by Anna Zabo
“You . . . cut him down?”
“He’d asked to be bound tightly. So I used lots of rope.” Hadn’t that turned Justin on? Or had he completely misread the signals? “Shears were the fastest way.”
“You’re too good to screw up rope,” Sam said, his expression far away. “It must have been something else.”
“I know.” A past trauma. A trigger point. Something inside Justin. “I know.”
He wished Sam’s eyes weren’t so blue. They were different from Justin’s but enough of a reminder.
“Yet you think you can’t resolve this.” A statement, not a question.
“He doesn’t trust me.” There was the yawning hole again, the one filled with pain. Noah. His parents. Justin. Noah hadn’t turned from the monster, but there hadn’t been enough time. “If he can’t trust me . . .” He let the words die. Trust and love. One didn’t happen without the other.
Sam folded his hands and looked down at the carpet for a few moments before looking up. “Yet you want him to stay here.”
Of course he did. “He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. Young, smart, clever.” He shook his head, stomach still a mass of knots. Last thing Justin—or Sam—needed was for Justin to lose this job. “It’s an issue between me and him. It doesn’t affect his work.”
“Bullshit it doesn’t.” The words were spoken with a vehemence that pinned Eli to his chair. Sam stood in one motion and covered the distance between them in three steps. “He’s as much of a wreck as you. And he handed me a resignation letter this morning.”
No way in hell he was going to let Justin quit because of him. Eli rose up from his chair—and met Sam’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.
“Get the fuck out of my way, Sam.”
“No.” Sam spoke that single word with such force, it reverberated through Eli’s body to his toes. This wasn’t his friend, but S. Randall Anderson, the man who had been CEO of more companies than Eli had fingers.
Silence was the only answer he could offer.
“Do not forget whose name is on the front door of this office.”
Eli exhaled. “You can’t let him quit.”
“I didn’t.” Sam paused. “And I’m not letting you, either.”
“Sam—”
“You are exactly what this company needs, as well. Young, bright, intelligent—”
“Fucked in the head . . .”
Sam didn’t even flinch. “And I’m not?”
Anger finally ebbed from Eli as pain took over. He slumped back in the chair and rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t deny that Sam had his own demons. Except you’re weak. Broken. Sam wasn’t.
“Don’t make the mistake I made, E.”
Oh, he knew what Sam meant. Before Sam had met Michael, he’d run from his past by moving from company to company, never settling in one place. He’d nearly left Michael behind, too.
Eli had never had the luxury of leaving the past behind. His pain was carved into flesh and bone and always with him. “I’ve haven’t ever run.”
“Not the way I did, no.” Sam backed off and flopped into the guest chair. “You’ll retreat into that house of yours and either get wrapped up in your ennui or spend all your weekends at Lyle’s, topping the shit out of men until you can’t tell one from the other.”
That added another stab to the growing collection of aches in his body. This one, though, made his cheeks hot and his blood boil. He sat up straighter.
Sam folded his arms and stared back. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He couldn’t. That only twisted the knife in deeper. “There are days I hate how well you know me.” How close Sam had become to Michael. How much he wanted that kind of connection with Justin . . .
There was another crack in the failing dam he’d erected around that particular tumult of emotions. He closed his eyes because it was the only way to keep the moisture in. Even then, he wasn’t sure it would help.
Sam’s voice softened. “Give him time, E. He’s just as shattered—and that should tell you something.”
That I’ve destroyed everything. He shook his head and opened his eyes—and the tears fell. Not many, but enough. “Three months.” His voice sounded like sandpaper, even in his ears.
Sam’s lips parted slightly, but then he nodded. “All right. Three months. After that, if you need to leave, I won’t stop you.”
He could endure, lock away what he needed to and deal with it later once he’d given Sam the time needed. There was hope in Sam, a wish that things would change, that this rift between him and Justin would heal.
Sam was a romantic at heart.
Eli knew better than to hope. It hadn’t brought Noah back to life. Or Rachel. Or Milka. Hope hadn’t caused his parents not to despise and scorn him. Hope would never heal his leg.
The only thing hope ever did was carve a bigger hole into his life.
“I’ll do the best I can, Sam.”
Sam’s smile was small, but present. “You always do.”
Chapter Fifteen
Justin woke for the umpteenth time, heart pounding and chest tight. Darkness surrounded him, and the ever-present smell of damp. His humid, basement apartment then, and not Eli’s house. As it should be. As it had been for two weeks. Tears threatened. Leaving Eli shouldn’t still hurt. He’d done the right thing.
He’d even called home that Sunday. We broke it off, Mom.
She’d worried about the job, but he’d explained the opportunity Sam had presented. And Eli? He’d been withdrawn, but professional.
Better you focus on your job and your schooling, and not be distracted. Someday, you’ll find someone who really cares about you.
His mom’s code words for “someone who doesn’t beat you.” Except he liked that part, but doubted he’d ever be able to explain it to her or his father.
Justin pretended not to notice how Eli’s fingers trembled when they stood near each other or how tired and pale Eli looked, tried not to let his heart twist.
Everyone in the office was somber. Less laughter, fewer jokes, and the weekly office lunch had been him and engineering. Sam had been on a call with Sanhex and Eli had politely declined.
Thank God none of the engineers had asked him about Eli. He wouldn’t have known what to say. I ran from him because . . .
Because he shouldn’t be screwing around with rich dudes when Mercy had no legs. He shouldn’t have ever gotten involved with the Scene, shouldn’t have let Francis touch him. And he shouldn’t have fallen for Eli Ovadia, his suits, his canes, his brilliant smile, or his surprising laugh.
Justin groaned and sat up. A stretch, a piss, and cold water would chase away the regrets. He threw his legs over the edge and his feet touched water.
What the fuck?
He reached for the lamp. When the light came on, Justin stared in horror at the sheen of yellowish liquid covering the floor. It had soaked through the rug by his bed. And through the book next to it. And everything else on the floor. “No. Fuck! No, no, no, no!”
He pulled the bedding up, lest it become drenched in the foul water, and surveyed the room, a fist of despair clenching his heart and lungs. Ruined books. His backpack.
Shit, the laptop. He was off the bed before he contemplated what was in the water and a moment later he had the bag in hand. The bottom was leather, the outside water-resistant to withstand rain. Hopefully . . . When his fingers touched the dry bottom and he pulled out the laptop, his knees nearly gave out. At least he had this—his schoolwork. The capstone project. The majority of his textbooks were piled on the kitchen table.
Justin hobbled over and set the laptop down next to his books and the backpack on a chair. The water at his feet was faintly warm, but everything felt like ice—numbing him.
He was so very fucked. He didn’t have the money to replace anything. Or move out. Or . . .
A faint hiss floated from the corner of the room. His radiator, probably. His footsteps made a series of wet smacks against the wet linole
um. And yes, there was the source of the leak: water dripping from the underside of the radiator. It took a few tries to close the valve, but he screwed it tight. Hopefully, that would staunch the dripping. Wouldn’t know until he could get rid of all the water.
Justin stood, legs shaking. Water soaked the bottom of his sweatpants. Where did he even start? The top of his head and throat itched. Breathing wanted to turn into something that involved tears and snot, but he was not going to give in to that. Justin wiped his hand over his eyes and glanced at the clock on the stove. Three thirty-seven.
It wasn’t like a call to the “emergency maintenance” number his landlord had given him would do anything. Never had before. Well, he had a bucket and a mop in the closet and several hours before he needed to get to work. That was as good a place to begin as any.
* * *
Justin’s soft, but anguished “Oh, Fuck” broke Eli out of his focus. The numbers on VentShaft’s spreadsheet blurred for a second as his heart thudded up into his throat. The report he’d been writing might as well have been in Greek.
This was why he desperately wanted his door closed. But Sam was off at Sanhex and Eli was in charge of the office until Monday.
Ten more weeks. He only needed to survive ten more weeks. Eli pushed back from his desk.
Justin stood in his office, staring into Sam’s, jaw working. He was remarkably free of makeup—and wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a too-thin coat.
Eli’s fingertips tingled. The temperature had been in the twenties this morning. And Justin held his bike helmet. That jacket—
Justin turned and started. His red-rimmed eyes and worn face stole Eli’s breath.
What happened? Eli chewed back the question. “He’s at Sanhex this week.”
“I forgot.” Justin put his back to Eli but gestured at the office with his helmet. “I wanted to . . .” Something close to a sob came then.
Shit. “I have his number, if you need it. I know he wouldn’t mind.”
The helmet hit the floor and wobbled. Justin set his backpack down, his back still to Eli. So much tension in his frame. “It’s not important.”
The fuck it isn’t. That stayed firmly behind Eli’s lips. He gripped the arms of his chair to keep himself from standing up and marching across the hall. What do you need? What can I do? I love you.
Eli released his breath. Ten weeks. The chasm grew wider every minute.
Justin finally glanced back and words poured out of him fast. “I need some days off this week. I know I haven’t accrued enough, but my apartment flooded and I—”
“Are you okay?” Eli couldn’t help it.
“Yeah. It’s just stuff.” Too much anguish in Justin for Eli to believe that, even for second.
He wanted to take Justin into his arms and hold him until he stopped shaking. Until they both stopped hurting. “Justin, I know things between us went wrong. But if you need a place to stay—”
Justin’s whole body stiffened as if Eli had hit him. “What, so you can fuck me again?” Justin kicked his helmet into the corner. “No, thank you.”
The accusation embedded in those words punched Eli in the gut. “I never . . .” The violence in his own voice stopped him. A breath, followed by another, and he tried again. This time it came out cool and composed. “I never did anything you didn’t consent to. Ever.”
“If it makes you feel better to think that, fine. You still got everything you wanted out of me.”
Monster. Monster, monster, monster. Eli turned away and struggled to breathe. There were techniques, tricks the psychiatrist from his childhood had taught him to combat the darkness when it welled up, when it ate him alive, when he wanted to change places with Noah because the world would have been better if he’d been the one to die.
Strange how some things never quite leave, and how easily they come back. By the time he finished reciting the Twenty-seventh Psalm in his head, the darkness had crept away. Justin stood across the hall, ghostly white.
“I don’t know who you think I am, Justin. Who you thought I was.” The weight was there, the heaviness, but he’d not let it take him down. “But I am not that person.” Eli nudged his mouse and the monitor woke back up. “Take the time you need to get your life in order. It’s what Sam would want.”
He didn’t bother to see what Justin did next. It didn’t matter. Moisture pricked at the corner of his eyes. Eli, you are such a horrible, horrible liar.
* * *
In the afternoon, the property management company finally called Justin back. They’d come over first thing the following morning to take a look at the situation.
Justin swallowed a string of curses. “You realize I have no heat and there’s water damage everywhere?”
Yes, they did, but there were other emergencies that took precedence. When Justin finally hung up, he looked ruefully at his smartphone and longed for the past, when he could physically slam something down to end the call. He shoved the phone into his backpack.
He had a space heater, but those tripped the breaker. So it would be bundles of blankets and layers of sweats tonight after a run to the Laundromat to finish washing the clothing that he’d carelessly left on the floor. A bunch of books were lost and he’d need to replace all the furniture eventually. But . . . he’d survive.
Without Eli’s “help.” A part of Justin cringed at the memory of how Eli had looked that morning—so lost, so young. Then he’d woken his computer and ignored the rest of the office for hours.
After lunch, Justin had found a note with two phone numbers written in Eli’s elegant hand. The first was labeled “Sam’s cell.” The second said “Sam and Michael Home” and underneath there was a note.
If you need anything, let Michael know. He can provide.
No signature.
A kind gesture. He nearly crumpled the note and tossed it, but having Sam’s cell was useful, as was a contact number for another person that wasn’t Kelly or Don.
He wouldn’t be calling Eli for anything.
Everything they’d done together had been with consent. But hadn’t that been the way with Francis? Until the day where it hadn’t been and the day after that, and the weeks and months. Justin slipped the note into his backpack. He sent a quick e-mail to everyone in the office.
I’ll be out tomorrow. Hope to be back Wednesday.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eli shift and go still. A few heartbeats later, he went back to his spreadsheet.
Justin hefted the backpack and his helmet and walked out of the office. He didn’t bother to say good-bye to Eli. The man didn’t care.
If Justin repeated that enough times, he might believe it.
Chapter Sixteen
If this had been any company other than Sam’s, Eli would have skipped the so-called holiday party. He loathed them, down to every shiny green and red ball. Sure, there were the requisite blue and silver decorations to be inclusive, but they were over in the corner, tucked away. They’d stuck a menorah out, even though Chanukah had passed.
Sam’s trying. Stop it. He sighed and took a sip of water. Nine weeks.
No one came anywhere near him, which was good, because he wasn’t in the mood. Too many couples, too much happiness, and too much goddamned Christmas cheer.
“Eli.”
His heart skipped a beat and he nearly dropped the water. He knew the voice, but how someone so big could walk silently, he’d never known.
“Michael.” He turned and forgot his anger. Michael looked resplendent in a way Eli rarely saw. His tux was a silvery gray, matched with a ruby red tie and cummerbund. The only thing marring the perfection was a missing cuff link.
A hint of pain in his gut at what couldn’t ever have been, but that faded. “Sam’s a lucky man.”
Michael chuckled. “Other way around, but I do appreciate the compliment.” His smile vanished. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replied.
“Funny, because it looked like you were contemplating wher
e to pour the gasoline before you threw the match.”
Ouch. “That bad?”
“You’re a bit of an open book, E.”
Well, fuck. He tried schooling his expression. “I’m not into the holiday spirit this year.” He took another sip of water and caught sight of Sam. His tux was darker than Michael’s, and the accents a deep green. A matched set. Another pang. This one lingered, settling into the lump in his throat. He wanted that. Thought maybe he’d found it with—
There he was. Justin. In the same suit he’d worn to his interview all those months ago. Crisp white shirt. Gold tie. No makeup, which made his messy haircut and wide blue eyes all the more lovely with the sharp cut of his clothes.
Overwhelming guilt slammed into Eli, almost physically. He braced himself against his cane and let the grief wash through him, blur his vision, and dissipate to a quiet roar in his ears. I’m sorry. Justin.
A hand on his shoulder. “Eli?”
“I won’t embarrass Sam, if that’s your concern.”
“I know that.” Eli let Michael turn him, let Justin vanish from his view. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’m hard to kill.” He stared down at the cane in his hand.
The corner of Michael’s eye twitched. “I hate it when you get like this.”
“That makes two of us,” Eli murmured. He sought out Justin again. There, over with Fazil and his girlfriend. Justin looked up, straight at Eli, before looking away. He couldn’t help the sigh. “Did he ever contact you about his flooded apartment?”
Michael shook his head. “He did explain the situation to Sam, and Sam offered our spare room, but no dice.” Michael sipped his drink, which was either Sprite with a lime or something not at all Sprite with a lime. Eli guessed the latter, given the quality of gin he’d seen stocked at the bar.
“Justin has a fierce independent streak,” Michael said.
“Tell me about it.”
