by Drea Roman
I rush out of the room, but pause to grab another towel from the closet as my hair is still dripping from the rain. Throwing that over my shoulder, I return to the kitchen to find my guest asleep or unconscious at the table. I set my bundle down on the table and gently touch my fingers to the exposed portion of his neck, feeling for a pulse. There. I sigh once I feel its strong steady beat. Just asleep. As I move my hand away, I notice dark purple bruises marring his pale skin. My pulse quickens as I pull back his sodden shirt collar to reveal a circle of fingerprints around his neck. My God! Someone tried to strangle this man to death!
Water drips into my eye and I absentmindedly yank the towel from my shoulder and scrub at my wet hair. There, not dripping now, I think as I squeeze the longer strands of the top with the towel. I don’t give a shit what my hair looks like, as long as it is not dripping. Dropping the towel from my head, I use it to softly start drying the young man’s face and hair. Each swipe of the towel reveals more scrapes and bruises, and I am having trouble swallowing as more of the damage to his body is revealed to me. He murmurs in his sleep what sounds like a name, but I don’t catch it.
Damn it! We have to get him out of these wet clothes now! And I have to call David!
I drop the now wet towel onto the floor and grab another from the table. Settling the towel across his shoulders, I pull back his collar one more time and am just as horrified by my second sight of the bruises as I was the first one. Determinedly, I turn away and walk over to the island that separates part of the kitchen from the living room. I grab my phone from the counter, glad I still have a landline and won’t have to retrieve my cell from my pants in the bedroom. Picking up the receiver, I dial in a familiar number, knowing that no matter the time, David will pick up for me. Thinking of the time, I glance at my watch. It was almost ten when I finished up Black’s tattoo. Shutting down the shop took only about 20 minutes since I didn’t count my drawer. 10:40 p.m. That sounds about right. Turning so that I can watch my guest as I speak on the phone, I lean back against the counter and fall into a comfortable stance with my arms crossed over my chest. The phone rings almost enough times to send the line to voicemail, but just like every other time, David picks up on the last ring.
“Hello, Detective Derricks here.”
“David, I’m so glad I caught you. I’ve got a problem here.”
David chuckles, his deep, honeyed voice for once doing absolutely nothing for me. “Oh, really? Well, isn’t this a turn of events. I don’t recall you ever calling me to scratch an itch before. I’m flattered.”
“Cut the crap, David. I need you here now. I don’t want to say too much over the phone, but I have an emergency.”
The teasing, flirtatious tone falls from his voice as he immediately morphs into the cop I need him to be. “What’s up? Are you at home? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
I can hear his office chair scraping against the tile floor of his office, and I’m glad that I caught him at work, not doing something else. Or someone else. Not that it would matter. Monogamy was not the type of relationship that we had. Well, we didn’t have a relationship really. Damn it, Roger! Focus!
“Don’t rush yourself. Its raining cats and dogs out there. I don’t want you to crash your cop car and lose your job.”
“Funny, Roger. But give me a hint, okay? You sound, I don’t know, panicked. You never sound upset. Hell, until just this moment, I wouldn’t even have guessed you could get upset, you Zen bastard.”
I can tell David is trying to calm me down by razzing me. Shit, I must sound as off-balance as I feel. My guest shifts a little in his chair and I watch him a moment before replying to David.
“Let’s just say I found someone who needs our help asap.”
“Our help, huh? Well, I’ll be there as soon as possible. Just to clarify, do we need an ambulance?”
I pause as I recall the young man’s reaction to my suggestion that we visit a doctor. “No, but bring your first aid kit. Mine is downstairs and I don’t want to leave him to get it. I’m not sure exactly what we are dealing with here, but,” I pause again, unsure exactly how to word what I have discovered. “Just bring the kit and we can go from there.”
“Will do. See you in fifteen.” David hangs up and I sigh in relief that help is on the way.
Chapter 2
I hang up the receiver and walk back over to the table. Though he is sound asleep, I know the guy needs to get out of these wet clothes. The blood on the white button down is not as prominent as I thought it was, probably caused by the split lip I can see at the corner of his mouth. The navy slacks are probably a lost cause, what with a couple of pounds of mud caking them. Gently, I touch his shoulder, grimacing when I feel how wet his shirt really is. I have no idea what to call him since he did not share his name with me. Yet. I don’t know his name yet.
Shaking his shoulder, I try to wake him, but become concerned when he does not stir.
“Um, sir.” No that sounds wrong. “Hey, kid.” Shut up, Roger, now that sounds just rude. “Okay, hey, dude, I don’t know your name, but you have to wake up right now!” My voice is rising in intensity, volume, and pitch, and for one of the few times in my life, I feel completely out of control. I shake his shoulder harder and he jerks awake with a panicked screech, shoving my hand off his shoulder as he tries in vain to stand. His legs won’t hold him up, and he thumps back down into the kitchen chair hard.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” I plead, dropping his shoulder and then holding my hands toward him in a supplicating gesture. “You’re safe. I swear. It’s just me, ‘Roger Not the Rabbit.’ Remember?”
The extreme fear leeches from his face as he stares at me, recognition finally seeming to dawn, “Roger.” He breathes out my name and my breath hitches in response. No one has ever said my name like that, with a sense of wonder and longing. Before I can think too much on what my reaction means, I turn my attention back to why I woke him up.
“You still need to change clothes. I brought you some towels and the pants I promised.”
He turns his gaze toward the pile I had laid out on the table. Blinking almost in confusion, he stretches a shaking hand out to snag a towel.
“Thanks,” he murmurs as he begins to rub his hair dry. Dripping wet, the ends are curling up around his ears.
He seems so out of it that I don’t want to disturb him further. But he really needs to get out of those wet clothes.
“Um,” I scratch the back of my neck, then drop my hand. I am uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “You can change in my bathroom if you want. Those clothes look uncomfortable.”
His hand stills in his hair and he looks down at himself as if he forgot about the state of his dress. Dropping his hand from his hair, he touches the shirt and stares at the blood on the front. His fingers twitch on the edge of his collar and his breathing speeds up. He appears to be falling into a panic attack and I don’t want that to happen.
“Hey,” I whisper as I pull out the chair next to him from the table. “It’s okay. I promise. Do you remember that I told you I would call my cop friend, David? Well, he is on his way.”
The young man’s amber brown eyes focus on me as they fill with tears. I grab his hand before I think better of it. Solemnly I make him a promise I have no business making, “I promise you everything will be okay.”
He nods and swallows hard. When he brings his beautiful eyes back to mine, he is no longer so close to crying.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
“Do you need help to the bathroom?” I ask, increasingly anxious to get him out of his wet clothes and into something dry.
“No,” he murmurs, then sighs, tightening his fingers around mine for a moment before he releases my hand. Following his lead, I let go even though I don’t want to. His fingers are ice cold, and despite the fact that he said he could make it to the bathroom by himself, I doubt that is really the case.
When he continues to sit in his chair, staring at the blood stain on the fr
ont of his shirt, I stand and offer him my hand. “Here, let me help you to the bathroom.”
He looks at my outstretched hand before raising his luminous eyes up to mine. “Okay.” His shoulders slump with an air of defeat and when he places his chilled hand in mine. I squeeze it and pull him to his unsteady feet. With my other hand, I snag a towel and the bundle of clothes. Since he seems capable of standing on them without needing to lean against me, I lead him to my bathroom just by his hand. His head barely comes up to my chin and I have the irrational urge to kiss the top of his head. His steps are slow and lethargic, and I’m beginning to worry that he will fall down as soon as I leave him in the bathroom. When we reach the bathroom door, I finally let go of his hand, but I press the towel and clothes into it instead.
“Here you go,” I state, mostly for something to say. I want to reassure him, but I am at a loss as to how to do so. “If you need anything, let me know.”
He nods, not looking up to meet my eyes, his fingers worrying the hem of his torn and bloody button down. “Thanks,” he whispers, then walks straight into the bathroom and closes the door quietly.
I am standing there, staring at the wood, my mind blissfully blank for a moment, when I hear a knock at the door. Glancing at my watch, I see that David made it in half of the promised time. He knocks again, this time with more ferocity, and I can’t help grinning and shaking my head as I turn to go answer the door.
When I open it, David steps in quickly, lowering his brown leather jacket from above his head and shaking himself like a wet dog. Water flies everywhere, including into my face.
“Thanks,” I sputter as I step back, allowing him to enter so I can shut the door behind him.
A taunting grin pulls up the left corner of his mouth, and David gives a low chuckle, “Considering some of your preferences, I know you mean that. You’re welcome.”
I choke out a laugh and roll my eyes. Leave it to David to find the perfect asshole way to break the tension.
“Come on in, then.” I lead the way into my kitchen and pull out another chair from the table as I sink down into the one I previously occupied.
“There’s water everywhere.” David remarks. “And mud.”
“Yes,” I snap, feeling testy and anxious. “That tends to happen when you carry a soaked and dirty man into your house in the middle of a rainstorm.”
David slides into the chair next to me and sets the first aid kit he is carrying down on the floor next to his chair. Leaning forward, he places his elbows on the table. He is still wearing his jacket, so the sleeves are creating a new pool of water on my table top.
“Don’t you think you should take that off?”
David looks down at the table and jerks back. “Yeah, sorry.” He shrugs his jacket off and slings it across the back of his chair. “So, tell me about this soaked and dirty man you rescued from the rainstorm.”
Sighing, I scrub a hand down my face and look at the ceiling momentarily before I answer. “He's in the bathroom, changing out of his soaked clothes. Before he comes out, I have to tell you, it’s not good.”
David frowns and crosses his arms over the black t-shirt stretched across his muscular chest. His deep blue eyes narrow at me. “Spit it out, Roger. What’s wrong with him?”
Leaning back in my chair, I take a deep breath before telling him.
“I found him passed out in front of my staircase. He must have crawled through the street after the rain started because his pants were covered in mud. One of the sandbags down the street burst. There is mud everywhere. He was unconscious, so I carried him upstairs.” When I pause, David prompts me.
“And?”
My voice is hoarse and strained. “Someone tried to fucking strangle him, David.”
One thing that made me like David, both as a friend and occasional lover, was how he never became jaded even after years on the police force. As a detective, he has seen everything a northern California city can throw at you; but, no crime loses its significance even if he has seen the same situation ten times before.
Now he swears, low and dirty. “Fucking son-of-a-bitch. But how do you know that? Did he tell you?”
I shake my head and swallow down the thick knot in my throat. “He fell asleep while I grabbed him some towels and clothes. I was afraid something worse than exhaustion was going on, so I checked his pulse. There are fingerprint bruises around his neck, David.”
The door of the bathroom opens, and David and I both jump to our feet. The young man looks small in my gray t-shirt and flannel pj bottoms as he stands in the doorway, his right hand clutching his left elbow. He looks as scared as he did before and I find myself moving toward him. He watches me with wide eyes as I approach. I stop a foot or so from him and hold out my hand. I hear a sharp intake of breath from David. Even if I could explain how I’m acting toward this young man, I wouldn’t. It’s not David’s business. Amber brown eyes flick between my face and my hand, as if he’s unsure, but then he steps forward on his bare feet and takes my hand. He drops my gaze and watches his own toes wiggling in the carpet.
When he speaks, his voice is soft and hushed, “I, umm, need to take a shower, but since you said your friend was coming over, I just put on the dry clothes. I’m sorry, I’m getting them dirty.”
“It’s fine,” I reassure him as I lead him toward my brown leather/suede couch. We sit on the couch, side by side. He hasn’t let go of my hand. In fact, his grip has intensified almost to the point of pain. But, I realize, I would endure a lot worse just to make sure he is okay.
Since no one else is talking, David clears his throat. “I am Detective David Derricks of the Oakland City Police Department. My friend Roger says he found you by his stairs. From the looks of things, it appears you have been beaten. I can help you file a report.”
He hasn’t looked up at me or David. He is just sitting quietly with a death grip on my hand. David continues in a soothing tone of voice I haven’t actually heard from him before.
“We don’t have to do anything you are uncomfortable with.” He pauses, watching the young man’s bowed head. When David doesn’t speak again, the man, who I am realizing is not a boy at all, but is probably closer to thirty if the tiniest of lines around his eyes are any indication, lifts his head.
“Okay,” he says looking directly into David’s eyes.
David leans forward and pulls a small black notebook from his back pocket. Flipping it open, he nods. “Where would you like to start?”
“It was my ex-boyfriend,” he whispers, but his eyes never leave David’s face. A fierce determination seems to have seized him, and I feel a sense of pride swell in my chest.
Taking a deep breath, his next words come out in a rush. “When I broke up with him, he hit me on the back of the head with something. Then, I woke up tied to a cot in his basement. To be honest, I don’t even know what day it is.”
His voice is amazingly even, but cold, so cold, as if all of the warmth in his body has seeped out, leaving nothing but the dry facts stripped of emotions.
“It is Saturday night, around 11 p.m.,” I supply, trying to be helpful. The only acknowledgement I receive is an extra squeeze of my hand where he has pulled it to rest on his thigh.
David nods, as he leans forward further, his elbows on his knees, a pen in his hand from God knows where. “Let’s start with the basics, shall we? What is your name? Your ex-boyfriend’s name?”
A sob rattles his frame and he shrinks back against the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers, his eyes screwed shut. “I can’t. Not right now. If he finds out, I’m dead.”
David and I exchange a glance. I feel helpless in the moment. But if he won’t tell us, then there isn’t much we can do about it.
“Listen, I know it’s hard,” David says softly, once again amazing me with this side of him I have not seen before. Granted, until tonight I’ve never seen David in his role as a detective, but I can see now what I only assumed before. David is very good at his job. “We don’t have t
o start with names. We can get down the specifics of the attack and circle back to the identifying details later. Is that okay?”
The blond nods again but doesn’t raise his eyes to meet either of ours. When he does open them, he keeps his gaze trained on his lap and our intertwined hands. Blowing out a breath, he leans slightly forward again. But he appears unable to push the words out of his mouth. He opens and closes his lips several times, then snaps them shut, as if he can’t force the words out.
“How about this?” David begins. “If you are more comfortable with it, you can rest tonight. Come to the station tomorrow morning. Ask for Detective Derricks, and I will take the report personally.”
There is a long pause. He bites his already swollen bottom lip, then winces at the unexpected hurt. Finally, he nods. “Okay, I can do it tomorrow.”
“But,” David’s tone changes to one of more worried concern, “You really should consider seeing a doctor. If not the ER or the hospital, at least an urgent care. You may have a concussion.”
