But he never finished the thought. Two steps inside his office, Allen froze as if poleaxed.
Someone had been busy while he was gone. The bare eggshell walls were no longer so. Now, newspaper clippings and blown-up, grainy photographs covered every inch of the available wall space. Articles about his parents, about how hard they’d searched for him in Columbia, only to be forced to give up when the drug cartels got involved. Articles featuring his brother and sisters, tearfully begging his birth family to let him come back home, where he was loved and missed. Articles about his father’s renewed religious charge against drugs and racism, calling on the U.S. government and the Christian community to band together to censure the country of Columbia for what they’d done to his favored adopted son.
And those weren’t even the worst of it. Directly across from the door, one particular article had been blown up larger than life, covering the window wall from floor to ceiling. The headline read, “Teenage Prostitution an Epidemic in Houston’s Inner City.” And directly underneath it, in full color, was a photo of a young Allen being handcuffed by Houston’s finest.
I’d forgotten about the photographer. But he remembered being arrested. The photo showed Allen’s arms being yanked behind his back, his tattered clothes pulled up to reveal his starving body beneath. He remembered hearing a clicking noise, remembered glancing around to find out where it came from. Apparently, the photographer had been waiting for a shot of Allen’s face, because the photo showed a terrified boy peeking over his shoulder while the police manhandled him into the cuffs, his eyes wide and scared yet dull with resignation.
The caption underneath the picture had been highlighted in bright yellow marker. It read, “Street urchin calling himself ‘Allen’ being arrested for prostitution at the age of fifteen.”
Allen was just standing there, staring, when Beatrice finally puffed through the door. She grabbed Allen’s shoulder, whipped him around to face her. “I’m so sorry. I tried to stop you…”
“But its best you didn’t,” came a very familiar, very hated voice from the hallway behind them. Allen turned, his mind gone numb, and watched as Brock Ashburn sauntered around a corner and stopped ten feet away, his piggy eyes maliciously amused.
“What do you think of my work, Allen?” he said with a mean little laugh. “I set out to prove who was the better photographer, but it looks like I found one better than either one of us. I wonder, did the owners of MM&M know you were a teenage prostitute when they hired you? Is that why they hired you in the first place—so they could have free access to that sweet ass whenever they wanted? You certainly didn’t get here on talent alone. I knew there had to be a reason they let scum like you work here. Looks like I found it.”
“Don’t listen to that bastard,” Beatrice said fiercely, hugging Allen’s wooden body to her chest as she glared at the behemoth watching them gleefully. “No one here cares about your past. You’re the best photographer on the planet, Allen, and he damn well knows it. He’s just bitter because he went too far and got himself fired.”
“I didn’t get myself fired,” Brock snarled menacingly. He took a step forward and jabbed a pudgy finger toward Allen’s chest. “He got me fired. He did it on purpose, because he knew he’d never get the job if I was still here, showing him up all the time. He poisoned Sidri and the others against me, made them turn on me so he would look extra special.”
His hard eyes narrowed as a satisfied smirk lit his sickening visage. “I proved who the fucked-up one of us is, didn’t I, Allen? Who do you think they’re going to want around now, huh? The photographer who they once thought was a jerk, or the photographer who used to sell his ass for money?”
“That’s enough!” Tatum boomed suddenly. He and Sidri appeared behind Brock, both of them so angry their bodies were shaking with the force of it. Brock whirled to face them, obviously frightened, but he thrust out his chin belligerently.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sidri asked in a menacing whisper. Allen stared at her, amazed at the level of rage in her eyes. It was a wonder Brock didn’t combust on the spot.
Brock cleared his throat. “Just letting you know what kind of monster you chose over me,” he said, deep voice quivering, giving his fear away. “You chose a whore over the best photographer you ever had here. Someone needed to make you see your mistake.”
“The only mistake we ever made,” Tatum said dangerously, “was hiring your sorry ass in the first place.” He whipped out his cell phone, punched in a number, and held it to his ear while returning his glare back to Brock.
“Security? We have an intruder on the eighteenth floor. A Brock Ashburn, whom I know for a fact was placed on the banned-persons list. He shouldn’t have been allowed inside the building, much less up here. I want officers here right now to arrest him for trespassing, and I want every single person on duty today fired. That’s right, fired. I don’t care if they have families. They should have thought about that before they let a known menace up here to harass my staff and terrorize my most valued employee. I want their pink slips on my desk by the end of the day, or so help me God, I will sue you, your company, and every single one of those rat bastards for putting my people in danger. Do I make myself clear?”
Apparently he had, because he hung up a moment later. Brock was shaking now, his layers of fat jiggling disgustingly. He glared back and forth between Tatum and Sidri. “You can’t do that. I have more right to be here than a fucking whore.”
“You have no rights here,” Sidri said in a quiet, deadly voice. “You trespassed on our property, harassed our staff, and endangered our most valued employee. We can sue your ass and have you thrown in jail, all at the same time. You should have thought about that before dragging your sickening carcass up here in the first place.”
Brock’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re still choosing him over me? I gave this company everything! I worked my ass off, every single day, and for what? So some fucking prostitute could swoop in and steal my promotion out from under me? How is that fair?”
“You were never going to be promoted,” Tatum informed him harshly. “You were an embarrassment to the Photography Department and to this company. We were already considering getting rid of you when the complaints began piling up. Allen didn’t get you fired, asshole. You did that all by yourself.”
Brock sputtered in outrage, his round head turning an ugly, splotchy red. While he cursed them, two security guards appeared in the hallway. Tatum gestured them over, indicating Brock with a disgusted look on his face. One of the heavily muscled guards slammed Brock against the wall, yanking his arms behind his back, but they had to use two sets of handcuffs just to get him secured—he was so fat, his wrists couldn’t get close enough together to use a single pair. Allen watched in numb silence as the huge man screamed and fought all the way down the hallway, finally disappearing out of sight.
Tatum sighed, rubbed his forehead with one hand. Sidri approached Allen cautiously, her face alive with love and concern. “Are you okay? We tried to call you, to warn you, but your phone was off.”
Allen nodded, too emotional to speak just then. He’d turned it off while they were on vacation. Hadn’t remembered to switch it back on before he left this morning.
Tatum came up behind her, using his big body to block the view into Allen’s office. “The janitor is already on his way. They’ll have all this shit taken down and burned in an hour.”
“How…how many?” Allen asked in a dull, dead voice.
Sidri glanced at Tatum before turning back to him with a concerned frown. “How many what?”
He swallowed the shards of glass in his throat, feeling them shred his insides all the way down. “How many people know? How many people saw?”
Tatum winced as Sidri closed her eyes for a moment. “All of them,” Tatum said quietly, obviously hating the necessity of telling the truth. “Brock snuck in here early this morning. We think he bribed a security guard. He put all that stuff up, then dragged people in here to s
ee it as soon as they came into work. I’m sorry, b—Allen. Everyone knows.”
Allen nodded again, expression carefully blank. No wonder everyone was staring at him earlier. They knew. Knew he’d been a whore. Knew he’d been arrested. Knew he’d run away from a rich, powerful family to live on the streets like a rabid dog. Knew his family had lied about his whereabouts to save their own necks, to use his disappearance for their own benefit.
They knew how worthless he really was.
Sucking back a sob, Allen pushed past his lovers and bolted down the hallway. He felt the eyes watching him as he ran past, felt their pity and contempt. He ignored it all, heading straight for the elevators as if the building were on fire. He dived into the first one that opened, uncaring that it wasn’t the express elevator and therefore could be stopped at any floor along the way. Why should he care who else saw him crying today? Why should he bother hiding his pain? He’d just lost his job, lost his lovers, lost everything he ever valued in one fell swoop. Everyone he ever cared about, everyone whose opinion he actually valued, already considered him a freak and a failure. Nothing could be worse in the face of that.
Allen burst out of the elevator the second it hit the garage, running full tilt toward his Viper. Home. He had to get home. Not Sidri and Tatum’s place—he’d never be welcome there again. He needed to get back to his townhouse, start packing. The sooner he left this godforsaken city, the better.
He could never face any of these people, ever again.
“Allen! Wait!”
Tatum’s voice brought Allen to a stop. He whirled, eyes wild, to find the big man barreling down on him. He stood there in utter shock as Tatum wrapped him up in a bear hug, burying his face in Allen’s hair as he held on and shook.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Tatum whispered while Allen just stood there, arms stiff at his sides, too stunned to return the hug. “We tried to stop it. Tried to warn you. I’m so, so sorry we couldn’t protect you, baby. Please, please forgive us. We didn’t know what was going on until it was too late. God, I’m so sorry.”
After a stunned silence, Allen finally managed to make his arms work. He wrapped them around Tatum’s waist, buried his face in the bigger man’s hot chest.
“Why are you sorry?” Allen sobbed brokenly. “I’m the one who’s an embarrassment. I’m the one who just ruined the reputation of the entire company, not to mention you and Sid, since you two hired me. There will be months and months of scandal after this, reporters, paparazzi…Lawsuits, for Christ’s sake. How can you ever forgive me?”
Tatum pulled back, his blue eyes wet, face incredulous. “Are you serious right now? Do you honestly believe we give a flying fuck about any of that shit?” He cupped Allen’s jaw, the fingers of his other hand digging into Allen’s back. “You are what matters to us, baby. Not the goddamned company. How could you ever think we’d value that over you?”
Allen swallowed, tears dripping. “But it’s your whole life…”
“No, it most definitely is not,” Tatum refuted fiercely. “You are, baby. You are the only thing that matters to us. The only person we value more than life itself. You matter. You’re the only one who does matter. Period, end of story. Do you understand me?”
Allen choked on another sob, then threw his arms around Tatum’s neck and held on tight while he shook uncontrollably. Tatum held him, so tenderly, murmuring words of love and understanding the whole time. When Allen finally managed to choke back his tears, Tatum pulled his face out of hiding, running his thumb across Allen’s lower lip before he bent down for a sweet, slow kiss.
“I love you,” he said, a breath away from Allen’s mouth. “Sidri loves you. And whether you believe it or not, everyone inside that building loves you, too. You may be thinking they hate you now, that they pity you for what happened to you. I promise you, baby, that is so not true. Every single one of them is amazed at your courage, proud of your strength. We are all, every single one of us, proud to call you one of ours.”
God, if he started crying again, he’d have to turn in his Guy Card. Allen closed his eyes, tightened his arms around Tatum’s neck, and held on for dear life. When he finally managed to get control of himself, he pulled back and wiped some of the tears from his cheeks. “Where’s Sidri?”
Tatum grimaced. “She had to deal with the police,” he said quietly. “When her mom retired last year, Sid became the named McKenna. And with my dad over in Australia and Walter McKinney left for South Africa this morning, it fell to her to act as the managing partner of the firm and file the charges. She’ll be here as soon as she can, I promise. It took her everything she had to let me come after you alone, trust me.”
Allen smiled a little, imagining Sidri dealing with the police on his behalf. “Okay. So what happens now?”
Tatum slid a hand down Allen’s arm, clasped their fingers together tightly. “Now? We go home. You’ve been through enough for one day. We’ll go home and relax, get your mind off this insanity. We can try again tomorrow, okay?”
He nodded, swallowing another round of tears. Tatum gave him a half smile, leaned down, and kissed him gently. But it didn’t stay that way. Before Allen knew it, he had the fingers of both hands shoved through Tatum’s short blond hair, holding on while the big man plundered his mouth deeply. He was starting to get lost in it, starting to forget where he was, when a voice he’d never thought to hear again in person spoke behind them.
“Lord preserve us. I really did birth a monster.”
Chapter 23
Tatum felt Allen shudder violently in his arms as that cold, hard voice came out of nowhere. Allen wrenched away from Tatum and whirled around, sucking in a shocked breath as he stared at the man who had come up on them unnoticed. Tatum growled, low in his throat, as he realized who had interrupted them.
Robert Whitman. Allen’s biological and adopted father.
The man had aged. Badly. The last time Tatum remembered seeing him in public, his hair had been salt-n-pepper, still thick on his head, his body still well-muscled despite being in his sixties. Now his hair had gone completely white, with a balding pate and thick, saggy wrinkles around his eyes. His narrow shoulders were stooped, his hands decorated with darkened age spots. He sported a cane with a mother-of-pearl head that was obviously not just decoration.
Allen watched his father approach as if he were a cobra getting ready to strike. Tatum brought his presence up behind Allen’s back, letting his lover know he didn’t stand alone.
Robert saw the move, sneering. “Just as I thought. The evil was inside you the whole time you lived in my house, boy. No matter what we did to expunge it, you held onto it all the tighter. You sickened us then, and you sicken me now.”
Allen’s fists clenched at his sides, his mouth opening and closing as he fought for words through the maelstrom of rage crossing his face. Tatum wanted to punch the fucker for speaking to the man he loved that way but wasn’t sure if Allen would welcome his interference. Instead, he surreptitiously pulled his phone from his pocket and shot Sidri an urgent text.
“Parking Garage, Level A. Whitman is here. GET HERE NOW.”
He put the phone back in his pocket and returned his attention to his lover, who was now shaking visibly.
“How dare you show up here,” Allen whispered, midnight and lightning storms heavy in his voice. “You gave up on me thirteen years ago. Who the hell do you think you are, to show up in my life now? What gives you the right?”
Robert squared his shoulders, his rheumy eyes shooting daggers. “God gives me the right, boy. I always knew you would come back and haunt us. We’d hoped that when God punished you for your sins, turning you into a whore on the streets, you would have the courtesy to die from it. But instead you embraced your depravity, openly defying the Lord’s will. Oh, yes,” he asserted, noting Allen’s widening eyes, “we knew all about your sickening habits. We had you followed for years, just to make sure you never tried to sell your story to the press. We knew about everything, Alex. Everything
you did to stay alive in defiance of the Lord’s plans for you.”
Allen flinched back violently, hitting Tatum’s chest with his shoulder blades. “Don’t ever call me that. That’s not my name.”
Robert sneered again. “Fine, then, Allen. It’s a pussy-whipped name anyway, perfect for a man who refuses to actually be a man.”
Then Robert turned those hard brown eyes on Tatum, obviously unimpressed by Tatum’s apparent size and strength. “Tell me, do you make him get on his knees to suck that cock of yours? He’s had enough practice at it. I’m surprised he even has the ability to stand upright anymore, considering how much time he spent sucking cocks on his knees back then.”
“Back the fuck off, old man,” Tatum snarled violently. “Get the fuck out of here before I rip your head clean off your shoulders.”
The old man snorted derisively. “Typical. Fairies always resort to threats when they feel cornered. Makes them feel like real men instead of demons defiling the earth.”
Tatum roared, trying to push past Allen to get the sick fucker who was threatening them, but Allen held him back with a palm on his chest. “Enough, Tatum,” he said in that dead voice that scared Tatum to the bone. “Let him have his say.” He turned back to his father, chin raised, eyes defiant. “Why did you come here, old man? Speak your piece, then go back to the hell you crawled out of.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he focused on his son. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a manila envelope. He tossed it at Allen’s feet. “I came to bring you copies of these. Insurance, against the day you decide to go public with your story about how we ‘abandoned you and forced you to become a whore on the streets.’” His voice went high and whiny on the last part, heavily mocking. “If you go to the press with that sordid tale, we’ll have these photos on the news so fast your head will spin. Think about that the next time you try and threaten me for money.”
Allen shook his head, staring at the envelope near his shoes but not bothering to pick it up. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t need your fucking money. Why the hell would I threaten you? Where the hell did you get that idea?”
Demons Within [For Love of Authority] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More) Page 25
