Saving Him

by Drea Roman

  “No,” he whispers as he finally turns his wide amber colored eyes toward me. Tears bead his lashes, and one errant drop slips down his cheek, running all the way over his chin, finally nestling itself in the hollow of his throat, soaking into his skin.

  “But,” he says with a quiet determination that I am starting to see is an innate part of his personality, “I will be.” He closes his eyes a moment and breathes deeply. When he opens his eyes again, he has a stronger rein on his emotions. For a split second, I wish he would let it all out instead and let me comfort him. But I just nod, glad I can help him in some small way, even if that way is just making him some tea to calm his nerves and sooth his sore throat.

  Sitting on a couch wearing borrowed pajamas in a total stranger's apartment, I think that I shouldn't feel as comfortable as I do with “Roger Not the Rabbit” Montgomery.

  But, my own track record of careful planning and slow exploration of dangers in a relationship, of any sort, has not exactly worked out for me, has it? Hush now, Tyler. Just hush. Sure, Eric had tripped a few alarm bells at first, but time eased those concerns, right? Sighing, I realize that my throbbing head is not going to give me any answers tonight. Roger, who would more aptly be called a gentle teddy bear than “not a rabbit,” is in his kitchen making me some jasmine tea.

  I really should go to the ER, but as soon as Roger and Detective Derricks suggested it, my insides twisted, and I thought I was going to ralph all over his tan suede couch. Clearing my throat so I can pitch my voice loud enough out of my sore and swollen throat, I ask “Roger? Do you have any pain medicine? Eric...” I pause on the name, realizing I shouldn’t have said it. Roger’s head jerks up and he looks at me over the island between the kitchen and the living room where I sit on the coach.

  In a voice that should sound low and menacing to me, but instead sounds like comforting warm honey, Roger bites his lip hard, hard enough to blanch the color from his bottom lip, before asking in a gruff tone, “Is that the piss-ant who did this to you? Who hurt you? Eric?”

  I draw in a shuddering breath and gird myself for an argument. But then I realize something I’ve already figured out in the few moments I’ve already spent with this man: he is not Eric. Closing my eyes, I take a steadying breath and nod without opening my eyes again. Though the best I could do in the moment, that nod was a bad choice, and I moan involuntarily.

  “Tyler?” Roger asks, worry dripping from his voice.

  “It’s okay,” I somehow manage to squeak out, though I don’t open my eyes.

  Before I can continue, Roger practically growls, “No, it is not, Tyler. It is so far from okay that I want to throw up, then find that son-of-a-bitch and beat him to a bloody pulp.”

  For some reason that thought of violence on my behalf makes me smile, and I open my left eye lid to look at him. He’s now walking toward where I sit on his couch wrapped in his colorful afghan, a pretty floral-pattern cup and saucer in his hands.

  “Jasmine tea, with honey,” Roger murmurs as he holds the cup and saucer out for me to take. “It always makes me feel better after a bad day.”

  After I open my other eye and take his proffered gift, he grips the back of his neck with his right hand and looks off to the side, as if afraid to let me see the emotion on his face. “But I’ve never had as bad a day as you clearly had today.” He pauses for a moment as his gaze returns to mine, “Hell, I’ve never had any problems coming close to the magnitude of the one you clearly have now.”

  Settling himself gently on the other end of the long couch, he doesn’t hesitate to pull my afghan covered feet into his lap. Stunned for a moment, I consider pulling back, but just don’t have the energy or the desire to do so. If this sweet man is going to offer me comfort in what is so clearly my greatest hour of need, fuck it all. I’m going to take it.

  He leans forward and holds out his closed fist to me. Somehow, I know that he wants my hand, so I extend my right one, the one not scrapped and bloodied, toward him expectantly. Two brown capsules fall into my palm. “Ibuprofen. It will help with the swelling.” He gestures toward my hurt eye. “You don’t want aspirin because it will thin your blood, and that won’t help you if you really do have internal injuries. And Tylenol is bad for too many organs. Are you sure you don’t need to go to an ER or an urgent care? I’ll drive you.”

  I shake my head and immediately regret it, again, as the room swims a little bit and the lights seem too bright, even though their yellow glow is soft. “No. Eric is a doctor. He works in the ER at Oakland General.” Clamping my mouth closed hard, I realize what I’ve just revealed, and I’m afraid Roger will call his detective friend back. But he does no such thing, just closes my fingers around the pills and nods at me. “Take them, then.”

  Curious now, I ask, “When did you get these? I had my eyes closed for about five seconds.”

  Roger smiles. “I had them out on the counter already. Since you didn’t seem too keen on going to the hospital, I decided to take care of you myself.”

  I feel myself blushing, so I drop my gaze from his and take a sip of the jasmine tea, which turns out to taste lovely. “Thank you,” I murmur, before returning my gaze to his.

  “Was this the first time?” I whisper, fearful it wasn’t.

  Tyler nods, his eyes dropping to his lap again. “Eric had quite a temper; he would throw things during arguments, but he never hit me in our nearly year-long relationship.”

  He barely swallows back a sob, and I itch to pull him into my arms. I settle for patting his knee, but when he looks at it like it’s a snake that will bite him, I try to pull back. But his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist to still me. Without meeting my eyes, he turns his wrists over to reveal red raw marks I somehow missed before. I gasp involuntarily.

  Even though he already told David and me about the rope and the cot, I find myself asking the obvious. “He…” I can barely push the words past my throat and they come out in a hoarse whisper, “He tied you up?”

  Tyler nods without meeting my gaze and pulls in a shaky breath. “For three days,” he whispers. “I can’t believe I was unconscious in his basement that long.” His skin seems to shiver, and he draws the afghan more tightly around his shoulders.

  It’s inappropriate and I know I shouldn’t ask, because it’s not my place, but who else but me will care? Pulling his hand into mine and settling it into my lap, I steel myself and ask in a low voice, "Did he rape you?"

  Tyler shakes his head now, and though I haven’t known him long, I know he’s telling the truth. Relief washes through me. Tyler has clearly been through so much, but I am relieved that he will not have to deal with the additional trauma of sexual assault. I have had friends who have suffered that intimate betrayal. But my heart still breaks for what Trevor has clearly suffered.

  When he begins speaking again, his voice is steadier as if he is steeling himself against the pain of what he recounts. “I finally broke the bonds. He used old rope.” He laughs unexpectedly, and though its hoarse, it’s beautiful to my ears. “You know the phrase ‘He’d gripe if he were hung with a new rope?’ I’ve never been happier in my life for old rope.”

  “Why did he do that to you?” I ask, recalling that he mentioned a breakup.

  “I tried to break up with him. No, I did break up with him. He was becoming both distant and controlling, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I came back from a work trip, and he flipped out over how long I had been gone. I told him it was over. He must have hit me in the back of the head when I turned to leave. Next thing I know, I’m waking up tied to a cot in his basement.”

  Once Tyler is settled into my guest bedroom, I return to the kitchen and make myself another cup of tea. Our conversation had trailed off after he mentioned that cot in the basement again. After a few minutes of silence, I had stood and offered him my hand, which, amazingly, he took without hesitation. I led him to my guest bedroom door and bade him good night. My heart hurt so badly for him as I took in his tense shoulders and bowed head
as he slowly shut the door behind him. Now I don’t know what to do with myself, so the familiar routine of putting the tea in the infuser, heating the water, and steeping the tea in the hot water helps calm me.

  I’m a jumble of thoughts and emotions. But for some reason, I cannot help but compare my unique friendship with David to the abusive relationship Tyler barely escaped. Our situation has always been temporary by mutual agreement. I’m glad I’ve never in been something so obviously toxic as Tyler’s relationship with Eric was. David and I fooled around a lot more than a couple of times. It was never a romantic relationship. Just our own strange form of friends-with-benefits. There was never any hint that we could have more. Truth be told, I had never even considered that it could be more. David is a top. And I mean that David is a top period. That doesn’t completely mesh with my own preferences. But beyond that, he doesn’t believe in cuddling. It was only ever a hook up as months would pass between late night visits from the barely silver fox of a cop. It’s not to say the sex itself was unsatisfying, far from it. That cop could fuck with the best of them. But, something was always off. No real sense of connection, just a base drive to fulfill a biological need for release. That was all David and I had ever shared. And I have to admit that the lack of cuddling is a deal-breaker for me; even if something is casual, I long for that warm body next to mine. I want that person to tuck into my body and hold tight. It would be nice sometime for someone to hold me, but it’s really the act of holding someone that means so much to me.

  I’m versatile when it comes to topping and bottoming. I’m not too picky and enjoy both acts as close to equally as possible, I guess. But I’m not versatile when it comes to cuddling. I’m fully in the “required” category on that one. Sighing, I shake my head. I don’t dare question why I am thinking about sex and my lack of a solid relationship at this precise moment. I know why. Tyler awakens my protective instincts, which are, for better or worse, inextricably tied to my sexuality. That doesn’t mean I can’t take care of him as a friend. I make a vow to myself that I most certainly will.

  It is very late now, and I hear my pillow calling my name. Seeing Tyler beaten and traumatized has rattled far more than I let on to him or even David. He has me thinking about everything in my life, my relationship or lack thereof, and what I want in the future. After I drain my cup and put the kettle, cups, and saucers in the dishwasher, I take up my phone and look up how to take care of a person with a concussion. WebMD advises waking them every few hours to gauge their reactions. I set an alarm for two hours. A hot shower later, I lie down, my head full of questions and my heart full of longing.

  Chapter 4

  Sharp pain sears my ribs, a symphony of agony plays throughout my body as I rise to consciousness. The scenes of the past few days play through my mind like a bad horror movie, not even a B-level film. Then I remember the man who saved me: Roger. Even though I haven’t opened my eyes, I know where I am. His house, his bed. Well, not his bed, his guest bed. But, nonetheless, this is completely new territory for me. Snorting at that incredibly obvious observation, I immediately regret my flash of humor as another flair of pain tears through me, this time in my head. I moan involuntarily and try to breathe deeply as I screw my eyes even more tightly shut. But now that I am awake, my rational side won’t let me evade the questions I should have considered last night.

  Why do I trust him? Why did I stay? The questions flits across my tired brain, a bewildering whisper of doubt and confusion in the twisted kaleidoscope of my mind. The sunlight streaming through the window seems to beat against my closed eye lids in time with the blood rushing painfully through my veins. Booming thuds resound through the cavern of my head. Definitely I should have gone to the ER last night, but even though there were more options than Oakland General, the thought of running into Eric, even with the amazingly supportive Roger by my side, scared me worse than waking up tied to a cot in Eric’s basement had. Eric had clearly been in haste as the knots were loose and made of old, dry rotted rope, and his basement door had been left unlocked. Thank heaven I was so damned lucky.

  Sighing, I finally blink open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Shifting my gaze toward the sunlight drifting through the gauzy white curtains to my left, I stare unblinkingly out the window for a long while until my bladder protests. I struggle to sit up, my ribs screaming even louder in protest. A groan is wrenched from deep within my chest, dizziness spinning my head until I am leaning forward over my lap. I pull my legs into a crossed position under the covers and clutch my stomach with my hands.

  “Mmm…” I moan again, my mouth clamped shut against the bile rising from my stomach up my esophagus, burning my dry throat. I swallow convulsively, trying to avoid vomiting all over myself and the snow-white comforter stretched across my lap.

  I hear the door open and Roger’s voice. “Are you alright?”

  Up snaps my head, too fast, and pain blooms brightly behind my eyes. If I open my mouth now, I will vomit for sure. So, instead, I shake my head slightly unfortunately sending more sparks of anguish through my brain. I moan involuntarily, slumping my head forward again. Nausea roils through my stomach and I gag, barely managing not to throw up the acid that keeps trying to climb its way up my throat.

  A cool hand touches my forehead gently, and I lean into the warmth. Roger. I sigh and inexplicably the tension leeches first from my shoulders then from my entire body. My mind calms, and I can breathe more easily as the nausea abates but does not quite subside.

  Roger chuckles softly and I raise my head slowly so I can look at him. His face holds a chagrined look, his tan cheeks warming with a slight blush. “A concussion wouldn’t cause a fever, so I don’t know why I’m checking.” He drops his hand, and I immediately miss the contact.

  “Do you need help to the bathroom? I heard you moan several times, and I was worried. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have barged in on you like that.”

  Unable to speak for fear of vomiting, I nod gently, hoping not to rekindle the pain in my head. Slipping back the comforter, I try to sling my legs over the side to stand. But I struggle to move, my lower limbs caught in the covers. My low reserve of energy is quickly running out. But luckily for me, Roger seems to sense it. He gently pulls the covers back before speaking again.

  “Here.” He holds his hand out, and I grasp it without hesitation. Shifting my legs over the edge, I touch my toes to the plush brown carpeting.

  “Ready?”

  I make a noise in my throat that I hope he understands is assent. He pulls me to my feet slowly, retaining my hand as I sway on my rubbery legs. I lean into him, my head coming to rest against his t-shirt clad collarbone. Breathing in deeply and repetitively, his light cologne fills my nose and lungs, taking up residence there as if it belongs. It holds a citrus bite, making me swallow hard. But I can’t move yet. When his arms slip around me slowly, hesitantly, his hands coming to rest in the center of my back gently, I sigh and allow myself to lean more heavily against him. A puff of warm air hits my ear a moment before his voice.

  “Whatever you need, Tyler.”

  Now a sob lodges itself in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes tightly against the tears trying to spill down my cheeks. No one has ever comforted me this way before, and damn it all if I don’t need it desperately. We stand silently for several long moments. Finally, I pull my head up, tipping it back to stare into Roger’s face. His hazel eyes are more green than brown and hold a level of kindness I’ve never seen before. Fine lines flare out from the corners of his eyes, laugh lines. Those creases deepen as Roger smiles at me. A tidily trimmed auburn beard adorns his jaw and chin, his eyelashes long and sooty black. Standing there patiently watching, Roger makes no move to disengage me from his body. At some point and without my conscious decision, my arms must have traveled around his waist to clasp tightly behind his back. A long straight lock of hair the same dark auburn hue as his beard falls forward over his forehead and brushes his eyebrows. His hair is long on the top with the sides and back more
closely cropped. His smile beckons me, his lips plump, full, a perfect contrast to the sharpness of his cheek bones and the dark masculinity of his facial hair.

  Bear, I think, then revise as if I were composing an article about him, no, bearish. Taller than me, he is at least 6’3”, and I barely come up to his chin. His muscular frame would definitely qualify him as a fit bear but for the fact that he doesn’t appear to be particularly hairy, his beard aside. Realizing I have been staring at him for an untold amount of time, I blink and drop my gaze, still unable to open my mouth for fear of vomiting. Reluctantly I unclasp my arms from around him. Roger slowly releases me but slips his hand down to take my left one. Gently he leads me toward the bedroom doorway and the bathroom beyond. Once we step inside, his eyebrows raise questioningly.

  “Do you need my help?” He pauses. “To undress, I mean.” A blush creeps up his throat where it is exposed by the v-neck of his heather gray tee. In his presence, my nausea has thankfully continued to recede. Shallowing my parched throat, I tentatively open my mouth to respond.

  “I don’t think so.” Pausing, I look at our intertwined fingers. My mind tries to tell me to pull back, but my heart insists I hold onto the strength I feel in him. So I squeeze his hand before letting it drop. “I think I have it now. Thank you.”

  His smile is relieved, and he nods before backing toward the door. “Call out if you need any help. I’ll wait outside the door.”

  One gentle nod later and he is gone, the door closed quietly behind him.

  “Hmm.” Dr. Jones flicks the penlight over Tyler’s eyes again. He winces, making me want to growl at her to stop, but I bite my tongue. She is only doing her job, and Tyler needs her care more than he needs mine. A pang stabs me at the thought, but I push the ridiculous feeling aside before I ask, “Is he okay?”