by Jo Raven
He slams his beer down on the table. “You on the faggot side now, son?”
“Of course not.” The itch is getting worse. I want to scratch my skin off. Scrape my mind clean. Suddenly that beer sounds good.
“If my only son turns queer, I’ll throw myself off that fucking balcony.” He points at it with a thick finger, then turns to glare at me.
My stomach churns.
“That’s not gonna happen, is it?” he asks.
“No, Dad. Of course not.”
“That’s right.” He suddenly grins at me. “That’s my boy. At least you turned out right, got your head on straight.”
I stand up, my stomach cramping so badly I think I’ll puke. “Gotta go. Tell Mom I said hi, okay?”
“You just arrived! Sit.”
“Can’t, dad. Something I need to do.”
What I need to do is stop running. Feels like I can’t stop.
I don’t wait for his reply. Forget the running shoes, I just want out. Throwing the door open, I stumble out and take the stairs two at a time, going so fast I’m risking my neck. I jog out of the building, brace one hand on the wall outside and bend over.
Faggots. Pansies. Throwing themselves all over one another.
Jet’s chest, his mouth, his dick, his taste, the sounds he makes as he comes…
Good for nothing. Faggot bitches.
Jet on his back on the bed, jacking off. In the shower, coming hard as I look on. His dick in my mouth, my dick in his ass, our mouths crushing together in a deep kiss…
Fucking hell. I retch, but nothing comes up. There’s a hollow ache in my chest when I think of Jet and Candy. No matter how hard I try to convince myself I hate her, that I don’t want him, I know I’m lying to myself.
Oh God, what am I gonna do?
Chapter Thirty
JETHRO
When it all goes to hell, what will you do?
Remember those days when everything went according to plan?
Yeah, neither do I.
All my life I’ve tried to be strong, to face my problems, to let pain and sorrow flow over me like water and not stop me. To not let fear and panic control me.
Anger has always been my saving grace, pulling me up from the murk, giving me the strength to go on.
And in the last years I managed to find meaning in my life. A purpose. Despite the nightmares and the memories that won’t let go, I moved on.
But Joel was by my side. He was my ally.
Not in this, though. Not now. Not anymore. And after what Donna told me… I’ll probably lose Candy, too. Lose both of them in one fell swoop.
I swipe my drawing pad off the sofa, jump to my feet and start to pace.
I can’t lose them. Maybe Candy won’t shut me out. Even if Donna fired me for not having a school diploma—because I admitted it, dammit, too shocked to lie—maybe Candy won’t mind so much that I’m such a loser.
Who the hell knows?
But Joel… Fuck. Getting off can never make up for losing his friendship. Feelings that go further than friendship. Further than brotherhood. And I’ve never been good with feelings—with understanding them, showing them. Getting a fucking response to them.
What I want doesn’t matter. Never has. I’ll take what he can give and won’t expect anything more. And I should stop fucking pushing before he goes for good.
The thought sends cold slithering down my back. If he goes… Fuck, no. No.
I kick at the wall, my boot leaving a black mark. I kick again, kick the bed, the closet door. I grab the chair and smash it to the floor.
Hit my fists against the wall. Smash my knuckles into the plaster. Kick the furniture. Welcome the pain.
I stare at my bleeding knuckles, breathing hard, and the knot in my chest unclenches marginally.
What I need is more. More pain.
I ball my hands. If I head out to a bar, I’ll drink, and I’ll fight. I’ve been trying to stop that vicious cycle. Been doing better. Haven’t needed that outlet in a while.
Since Candy came into our lives, changing everything.
Fuck. Bullshit. Fuck-all has changed. I’m right back where I used to be—a loser, with no real prospects, with no one who will take me as I am. No one to need me.
So I grab my jacket and head out. Yeah, I need a drink, and a fight, not necessarily in that order, to set my head straight. And there’s nobody left here to stop me.
***
The bar is packed for a weekday night. Miraculously I find a free stool and park my ass there to drink.
And I drink. The bartender gives me the side-eye as he slams yet another whiskey shot on the bar in front of me. I look younger than my age, but he knows me. I’ve been here plenty of times, and he doesn’t ask for my ID.
Good thing, too. I’m itching to punch something, or someone, and he’d do in a pinch. I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me.
Suits me just fine. I don’t need anyone to like me, except Candy and Joel. And the thought hits me square in the chest, letting fresh pain well.
Dammit, I came here to forget. Forget Candy, forget Joel, and forget my paranoid thoughts about dear old dad before I’m shut in a madhouse with pills shoved down my throat.
I managed to escape the straitjacket the first time. Maybe I can do it again. I just need enough booze to drown out the voices in my head, and the itch in my fists.
The next shot goes down smooth and warm, relaxing the stiff muscles in my back. The one after that is even better. I grin at the bartender and lift my glass. He scowls, and I salute him with my middle finger.
One good thing about getting so shitfaced you can’t remember your own name? The fear is gone. All fear.
Nothing matters but my next shot and the blissful mindlessness of this moment.
When a guy stumbles into my stool, I grab him and shove him against the bar. When he snarls something I can’t hear at me, I shove him back harder.
Then I release him, step off my stool and open my arms wide.
“Come to daddy,” I yell at him, but inside what I’m thinking is, Give me pain, cut me down, knock me out.
Set me free.
***
I’m being pulled away from the brawl, protesting and struggling because it wasn’t enough, hell, and I’m still conscious—when I see her.
Not Candy. No, that would have been something good, and good isn’t in the cards tonight. No, it’s a random girl, a girl I’ve never seen before. She has her hand over her mouth, her eyes are wide, and she’s staring right at me with horror.
Shit, I have to look real bad. My face is a giant bruise, and one of my eyes is swelling shut already.
“Get out of here,” the bouncer grumbles at me as he drags me out of the bar. “And don’t come back. It’s the third time you started a fight in the past two months.”
Yeah, yeah. Like a guy fights alone. It takes at least two to make a fight, but I’m the one who’s getting kicked out.
The bouncer propels me into the dark alley behind the bar and I stagger, catching my balance with a hand against the brick wall.
Goddammit.
I straighten, my head spinning, my jaw throbbing, and I find her at the emergency exit, staring at me.
“What do you want?” I slur, squinting at her. “Look, you’re pretty, but there’s only one girl I want and she’s not here right now.”
“Candy.” She nods. “You want Candy. You’re Jethro.” When I stare at her, uncomprehending, she says, “I’m Brylee. Candy’s roommate. I’ve seen you in photos.”
Brylee. Her name rings a bell. “Hey,” I mumble, not sure what she wants from me.
“Is Candy here?” She glances around as if expecting Candy to materialize from behind the dumpsters of the alley.
“I wish.” Damn, my mouth is saying things it shouldn’t.
“What happened? She’s always with you guys. You and Joel. Is Joel here?”
I laugh. It comes out as a sob. “Nah. Joel took off. Candy doesn’t wan
t to see me, Bailey.”
“It’s Brylee.” She takes a step toward me, letting the door half-shut behind her, the noise from inside spilling out. “Candy loves you.”
I swallow down this cry-laughter that’s clawing its way up my throat. “I was fired today. Because I lied about having a GED. I’m a lie. My life is a lie. What would Candy want with someone like me anyway?”
“You’re deaf, right? Didn’t you hear what I said? Candy loves you. You and Joel. Has loved you for some time, and right now? She’s head over heels in love with you.”
I shake my head. This can’t be real. I’m hallucinating. Maybe that guy did knock me out after all. “Why would she?”
She eyes me for a long moment, looking sad. “I guess you were meant to be together.”
I laugh, and she looks away. If my destiny exists, it’s made of thorns and rusty nails, not fairytale endings. “Joel just fucking walked out on me, and we’ve been best friends for years. Fuck off.”
“I’m going in to get my cell phone and call Candy,” she says, as if she hasn’t heard me. “She may be worried about you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I watch as she turns around and gets back inside the bar, the noise brightening, then fading. I shiver, clad only in a T-shirt and my jeans, my jacket still inside, draped over the stool where I sat earlier.
Candy loves me.
This sounds so much like a mind trick, I’m wary. After Mom was killed, the drugs the shrinks gave me made me see her sometimes. She’d tell me she loved me, that she was there for me.
It wasn’t real.
But I’m not on drugs anymore, haven’t been in years. Booze shouldn’t make me see things, hear things.
Like the door opening again and a man appearing there. He lets the door slam shut and stares at me.
I stare back, my mouth opening without a sound.
Gray hair, shorn short, dark eyes. My mouth. My face, lined, older.
No. Nonono. This can’t be happening. I take a step back but find the wall blocking me. I turn toward the alley mouth, but he’s already moving there, a barrier between myself and freedom.
Myself and life.
Because there, standing in front of me, is my father.
My brain is spinning on nothing. Maybe I did take drugs. I can’t remember. Was I in treatment? Did I have another breakdown?
Five years. Today it’s five years since he killed my mom. Ten years since his brother died. And I’m here, facing him.
He draws a knife from the inside of his leather jacket. It’s long and narrow, and it flashes in the faint light.
Shit. If you die in a hallucination, do you really die?
What if this is real?
He starts toward me, and I back away toward the dumpsters, the air whistling in my lungs. “Don’t. Okay? Stay back.”
He isn’t talking. Isn’t taunting. Isn’t fucking stopping. The knife flashes again as he swishes it right and left.
Fuck.
“Dad… Dad, don’t.” Real or not, my heart is hammering madly, and fear twists my stomach until I think I’m gonna puke. This is my nightmare, the one that wakes me up at night in a cold sweat. Him, coming for me to finish off the last of the family. “Don’t!”
Then he’s on top of me, pushing me back, grabbing my shoulder, lifting the knife. I twist, punch him in the arm, but he doesn’t budge. His eyes are staring right at me, and he still hasn’t said a word or made a sound.
“Fuck, let me go!” I struggle. I kick at his legs, push at his arm, try to wrench myself free.
Not working. His hand is gripping my shoulder so hard I feel the bones grind together. He’s as tall as I am, and wider, bulkier, and I’m still dizzy from the punches to my face and all the whiskey I downed tonight. With only one eye functioning, the other swollen shut, my balance is shot to hell.
“It’s your turn,” he finally says, his dark eyes glittering and wide. “The fives have turned. Five to the day, to the hour. You lose. Time’s up!”
He lifts the knife, brings it down, and I do my best to block with my arm. Blinding pain makes me cry out, and then he pulls the knife back and plunges it into my chest.
Holy shit, he’s real, and fucking crazy, and Christ, it hurts like a bitch. I stare down at the knife protruding from my chest, blinking dazedly. My pulse is drumming in my ears, too loud.
Loud noise filters through the pounding, and light pours into the alley. He lets go of my shoulder, steps back—and I go after him, grabbing his arms. He shrugs me off, but I grab at him again.
No idea why, but I can’t let him go. He killed my mom. He just killed me, too. He’s dangerous. Candy is out there. Joel, too.
“Jethro?” a woman’s voice calls out, and then a guy cursing. “Oh my God.”
My father pushes me off, and I stumble a few paces back, falling against the dumpsters as he turns and hurries away.
I’m cold. So cold my teeth are chattering. And it’s getting hard to breathe.
“Call an ambulance,” someone shouts. “And the police.”
The alley is darkening. A shadow bends over me.
“Candy,” I tell it. “Joel. Make sure they’re safe.”
And then the blackness closes over me.
Chapter Thirty One
CANDY
Title: Little Truths
From Candy Boys (Blog serial)
“I love you,” I tell them. “Did I tell you? Did you know?”
Did you know you have the power to break my heart?
Because it’s true.
“What do you mean he’s in the hospital? Didn’t you just say he was fine?” I’m clenching my cell phone so hard my knuckles ache. “Bry?”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s crazy over here. Someone stabbed Jethro in the chest.”
“Bry, are you serious right now?” I wait for her reply, heart in my throat. “Bry!”
“I’m serious. There’s a guy trying to stop the blood. Holy crap, Candy...”
“Jesus Christ.” I push away the laptop and jump to my feet, scanning the room for my jacket and purse. “I’m on my way.”
I don’t wait for her to reply. I throw the phone in my purse, pull on my shoes, grab my jacket and I’m out of here like a shot.
My fingers feel numb as I stab the call button for the elevator. I’m in shock, I think hazily. This can’t be. Stabbed. Jet was stabbed.
Shit.
I can’t think until I’m seated in my car and driving toward the bar Brylee called me from. Then, as I approach, I remember Joel and fish out my phone to call him.
He doesn’t answer, so I shoot him a text while waiting at the traffic lights, my finger shaking as I type the words.
‘Jet was stabbed. Riley’s Bar. Call me.’
Please, call me. Where are you?
Joel’s the one in control, the one in charge, the dependable one, the strong one. I need him. Hell, Jet needs him.
Tears sting my eyes as I finally reach my destination and park the car. I’m not angry at Jet anymore. I’m scared, so scared it takes me two tries to switch off the engine.
God, how did it come to this? Who stabbed him? Why? And why was Jet here, in a brawl, instead of home with me and Joel?
Drawing in a deep breath, I step out and head toward the bar. Brylee intercepts me on the way, looking pale, her eyes too wide.
“They took him away in an ambulance just now,” she whispers, linking her arm with mine. “They caught his attacker, too, the police are taking him in now.”
“I need to see Jet.” I’m panicking, trying to free myself of her hold, trying to turn back around.
“I’ll take you to the hospital. Come on.”
I let her haul me back to my car, let her get behind the wheel and drive me, too shaky to refuse her help.
And Joel still hasn’t called me back.
***
The ER is pretty quiet. Lots of people are seated in the waiting area. Brylee leaves me to ask about Jet, and I’m left standing there, lost
.
This is wrong. Jet shouldn’t be here. Jet shouldn’t be hurt.
And I should be the one asking about him.
Turning, I look for her, but she’s vanished somewhere. This is surreal. Panic rises in my chest, clogging my throat. I’m two seconds from screaming.
A woman I don’t know pats my arm. “Have a seat,” she says. “Be patient.”
I jerk back, shaking my head, and pull out my phone again. Nothing. No texts, no missed calls.
Jesus, Joel. Where are you?
And where has Brylee gone, for that matter? Where is everyone? The walls are closing in on me. The air is stale. Not enough oxygen.
I turn blindly around, this time searching for the exit, when strong arms come around me and a familiar male scent envelops me.
“Candy.” Joel is rocking me in his arms. “Where is he? Is he okay?”
Joel is here. The tears suddenly overflow, seep into my lashes, slip down my cheeks. “I don’t know. Brylee went to ask. I couldn’t find you. You didn’t call back.”
“I was an asshole, and an idiot.” He pulls back and wipes my tears with his hands, then cups my cheeks. “The hospital called me.”
I frown. “Why would they?”
“I’m listed as his next of kin. But they only told me he’s in surgery.”
“Oh God.” More tears slip free. “What else did they say?”
“Nothing else. And it’s my fault.”
“Your fault? How is any of this your fault?”
He’s shaking, clutching me so hard it hurts, but I don’t care. It means he’s here, with me. With us. “I was so angry with you for putting up our photo and names on your blog, for not telling us about the story, about exposing us. I went home to tell Jet about it, and then… then things got heated between us. And I freaked out and left.”
“Wait, wait…” My brain is still frozen with shock and doesn’t quite follow. “Oh crap, you know about the blog?”
“Yeah. My sister told me about it, and today a colleague at work saw it and—”
I put a hand on his chest and push, needing to see his face. “What photo? And what do you mean, your names? Are you drunk?”
He blinks at me, those pretty blue eyes confused. “A photo of us—you, me, Jet outside our building holding hands, and our names below.”
