.” He sipped his coffee and made a face. “He was shot once in the shoulder. Probably not life-threatening. But he also got cut with a knife pretty badly, and he has a lot of bruising to his head.” He started to say more but paused, maybe to let Parker process.
And Parker did process. He pictured Wes—handsome, kind, talented Wes—captured by two assholes. The same ones who’d murdered Logan, most likely. And it sounded as if they’d taken their time hurting Wes.
A new emotion surged through Parker: rage.
“Those motherfuckers!” he growled as he dropped his cup into the nearby wastebasket, leapt to his feet, and rushed toward the door. To do what, he didn’t know. One of the motherfuckers was dead and the other in jail. But Parker’s fists itched to punch something, and he wanted to scream until his throat was raw. He wanted to make those men suffer just as they’d made Wes suffer. He wanted to rip their—
“Whoa!” Nevin caught him in a tight grip likely perfected during his days as a patrol cop. He was small but very strong.
Parker bared his teeth.
“C’mon, Bruce Banner. You’ve given enough of a show already.” Nevin gestured toward the others in the waiting room, who gaped at Parker. Nevin steered him out of the room, down a confusing maze of hallways, and out into a parking lot lit only by a few scattered lights. He kept on dragging until they were at the edge of the lot. Then he released Parker’s arm. “Let it out.”
A few deep breaths in and out, and then Parker shouted at the top of his lungs—every foul word he’d ever heard Nevin utter and more besides. Possibly enough blasphemies to blister the paint on nearby cars. And when that didn’t do the trick, he rounded on a light pole and kicked it hard. Kicked it again and again and then punched it with all his might.
That was a mistake.
Awash with mingled pain, anger, and helplessness, Parker sank to his ass on the blacktop and sobbed his goddamn eyes out.
Nevin waited patiently, possibly a first for him. He didn’t try to comfort Parker, which was a good thing because Parker didn’t want comforting. And he didn’t walk away or look pissed off or act like Parker’s explosion was a big deal. He simply waited until Parker pulled himself together.
Sniffling, wishing he had a Kleenex, Parker rose to his feet. He cradled his right hand in his left. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I learned some new words from you just now. Never realized you were so talented.”
Parker let out a shaky laugh. “And I didn’t realize you knew who Bruce Banner is.”
“You live with Collie for three years and you know what everyone in the Marvel universe eats for fucking breakfast.” He said it with a combination of fondness and fake disgust that made Parker laugh again.
Then he sobered. “I need to go inside.”
“Let’s get your hand looked at, numbnuts. Rhoda’s gonna have my balls. C’mon.”
HE HADN’T broken anything, so that was good. The ER nurse bandaged him up, gave him an ice bag, and told him to stop hitting things. Then Nevin and Parker returned to the waiting room, where everyone watched Parker warily.
The torture of waiting continued. Parker shifted in his seat and gnawed at the fingernails on his left hand. He watched a TV show about how to substitute vegetables for carbs. He leafed through an article about how a solid rhythm would improve his golf swings. Then he turned to Nevin, who was occupied with his phone. “Why’d they do it?”
Nevin looked over at him. “In a practical sense or an existential one?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Existential is easy. Some people are evil piles of shit who only care about themselves. Practical? Dunno. Saito’s still chatting with the fuckwad.”
Parker sat back in his seat and hoped Saito was being a really effective bad cop.
After what felt like three eternities, a woman in purple scrubs came to the door. She glanced at her clipboard. “Mr. Levin?” She looked tired, and Parker was sad she couldn’t be with her family on Thanksgiving. She led him and Nevin into a small room down the hall; it contained a round table, a few chairs, and nothing else.
“Is Wes—”
“The surgeon will be here in just a moment.”
“Yeah, but Wes—”
“Is in recovery.” She left, closing the door behind her.
In recovery. That sounded optimistic, even if it was just the name of a room. Parker played with the cover on his ice pack.
A minute or two later, a brisk knock sounded on the door, and a large white-coated man entered. “I am Dr. Ogochokwu,” he said with a slight accent. They introduced themselves, everyone shook hands, and Parker managed to avoid jumping on the guy and demanding information. “You are Mr. Anker’s friends?”
“Yes,” Parker and Nevin said in unison. Nevin sounded as if he meant it.
“Very good. And he has no family near, correct?”
Parker answered. “He has us. That’s it.”
“All right. I am very pleased to say that Mr. Anker should make a full recovery.”
The doctor said more after that, stuff about scars and infection and healing time, but Parker registered very little of it. Time passed in a weird haze, but Wes would be okay. That was all that mattered. Parker almost cried again, this time from relief.
Some cops came into the room and asked questions, but Nevin did most of the answering. Parker had already told Saito about his suspicions regarding Logan, and other than that, he had little information to contribute. Although Wes hadn’t shared very specific intentions, Parker showed the cops the previous night’s text conversation. It was slightly embarrassing, but they did a good job pretending not to notice the personal stuff. It probably helped that Nevin had them fixed in his steely gaze, just daring them to say a word.
When Parker was back in the waiting room, dozing, the clipboard lady returned. “You can see him now, but only for a minute.”
He co
uld have kissed her.
Nevin opted to remain in the waiting room, and Parker practically skipped through the halls. Until he got to Wes’s room, where he had to take a few yoga breaths before going in.
Wes looked weirdly small in his hospital bed. His eyes were closed, one side of his head shaved to the scalp, wires and tubes attached to various parts of him. Two long gashes—one on each cheek—looked red and puffy and had a lot of stitches. The rest of his skin was nearly as white as the hospital sheets. But his chest moved smoothly up and down. God, he was alive. And beautiful.
After a minute or two of uncertainty, Parker reached out and gently touched the back of Wes’s hand. His eyelids fluttered open, and when he caught sight of Parker, he tried to smile. “You’re here,” he rasped, voice barely audible over the beeping machines.
“I’m here. You’re safe. Now rest.”
Wes’s smile widened and his eyes fell closed.
Chapter Eighteen
“THAT’S GREAT, Wes!”
The last time anyone had congratulated him on going to the bathroom, Wes had been two. He smiled thinly at the nurse and shuffled back to his bed. “Does this mean I can leave?” he asked.
“The doctor will check on you this afternoon. Then we’ll see.”
He sighed and arranged the sheets over himself, careful not to catch the IV line. Drained by his efforts, he lay back and gazed at Parker, curled up in the nest he’d made for himself in a chair. He looked exhausted, with a growth of dark whiskers and his hair in disarray.
As soon as the nurse was gone, Wes said, “I’m fine. You should go find a motel or something and—”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No, of course not. But you’ve spent two days here and—”
“And I’m staying longer. Staying with you.” Wes remembered Parker mentioning that Rhoda rarely let go of a notion once she had hold of it. Judging by his firm chin and determined expression, it looked as if he’d inherited that trait.
Wes didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength for it… or the will. Truthfully, he liked having Parker there. His wounds hurt less every time he looked at Parker, who’d rushed to Seattle—leaving a family holiday, no less—and stayed at his bedside every minute. That knowledge healed him better than anything the doctors could do.
But then Wes remembered what he’d seen in the bathroom mirror, and he licked his lips. “Look, you can….” Jesus, this was hard to say. But he had to. “Nobody will blame you for leaving now. Especially me.” Without conscious thought, he lightly touched the long line of stitches on one cheek, matched by a similar line on the other.
“I’m staying.” Parker rose from his chair and took the two steps to the bed. He touched Wes’s face gently, just above the stitches, and then bent to plant a featherlight kiss on Wes’s forehead. “Staying.”
“I look like Frankenstein’s monster.”
Parker’s eyes flashed angrily. “Did you think a couple of scars were going to chase me away? Do you think I’m that shallow?”
“No. But this… I’m….”
“You’re alive. And you’re beautiful. So cut this crap out, okay?”
Wes sighed. “Okay.” He knew that Parker wasn’t shallow and that his dedication to Wes was not dependent on a pretty face.
Parker settled back into the chair. “Anyway, I’ve always liked Frankenstein’s monster. He’s sexy.”
Wes raised his eyebrows, which pulled on the cuts and made his face ache. “Sexy?”
“Yep. My mom and I have argued over this. She has a thing for vampires, but I think the whole bloodsucking schtick is gross and also the vamps tend to be pretty stalkery, which is creepy. They don’t want a relationship—they just want to eat. But Frank’s monster, all he wants is to belong and be loved.” Parker smiled softly, as if he knew Wes’s deepest secrets.
For the next few hours Wes allowed himself to drift in and out of a light doze. He’d never spent so much time doing nothing, although Parker kept reminding him he was doing a lot, busily fixing all the damage the Cavellis had inflicted.
Shortly after Wes’s lunch tray had been cleared away, Detective Saito arrived. She didn’t look happy, but by now Wes was fairly certain she was incapable of smiling. He wondered whether her profession had done that to her or if she’d been grim to begin with and had chosen a job to match her disposition.
“How are you feeling?”
“A lot better than I would be if you hadn’t sent your guys in when you did. Thank you.”
Huh. One corner of her mouth twitched upward a micrometer. “You should thank Parker and Detective Ng. They’re the ones who were so persistent.”
Wes hoped that when he was healthy enough, he’d get a chance to show Parker his gratitude. As for Nevin, who was back in Portland, well, that was going to be a little awkward. But Wes would face that too.
“I’d like to take your statement now,” Saito said.
At Wes’s nod, she settled herself in the room’s other chair, took out a recording device, notebook, and pen, and started asking questions. She had a lot of them, and Wes found the interrogation surprisingly draining. But even though Parker tried a few times to make him stop, Wes refused. He wanted to get this over with. At one point, though, when he was describing some of the Cavellis’ gorier activities, Wes glanced at Parker and noticed how pale he was.
“Why don’t you take a walk?” Wes suggested.
Parker shook his head, crossed his arms, and hunkered down more firmly into his nest.
All three of them were relieved when Saito finally put away her things and stood. “I don’t think this case is going to court—the perp’s going to plead it out. The DA’s charged him with first-degree murder in Mr. Miller’s case, along with a boatload of other charges.”
Parker needed his curiosity satisfied. “Has fuckwad—um, has Cavelli said anything about what happened with Logan?”
“He spilled a little before he decided to lawyer up. He mostly blamed his dead brother.” She rolled her eyes as if she’d expected that kind of behavior. “Sounds like the two of them and Mr. Miller got screwed in a get-rich-quick con. Cavelli says investing in the con was Miller’s idea. When they lost their money, they tried to recoup from Mr. Miller, and when he wouldn’t pay up….” She shrugged.
“That’s stupid,” Parker said, his eyes glittering. “There was no point in killing him.”
“There’s almost never a point to murder. It’s a stupid crime.” Saito checked her phone and nodded. “Gotta go.” Then she cast a long look at Wes. “I’m glad you’re doing well. Next time, though, please leave the investigating to professionals.” With another almost smile, she swept out of the room.
THE SURGEON arrived around three, looking jolly. It must feel good to know you’d saved someone’s life. He read Wes’s chart, checked his wounds, and poked and prodded a bit before announcing him fit for discharge. “But you still need plenty of rest. No returning to work for a week, and no strenuous exercise or lifting anything over fifteen pounds for six weeks. You understand?”
“Yes.” Wes had already done a mental calculation of his finances. He’d tucked some money aside, so he’d be all right with not selling anything for a couple of months as long as he lived frugally.
“Good. Contact me if you have any problems. Do you have questions?”
Wes shook his head. The surgeon had already covered everything and handed over a folder full of papers with helpful advice, some of which seemed only tangentially related to Wes’s situation. Yes, he believed eating lots of vegetables and exercising regularly were good for him, but they wouldn’t have saved him from getting bashed, stabbed, and shot.
After a round of thanks and good wishes, plus promises that the nurse would arrive soon with his discharge papers, the doctor left.
“I have a plan,” Parker said. “It involves options.”
“Okay?”
“Morrison is parked in the hospital lot. Oh, and Nevin says that’s a fucking lame
place to keep your keys, by the way. He found them right away. Anyway, now I have them. I’ll drive us down south. Your choice is to stay with me at Rhoda’s and get waited on hand and foot, or for us to stay in your bus while you get waited on hand and foot.”
“Self-sufficiency isn’t one of my options?”
“Nope.”
“Um….” Wes considered for about three seconds. “I’d prefer to be home.”
“Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Really? Why?”
“’Cause I like your home. It’s… homey.” Parker grinned.
Then something occurred to Wes. “Um, I think I’m going to have to make the trip in this.” He pinched the thin fabric of his hospital johnny. The clothing he’d worn to Cavelli’s was toast, stained by blood and piss and then cut away by EMTs and the staff in the ER.
“I’d appreciate the view, but you’re not in good enough health to be appreciated. And it’s cold. But I have a solution.” Parker hefted one of the plastic bags he’d accumulated next to his chair. “New duds. Um, Nevin bought them, so….” He smiled merrily.
Wes groaned. The black sweatpants were perfectly fine—not his usual style, maybe, but more comfortable at the moment than jeans—and there was no issue with the black sneakers. But Nevin had also bought him boxers printed with hot dogs in buns and socks depicting skateboard-riding T. rexes. The purple T-shirt depicted a unicorn pole dancing. And the jacket? It matched Parker’s.
“Where did he find all of this?” Wes asked.
“I have no idea. But he is a detective, after all.”
THE RIDE wasn’t exactly comfortable; the bumping and jostling irritated every damaged bit of Wes’s body. But he was going home, and that was comfort enough. Wes had just stirred awake from a light sleep when Parker spoke.
