by Sidney Bell
There was motion and thuds and it hurt, and hands were trying to grab him but he shrugged them off, and a small voice in the back of his head warned, if you keep going, you’ll kill him. But he wasn’t intact enough to listen, and something spattered against his face, something warm and thick and it was thrilling, satisfying even, and then he was being hauled away, held within a circle of arms, and a new voice spoke directly into his ear: “Ease down Ford, ease down, fuck, take a breath, it’s okay, you’re safe now, you’re safe, just breathe, calm down.”
He struggled against the hold, kicking madly. Whoever was talking was out of breath but the tone was soothing, and the arms around him were firm but gentle, mindful of his shoulder, and that broke through enough that he recognized Mario’s voice.
Abruptly he came back to himself. There were other people here, too, the redheaded bodyguard kneeling over Joel, saying something into her mic, and there were shocked faces staring in through the open door like visitors at a zoo. Embry had warm blood all over him and no idea how much of it was his. He was dizzy as fuck, his brain pounded in his skull in time with his pulse and his shoulder blazed pure fire. His shirt was ripped, his tie twisted and too tight, his trousers torn open and sagging low around his hips. He wasn’t flashing the room—a small grace—but it was a very near thing.
Embry twitched and trembled in Mario’s grip, fists locked, and he was burning up inside, a riot of claws and teeth straining to escape, but at the same time he wanted to cringe and hide. Everything warred inside him and he was ready to hurt anyone nearby simply for witnessing him in this state. He wanted to break anyone who knew.
While still pinning Embry against his chest with one arm, Mario reached down with a tentative hand and tugged Embry’s pants upward, pulling them into a more secure position, and Embry’s fury buckled at the unexpected kindness.
He rested his head against Mario’s collarbone and went limp in Mario’s arms, allowing the bigger man to take his weight. He closed his eyes.
“It’s okay,” Mario murmured again and again. “You’ll be okay.”
* * *
He was taken downstairs to the Security Division offices and deposited at Timmerson’s desk—the bodyguards and the Touring security staff alike seemed at a loss as to what to do with him. Timmerson and Coop were screaming at each other in a conference room down the hall, and Mario hovered in the doorway, his attention swinging back and forth. One second he was wincing at whatever he was hearing from the fight and the next he was studying Embry with concerned eyes.
“Did I kill him?” Embry asked finally. His throat was dry—the words came out hoarse. Everything hurt, but he was having a hard time minding. It was a wonderful distraction from the clamor in his head reminding him of what had happened.
Mario abandoned his view of Timmerson and Coop and sank into the nearest chair with a sigh. “No, Ford, you didn’t. He’s not going to be winning any beauty pageants for a while, but he’ll live.”
Embry stared at the desk, a desk that wasn’t all that different from his own. He wondered if both desks were bought from the same supplier, maybe as part of a bulk sale meant to lower prices. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that Touring Industries might’ve gotten a good deal on the desk he was nearly...attacked on. It occurred to him that this was a bizarre thought. Focus, he told himself. “Why didn’t you just shoot me?”
Mario tilted his head in Embry’s peripheral vision, and then said, “It turns out I have qualms about shooting rape victims.”
“He didn’t—r-r—” Embry stalled out. Even thinking the word made his mouth taste bad, like he’d been drinking sulfur or something.
“Got pretty damn close, though?”
Embry turned his face away.
“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
They sat there for a few minutes, the silence only broken by the occasional shout from down the hall. Nora appeared in the doorway carrying a blanket and a small first-aid kit. Her blue eyes lingered on Embry with discernible weight, but she passed the items to Mario without saying anything, and she was gone by the time Mario opened the kit and pulled out a chemical ice pack. He broke the interior baggie, shook it a few times so it got cold, then pressed it gingerly to Embry’s shoulder before wrapping the blanket around Embry’s torso to help secure it in place. Mario touched him as little as possible, and Embry knew he had nothing to fear from this man, but he still didn’t take a breath until Mario was back on the other side of the desk.
“Thank you,” he muttered.
“Yeah.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“There’s an ambulance on its way, and the cops should be here any minute. Coop’s claiming that you attacked Henniton out of the blue, but Nancy, that girl from purchasing you were supposed to meet with? Well, she saw enough to know exactly what was up, and she told Timmerson all about it, so he’s pushing for Henniton to get arrested.”
Embry frowned. He thought back, tried to remember seeing Nancy, and came up with nothing. “What? Nancy?”
“You were a little distracted,” Mario said. “We could hear thuds and then you, uh, cried out, and it sounded...but I thought you might be...well...”
“You thought we were fucking so you didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
Embry was struck by an absurd urge to laugh and he huffed once, prompting Mario to frown. It passed quickly, though, leaving him empty. “That’s all right,” he said. “It was a logical conclusion.”
“But Nancy didn’t know that you two are tog—were together...so she assumed there was something wrong, and she stuck her head in, and then I could see by her face that it was bad, so I pushed her out of the way... I came in just in time to see you squirrel out from under him and start ripping him apart. You got away from me a couple times before I managed to get you under control.” He paused, then added almost admiringly, “You’re a tough bastard, Ford, I’ll give you that.”
Embry didn’t feel tough at the moment. With his rage banked, he felt mired in shock, and he’d give almost anything for a dark room and an hour to himself. His hands were clumsy where they clutched the blanket, he was as nauseated as he’d be standing on the deck of a ship in rough waters, and though the ice had dulled the once-sharp agony in his shoulder to a bone-deep ache, it throbbed with every breath.
He was so damn tired.
“My shoulder’s dislocated,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Mario winced. “Yeah, I thought it might be, seeing the hold he had on you. Ambulance should be here any time now, though. They’ll fix it at the hospital. Give you some good painkillers.”
That made Embry think of Brogan, and he jerked his head up. “Did you call him?”
Mario rocked back at his vehemence. “No, not yet. I haven’t exactly had time, you know, but I can call him now if—”
“No, don’t.”
“Ford—”
“No,” Embry snapped. “I don’t want him to know. So you don’t tell him a fucking thing. You lie your ass off, understand?”
Mario’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, just studied Embry. He didn’t seem convinced, so Embry sighed.
“What do you think he’ll do?” he asked. That wasn’t the whole reason that Embry didn’t want Brogan to know, but it was the part that’d convince Mario. “You know how he is when he loves someone. And he loves me, you were right about that. It’ll drive him crazy, and that’s assuming he doesn’t try something stupid. I don’t want Brogan getting in trouble for me, so he can’t know.”
Besides, if anyone was going to kill Joel Henniton, it was going to be Embry.
A door slammed nearby and Embry flinched, making Mario’s mouth tighten. Embry forced himself to sit up straight—he would not cower, he would not—and then Coop
appeared in the doorway.
He looked angry, but at the sight of Embry, a heady, sick pleasure replaced it. A flush of humiliation warmed Embry’s cheeks when Coop smirked.
Coop said, “You’ve been spreading your legs for him for months. Makes me wonder what could have happened to have you thinking you’re too good for it now. Are you in love, Ford?”
It took everything Embry had not to recoil from the glee in the words, at the subtle threat against Brogan couched within them, but he managed to stare back stonily.
Mario climbed to his feet, angling his body so he stood between Coop and Embry, a gesture that Embry appreciated but knew wouldn’t make much difference if Coop tried something.
“Walk away,” Mario said.
Coop rolled his eyes. “I’m going,” he said, and aimed a wink at Embry. “See you later, princess.”
After he’d gone, Mario sat back down. “Is that why?”
“What?”
“Is Brogan why you said no to Henniton?”
Embry swallowed. “I don’t...”
Mario cleared his throat. “Sorry. Not my business.” He gnawed on his thumbnail. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, Ford. Henniton’s the asshole.”
Mario’s eyes were dark and kind. There was no hint of scorn or pity.
“I should’ve done that differently,” Embry said to himself, shaking his head. He only realized he’d said it aloud when Mario shifted in his chair, and he started to fumble through a lie or explanation to cover it up when Mario interrupted.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said flatly, leaving no room for argument. “Doesn’t matter what you did or where you were or if you were dating him, kid. He had no right and he shouldn’t have done it, and it wasn’t your fault. Don’t think it for a second, Ford.”
Did he think it was his fault? Embry considered it for a minute. Logically, he could say that he knew better, that sleeping with Joel willingly didn’t give him the right to force Embry any more than giving a friend money gave that friend the right to rob him. But emotionally, he...did. He just did. He felt dirty and sick, and considering his manipulations of a man like Henniton...maybe it had only been a matter of time until this happened. Maybe, he thought helplessly, this was what he deserved for letting himself get distracted by his own wants and needs, what he deserved for not putting his family first.
If he’d had his head screwed on straight, if he hadn’t let himself feel something for Brogan, he’d have thought nothing of letting Joel fuck him again, and none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t know what it felt like to have his no get ignored. If he’d kept everything locked up, he’d be moving forward, strong and able, instead of sitting here in this stupid chair, hyperaware of his own frailties and weaknesses.
Christ, he wished Brogan were here. Embry turned his face away from Mario so he wouldn’t see the tears and wiped at his face with his good hand.
“Ford,” Mario said gently.
“I’m all right,” he muttered. But he wasn’t all right, because as long as he was serving two different impulses, he was going to end up right back here, and it’d be his own idiotic mistakes to blame.
For a second, he was utterly, wildly, madly furious with Brogan for making him into this divided creature with hopes and feelings and thoughts of a future. It felt good to be angry, reminded him of the power that came with the rage, the certainty, even as he recognized that in this case it was misdirected.
It wasn’t Brogan’s fault. Embry knew that. It was his own for letting himself get distracted. He was going to make his rage work for him now, though. He’d aim it like a bullet. He refused to be this weak thing that got violated and hurt and humiliated. He wouldn’t stand for it. He’d lost too much already.
If this was what a divided mind got him, he’d get clarified right fucking now.
He was going to get inside that room and get the last bit of evidence he needed so Touring would burn. Then the guilty would get their due.
Embry would either succeed or he’d die trying. Either way he’d leave a bloodbath in his wake. And if he still had a pulse at the end, he’d vanish, because no part of the Embry that Brogan loved would still be there when it was finished. He could feel the last of Adam Embry Evans shrinking away, and he let it happen with a dark sense of pleasure.
Embry was done fucking around. Tonight they paid.
Mario’s brow creased at whatever he saw in Embry’s face. Embry didn’t care. He said, “Tell Timmerson that I’m not pressing charges. They don’t have to arrest Joel. Let him go home.”
“Wait, Ford—”
“You know how to put a shoulder back in the socket?”
Embry didn’t have time for a trip to the hospital.
He had things to do.
Part Three: Brogan
Chapter Twenty-Three
By six that evening, Brogan was tired and bored after an epic day of napping and cruddy afternoon movies. He cracked a monster yawn as he sent Embry a text: You available?
He got up to pee, listing a little until he found his balance. He hated painkillers.
On the plus side, though, the pain had dulled, and he’d be able to make it through most of tomorrow on over the counter stuff. Embry would give him lip about that idea later, maybe something super devoted like stop being a macho prick, asshole.
As usual, the thought of Embry’s affection had Brogan smiling.
He scratched his belly as he wandered back into the living room. Gizmo was on the couch and he ignored Brogan’s command to get off the furniture.
“I’ll tell on you,” he threatened. “You’re cavalier now, but as soon as Embry gets back, you’ll be singing a different tune.”
Speaking of, where was he? Embry had had to work today, yeah, but it was after six now, and that meant Embry should be home.
If he got a secret thrill from the idea that Embry might think of Brogan’s house as his home, he was okay with that.
Mario would say they were rushing things, and maybe that was true. Brogan didn’t know everything about Embry yet, but he knew the important stuff. He knew Embry’s gestures and expressions, the throaty hum he made when he rolled over in his sleep, the little cowlick that stood up at the crown of his head in the mornings until he pasted it down with pomade, the way Embry tapped his fingers when he was nervous and paced when he was thinking. He knew the things Embry would fight for, what scared him, what would pull a reluctant smile out of him. He knew the way Embry loved: without words but fiercely, so fiercely that he was a creature of fangs and claws when it came to holding on.
So yeah. Embry could share Brogan’s home any time he was ready to move in. They could share Gizmo, too. The dog liked Embry more than him anyway.
“If only I’d known that all I had to do was be mean to you,” Brogan said, but Gizmo proved his lack of devotion again by chewing on a couch cushion. Brogan sighed. “Jerk.”
Half an hour later, after getting no response to the first, he sent another text: Everything ok?
No answer.
He decided to brew some decaf tea while he waited. He fiddled and took his time, half-heartedly watching an old episode of M.A.S.H. while the tea steeped.
A feeling of disquiet crept up on him as eight o’clock came and went. Still no Embry.
He didn’t think anything bad had happened. Embry could take care of himself. It was more...well, that he’d... Brogan sighed. He was lying to himself, because what he was really worried about was Henniton.
Maybe Henniton had cornered Embry on his way out of work this afternoon. Maybe they were at Embry’s apartment and Henniton was fucking him right now. And maybe, a small, jealous voice suggested, Embry wanted him to.
Brogan forced himself to take a deep breath, because that was crazy thinking. He had very clear memories of
the state Embry had been in after that last encounter with Henniton—near fucking catatonic because of the regret, and that wasn’t the kind of thing that went away. To consider anything else was to let irrationality prevail.
Embry loved him, Brogan told himself. The brat didn’t want to admit it, but he did. And Embry wouldn’t sleep with Henniton unless he didn’t have a choice. And he definitely wouldn’t enjoy it. Brogan knew better.
There was no way in hell that Embry would’ve put Brogan’s number in his contact list under Brogan’s real name. He was probably listed as “The Asshole” or something like that. Something Embry could explain away. There was no reason not to text again.
So he did: Getting worried.
Twenty minutes went by before Brogan’s phone buzzed.
Don’t be.
Brogan ground his teeth. Very helpful. So he sent: You ever coming back? Gizmo’s wasting away without you.
Another long pause. Thirty minutes, maybe forty. It was nearly ten when Embry texted back. It’s not a good time.
Which of course made Brogan’s chest constrict.
You have time to call.
It was a demand, really, even though he knew that Embry would ignore him if he wanted to.
Another interminable wait—twenty-six minutes.
I’ll be there in fifteen.
All of this tension was exhausting. At this rate Brogan would be too tired to seduce Embry, which was pretty much the worst thing that’d ever happened to him.
A morbid voice in his head corrected him: the worst thing since you killed someone this morning, you mean?
The memory of Vindler’s staring eyes came back to him, and he apologized silently.
He didn’t question the necessity of pulling the trigger. He grieved that Vindler had felt he didn’t have another choice, grieved that events transpired in such a way that Brogan hadn’t had a different choice either. Or had there been something else he could have done?
