Saving Him

by Drea Roman

  Saving Him

  Hearts Intertwined, Book 1.5

  Drea Roman

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Trigger Warning

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Drea Roman

  Copyright © 2018 by Drea Roman

  * * *

  Saving Him is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Published in the United States by Drea Roman. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  Cover Design by Zoe Perdita

  Editing by Lizz Judge

  Trademark Acknowledgments

  The author acknowledges the trademarked and/or copyrighted status and trademark owners of the following items referenced in this work of fiction.

  Walgreens

  Twizzlers

  Sweet-tarts

  Skor

  Jolly Rancher

  Mounds

  Pixie-sticks

  Butterfinger

  Astroglide

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, first and foremost to my alpha-beta reader Mel. Without you, none of this would be possible. Thank you to my fiancé, Ivan, for being excited for me and for only occasionally remarking on the number of gay sex manuals laying about the house. Les Court Author Services provided formatting and advice. Lizz Judge edited this novella so quickly, and I am so happy to have her as a friend. Zoe Perdita designed my beautiful cover with that sexy man in the rain. My Facebook reader group, Drea’s Dirty Divas, deserves a shout out. They have encouraged me all of the way.

  Trigger Warning

  Past domestic violence, brief reference to sexual violence, emotional and physical recovery from abuse

  Chapter 1

  Zzfftt! The tattoo gun whirs in my hand as I lay the finishing touches down on today’s masterpiece.

  “All done,” I declare as I wipe the beautiful wound one more time before lifting my hands away from the intricate, yet stark, yellow and black design of the sunflower now adorning Black’s left shoulder. Black raises his boyfriend Aubrey’s hand, which is clasped in his own, and places a kiss on the back of it.

  “What do you think?” he asks Aubrey before even looking at the sunflower design himself, a design he created and I was more than honored to bring to life on the canvas of his skin.

  Aubrey’s emerald green eyes shine with what is so clearly love when he murmurs, “It is beautiful.” Raising his head to look at me, he grins and declares again, “Roger, it’s beautiful.”

  The head of a sunflower now rests on the ball of Black’s left shoulder, the leaves spread out, the dark center drawing in the eye. Sleeve and arm pieces are my specialty, and even I would say that today’s creation is a thing of beauty. But today I am not thinking about the intricate lines or the art of the design. Today I’m perving out on my own jealousy. Drowning in it, really. Getting a sick little thrill from watching, not so surreptitiously, one of the happiest and most in-sync couples I’ve ever met.

  Black is a fellow artist, a big sculpture builder with the large reputation to match. Until he called to schedule a consult for this piece, we had never met, though I knew his name from the various statues around town that bear it. I had no idea what he looked like, much less that he was also gay. So yeah, when he pushed through my shop door with his lithe, auburn-haired boyfriend in tow, there was more than a twinge of jealousy on my part. But it was directed at both members of the stunningly beautiful couple equally. I want something like that. The two weren’t throwing PDAs all over the place, but their love showed through in how they held hands throughout the whole consult, how each watched each other’s face with rapt attention when one of them spoke. Today’s appointment brought more of the same as Aubrey held Black’s hand throughout the two-hour long process, murmuring sweet nothings to him, whispers I tried not to hear. It was clear that the sunflower design held some significance for the pair, but they did not share, and I felt it would be intrusive to ask.

  I don’t know if my reaction has something to do with turning 38 last week or something else, but my relationship clock seems to be ticking. And these guys seem to have turned up the volume on the damned thing like my emotional impulses are suddenly now digital. I shake my head at the weird train of thought and busy myself applying the healing gel and clear wrap after the couple has gotten their fill of staring at my art work. My heart swells a little at the unspoken praise, more than at Aubrey’s declaration of the piece’s beauty. Black thanks me profusely, but now that the piece is done, I am a bit anxious to see them go. He tips me fifty percent despite my protests. It’s been a long week, and this last appointment on a Saturday night has pushed me past my usually high tolerance for “peopling.” Once the couple exits, setting the bell on my door off, I clean up my station and tidy up my small shop. None of the artists who rent space here worked late tonight, so, as usual, I am the last one out the door.

  Thunder cracks the air outside, shaking the glass windows at the front of the shop, startling me as I shut down the register area. Glancing up through the glass of the door, I see that an early spring storm has rolled in. As I watch, the dark gray clouds split open, dropping an abrupt deluge.

  “Great,” I mutter to myself, though, honestly, I don’t really care. I have no plans tonight other than to unwind with a cup of jasmine tea and maybe a good book. I’ve been meaning to finish Eddie Izzard’s autobiography, but the sad first chapter about the death of the comedian’s mother put me off of that for months. Locking the door so no random strangers wander in, I collect the register tray and receipts, swiftly hauling them to my tiny office in the back for counting later. Sunday and Monday are my weekend, so I uncharacteristically decide to put off balancing my books until Tuesday morning.

  As I slide the tray into the top shelf of my safe, I try to remember if anyone is scheduled to come in for the next two days. Sighing when I can’t recall, I decide to check our online calendar tomorrow. I just don’t care right now. That’s strange for me, as I’m usually a fairly cheerful person, but honestly, I have been in a funk since my birthday. Thirty-eight isn’t old, but I’m tired of how my personal life has been flowing lately. Or not flowing, if I’m really honest with myself. Meeting Black and Aubrey shoved my romantic dissatisfaction in my face, and I’m uncomfortable with the realization. Now I just want to go home and be morose by myself. I startle myself into a chuckle. Yeah, no reading tonight for me. I think I should probably escape into reruns of Murder, She Wrote and lose myself in the late 80s campiness of Cabot Cove.

  “It was a dark and stormy night,” I mutter to myself as I pull up the hood on the windbreaker I was lucky to find on the coat rack in my office. Glancing out the glass of the front door again, I can see that the storm is heavier than it was before. Sighing, I push the door open and step out into the heavy rain. Since I have the key in my hand already, I make quick work of the lock before turning to make my way down the alley next to my shop. I was lucky when I snatched up this building for a song almost ten years ago. The upstairs converted easily into a spacious apartment and one mortgage payment is easier than rent on places to work and sleep.

  The rain is cold, and the windbreaker is not much protection against the damp. Water is running into my eyes almost immediate
ly as I try to hurry toward the wrought iron staircase at the end of this side of the building. Someone must have anticipated the rain because through the flashes of lightning, I can see a short wall of sandbags along the sidewalk opposite of me. A few must have burst because I can see the sludge of sandy mud leaking into the street.

  Another bolt of lightning illuminates the darkness and that is when I see it: a large lump at the foot of my staircase. What is that? I speed up my steps and squint my eyes, brushing the rain off of my face so I can make out whatever that lump is. Within a moment, I am standing at my steps. My heart seizes when I see that the lump looks suspiciously like a person. Bending down, I expect to find some poor bum who found himself without shelter tonight. But instead, I see a shock of white blond hair above a pale face. Dropping into a crouch, I ignore the rain and the chill as I try to make out the person’s features. Leaning over the body, I can see that it is a young man. Just then lightning lights up the street and in that second, I apprehend a bruised face, covered in cuts and scrapes, dark blue slacks caked in mud, and a torn white button-down, with what I suspect is blood staining the front. He is sprawled out on his back with the rain pouring down upon him. Taking hold of his shoulders, I pull the obviously unconscious man into a seated position, then slip one arm under his knees and one arm around his back. He is small and light, clearly much shorter than me, his weight seeming like nothing as I stumble up to standing.

  As I maneuver my way up the slick, metal stairs, conscious of how easy it would be to slip and fall or drop the injured person in my arms, I move more slowly than usual. It seems to take forever to climb up to my small porch. While I usually appreciate the little white and green awning over the door, tonight it works like a funnel, sending the rain down in a stream over us as I fumble for my keys. After what seems like a ridiculously long time, I manage to shove the key into the slot. By the time I can twist the deadbolt lock and grab the door knob, I’m practically cursing. I’ve never been happier that I tend to forget to lock the bottom knob as I finally shove the door open. I stumble into my small entryway, the water and weight of the man in my arms throwing me off balance. I have no choice but to sink awkwardly to the tile floor, sprawling out with the blond draped awkwardly across my lap. Scooting us out of the way, I slam the door shut. The loud bang must wake him because the young man’s eyelids spring open to reveal amber brown eyes which widen immediately with fear. His fists come up to grip my jacket tightly.

  “Where am I?” He squeaks, his eyes wild with terror and pain.

  “In my home.” The answer springs from my mouth without thought and I immediately realize it was not helpful in imparting information or reassuring the poor, injured boy. When his eyes widen more, and he shifts, trying to sit up, I am afraid he will hurt himself further by struggling against me.

  “Shush, it’s okay.” I try to reassure him. But his horror is contagious, and I find my heart has started beating painfully in my chest.

  “I’m Roger.” I rush on, casting my mind about for anything that might calm him. “Roger, not the rabbit, Montgomery.” I spit out stupidly, immediately wishing I could have thought of something more intelligent than the old junior high joke. “You know, the cartoon rabbit.” Why am I saying stupid things? I want to brain myself over the head, but oddly enough, the joke seems to have worked as the younger man studies my face as if judging if I am trustworthy and safe. And I desperately hope that I am not found to be lacking.

  “I found you in front of my stairs. It’s raining. You’ll catch a cold if you stay out there.” More stupid drops from my mouth. I am sure that catching a cold is the least of this man’s worries if the state of his face and clothes are anything to go by.

  “Oh,” he sighs as he slumps forward, almost falling face first off of my lap. I catch his arm and pull him up to sitting, still in my lap. Shock runs through my system when he tightens his grip on my jacket and leans his head against my shoulder and whispers, “Thank God.”

  A sob rattles his frame and I pull him into a hug against my chest without thinking. “Shush, it’s going to be alright. I promise,” I murmur into his ear. What the fuck am I doing promising that?! my mind screams at me. My normally calm nature seems to have shattered and I find myself starting to tremble. The cold, the cold. Damn it, we have to get out of these wet clothes. I wait a few moments, rubbing my hand up and down his back, trying to soothe him as he cries softly into the collar of my jacket. I’m not sure what to do next, but I do know one thing: I need to call David.

  When he seems cried out, I clear my throat, unsure what to say, but convinced of what needs to happen next.

  “We need to call the police, to report this attack.”

  The blond tries to sit up and push me away, but his legs are still awkwardly splayed across mine and he can’t seem to sit up fully. He gives up on the struggle quickly though, falling against my chest again. Since I haven’t removed my arms from around him, I do what comes naturally to me and slowly pull him tighter into my embrace.

  “It’s okay.” I try to reassure him. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe here.”

  When he sighs and just leans his head against my collarbone, I know he has no more fight left in him. If his physical state is any indication, then he had the fight of his life before he crawled his way down my alley to my stairs. A flash of horror seizes me for a moment: what happened to this beautiful man? I try to shake the errant thought away. It is no time for me to break down; I need to be strong for him.

  The cold rain soaked our clothes and the heat isn’t on in my house, so my skin is beginning to prickle with goosebumps under my sodden clothes. Soaked through as he is, I feel a chilled tremor start in his arms and back.

  “We have to get you dry. Then we can call the police.”

  When he stiffens again and pulls back his head so he is looking directly into my face, I can tell he is afraid to do any such thing.

  “It’s okay,” I try to assure him again. “It won’t be a beat cop. I can call my friend, David. He’s a detective. He can tell you your options. It will be up to you whether or not to press charges against the person who did this to you. But we need to file a report at least.” I pause for a moment, “And probably get you to a doctor.” If I thought the young man didn’t like the idea of talking to a police officer, then the idea of talking to a medical professional has him almost apoplectic with terror.

  “No,” he whispers, the fear in him dilating his pupils and increasing his shaking ten-fold. “No.”

  Swallowing hard as my heart contracts at his fear, I nod my head. When I meet his eyes again, I murmur softly, “Okay, no doctors. But we have to warm you up. Do you think you can stand?”

  Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply for a moment, then nods jerkily. “Yeah,” he sighs shakily, “I think I can. My legs aren’t hurt, just wet and cold.”

  That admission springs me into action. Dropping my arms from his back, I grip his arms and push him up. It is a hella awkward position, but he manages to put his feet under himself. I hold his arms a moment longer, making sure he really has his balance. Then I let go so I can scramble up to standing myself. Walking over to the thermostat on the wall in my open kitchen, I set it much higher than normal and hope it will kick on soon. Without turning around to see if he has followed, I pull out a chair at my kitchen table. When I glance back at him, he has not moved from my entryway. Though the fear has left his face, he looks haunted, shell-shocked, and I know that whatever happened to him was serious indeed.

  “Come on over,” I invite, gesturing toward the seat. “I’ll grab some towels for you. Don’t worry about the water. I’m soaked too.” I try a small smile, hoping it will reassure him that he is indeed safe in my home. “If you are okay with it, I can grab you some lounge pants and a t-shirt, so you can be dry.”

  “I’m sure they would be too big,” he murmurs, then blushes, throwing his hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry. I...I...I.”

  His stammering trails
off, making me want to cry for him. So I cross the room toward him with slow, gentle steps, treating him like a frightened, wounded animal.

  “It’s okay.” I try an even bigger smile, hoping it will put him at ease and not make me look like a creepy loon. “I am aware that I’m built like a lumberjack. I take no offense at your observation of the obvious.”

  The look he favors me with now is curious and almost amused. Then the sadness and exhaustion crash through him and he leans toward me. I step in closer, prepared to catch him if he faints.

  “Come on,” I say as I take his hand gently and pull him toward the dining room chair. “You sit while I grab the towels and the clothes.”

  He nods and sinks down into the chair and leans his head onto the table top. I rush out of my kitchen, walking quickly across the carpet of my living room, not caring that I am tracking mud everywhere. Stopping at my hall linen closet next to the bathroom door, I grab several towels. Slinging them over my arm, I walk purposefully into my bedroom. I am sure I have some old pj bottoms from high school, back when I was an average size. God, they are almost two decades old now and at least three sizes too small. Grinning at my own odd packrat tendencies, I drop into a squat in front of my dresser and rifle through my bottom drawer until I find what I am looking for, a faded pair of red and black flannel pj bottoms. Perfect. Standing up, I open a top drawer and pull out a heather gray t-shirt. It will be big on him, but I don’t think it will matter much to him. Catching my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, I remember that I too am dripping wet. Dropping the towels and clothes onto my bed, I shuck my jacket and shirt quickly. The boots require a little more coordination and I rip the laces open impatiently. I kick them and my socks off, not caring that I am leaving dirty, wet clothing all over my bedroom floor. My jeans are next to go and I toss them on the floor. I rush over to my closet and rip out a pair of old jeans and slam them on my legs. My underwear wasn’t wet since I had not been in the rain long. I pause, realizing the young man will need clean underwear, too. In a reaction I have not had in as many years as those flannel pjs have existed, I blush. Hard. The intimacy of him wearing my underwear startles me and I almost trip over the jeans as I yank them over my ass and fasten the zipper. Tugging a well-worn Queen t-shirt off a hanger, I shrug into it as quickly as possible. I slam my feet into a maroon pair of Vans slip-ons sans socks. Gathering the towels and clothes from the bed, I stop at my dresser one more time to grab a pair of underwear. Boxers seem the least inappropriate choice, so I pick a black pair. Get a grip, Roger. He is not going to care what color or style, so long as they are dry.