by AJ Lange
“I thought,” Matt hesitated, grimacing.
“You thought I left.” It explained the hard determination Gavin could see on Matt’s face, easing now that Gavin was here, holding him up, soothing his back in small circles. “You should know better.”
Matt huffed a breathless laugh. “You should learn to leave a note.”
Gavin smiled in return, willing his heart to settle into a more peaceful rhythm. “Okay. Your point.” He allowed himself one quick brush of lips to Matt’s cheek, nuzzling his ear before he straightened. “But only because you’re injured and I feel sorry for you. Back to bed.”
“I’m fine,” Matt said automatically, but he allowed Gavin to hover while they returned to the bed, palm warm and flat at the center of his back. He leaned against the pillows Gavin stacked up in front of the headboard.
Gavin frowned as he watched him, worried. Matt’s pallor seemed to be back in full force and his upper lip glistened with tiny beads of sweat. “Your shoulder is bleeding,” he noted grimly.
“I wrenched it a little, when I tried to put a shirt on.”
“Which is why you should have waited for me,” Gavin grumbled, walking to the table and grabbing the food and coffee. He brought it to the bed, sitting gingerly at the foot and passing over a steaming, lidded cup.
“And again, next time, leave a fucking note.” Matt took a sip of the coffee, wincing. “It’s black,” he objected, but when he glanced up, Gavin was already holding out creamer and sugar packets.
When Matt smiled, the surprised pleasure transforming his face, Gavin groaned. “Aw now, don’t do that. I’m trying to be pissed off that you likely tore your stitches and I’m going to get my ass kicked when I have to call Levon and explain.”
Matt continued to smile, ripping open every creamer and sugar Gavin had given him and dumping them all into his coffee. He held out a hand and Gavin passed him a tiny plastic stir stick. He sighed happily when he finally took another sip. “Better.”
Gavin shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know how you manage to make coffee so damn sexy,” he grumbled, taking a sip from his own mug.
Matt looked at him over the rim of his cup. His tongue darted out to catch a creamy brown drip.
“Matt,” Gavin warned, both hating and loving the way his stomach fluttered with interest. Not only did they not have time for Gavin to investigate the other things that tongue could do, Matt’s face was still far too pale for his liking.
“Gavin.”
Gavin groaned inwardly at the deep, husky timbre of Matt’s voice. He was on the verge of giving in, to hell with stitches and food and whatever else they were supposed to be doing right now, when Matt relented, dropping his gaze to the bag Gavin had beside him. “Please tell me you have a vial of morphine in that sack.”
Gavin stood. “How bad is it? Did you take your pills?” He was already halfway to the bathroom, before Matt could answer.
“Not yet, I was on my way to find them when you got here.” He accepted the two pills when Gavin returned and swallowed them dutifully with a mouthful of coffee.
Gavin sat next to him, perching precariously on the edge next to his hips, his former seat at the foot of the bed entirely too far away for his liking.
“You should probably eat.” He reached for the food bag and pulled out a paper-wrapped biscuit with sausage. “Best hangover cure ever,” he said with a smirk, handing him the sandwich.
“I’m hungover all right,” Matt complained. “My head is pounding, my stomach is rolling.” He sniffed the biscuit gingerly, frowning before he took a small bite. He chewed and swallowed before he continued. “And my shoulder is on fucking fire.”
Gavin scooted closer, one arm crossing over Matt’s legs to rest on the bed beside his thigh. It gave him some much-needed proximity, his body craving whatever it was that Matt had always been able to provide. “Sorry I got you drunk?” He winked, cheeky grin contradicting the sincerity of the words.
Matt narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look sorry.”
Gavin shook his head, eyes turning serious when he dipped his head to brush his lips along the edge of the white bandage. “I am.” He straightened, cocking his head at Matt’s expression. “What?”
“Nothing,” Matt murmured. He tilted his sandwich toward Gavin’s face, and Gavin took the offered bite.
They ate the rest of the food in a companionable silence, and then Gavin helped Matt to the bathroom to check his dressing. He frowned when he removed the gauze wrapping and found the sterile pad covering the stitches was bloodier than he would have liked.
“You were moving around too much,” he admonished. Matt was sitting on the toilet, Gavin standing between his legs while he worked.
Matt winced when Gavin peeled the gauze pad away. “You mentioned that already. Nine or ten times.”
“Yeah, well, you’re an idiot. It bears repeating.”
Matt chuckled. “You have such sweet pillowtalk, baby.” He placed his hands on the back of Gavin’s thighs and Gavin jumped.
“Hey,” he rebuked softly. “No manhandling the doctor.”
Matt grinned, running his right hand a little higher until he cupped one cheek. “But Doc...”
“Matt,” Gavin warned again, fingers gentle and light as they smoothed antibiotic ointment over the ugly, reddened sutures. The skin surrounding the wound was a pink circular patch of inflamed tissue. It would bear watching; Gavin wondered if he had any antibiotics stored in the medicine cabinet at home. They could be back in Parkville by early evening, if they left right away.
He carefully covered the wound with a fresh gauze pad and reached behind him for a new roll of dressing, forcing Matt’s hand to fall away. He smiled to himself when Matt immediately grabbed his ass again when he turned back.
“You’re a terrible patient.”
“I can’t help myself, Dr. DeLuca. You’re the hottest surgeon on the ward,” Matt crooned, massaging Gavin’s butt cheek.
“Stop that,” Gavin ordered softly, flustered and god damn it, dick twitching in excited hopefulness. His hands were a little shaky as he wrapped the gauze in a crisscross pattern around Matt’s shoulder and under his arm.
Matt chuckled and dropped his hand, waiting patiently for Gavin to finish.
Gavin frowned down at him, not trusting his virtuous expression.
“I don’t like that look in your eyes.” He fastened a strip of sterile tape over the ends of the dressing.
“What,” Matt asked innocently.
“What,” Gavin mimicked. “You’re a fucking tease, Matthew Laurel, that’s what. You always were.” He carefully pressed the last piece of tape in place, startling Matt when he loomed close, grabbing his jaw tight in his fingers. Gavin kissed him once, hard.
When he stood, he felt vindicated that Matt’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes a little glassy. “Now be a good patient and go lie down, let Dr. Gavin take a shower.”
Matt’s good arm had migrated tight around his waist and he held Gavin fast against him. “One more,” he whispered, lifting his face.
Gavin obliged, lingering, nibbling at Matt’s lips until he sighed in contentment.
“You’re still the best medicine,” Matt murmured.
Gavin snorted softly, straightening again. “And you’re high.” He helped Matt to his feet, patting his butt when he pushed him out the door. “Go lie down.”
Gavin enjoyed an extra hot, extra long shower. He took care of his sexual frustration perfunctorily, closing his eyes and focusing on the dark, handsome head lying in the room next to him. It might not have been the most enjoyable method of ridding himself of the problem currently hampering his investigative focus, but it served its purpose and he felt more clearheaded and relaxed when he turned off the taps.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and left the steamy bathroom.
Matt was sprawled across the unused bed, snoring lightly. His color was ten times better and his face seemed years younger. Gavin smiled, wistful. God, he loved him
.
Matt had asked for a note the next time he left, reassurance that Gavin was coming back. Gavin hadn’t left one because in his mind it was unnecessary. He was never leaving. He knew it would take some time before Matt believed that, but for Gavin, that moment in the woods when he had heard Matt cry out in pain had solidified it for him. In one swift, terrifying flash of clarity, Gavin knew what it was to fear losing Matt for good.
That feeling was a thousand times worse than the neverending frustration of Matt living a lie across town for five years.
Gavin was, simply put, never leaving again. He’d handcuff the stubborn bastard to his goddamn right arm if he had to, but he and Matt were in it for life now. Gavin was wholly and completely fed up with the alternative.
He dug through his duffle, dropping the towel and dressing as quietly possible. He could allow Matt to sleep for a few more minutes before they got back on the road. He sat at the desk and studied his timeline and notes from the night before, thinking of sweet Gina’s face, wondering where she was and how she might be holding up.
When he had talked to Dom this morning on his breakfast run, Dom still hadn’t heard a word from Gina or the kidnapper. Gavin assured him that that might not be as bad as it felt; according to what Matt had told him about the Laurel’s previous victims, Gina was probably being held somewhere, but if patterns held, she was alive. It had given Dom a much-needed sense of hope, even if it couldn’t dull the urgency or fear.
Dom had also told him that Matt’s brother Drew had essentially vanished off the face of the earth the day he ran away. No trace of him was ever found. Gavin knew from experience that no one could really vanish, and something told him that Matt knew more about Drew’s disappearance than he was letting on. The first conversation they were having when Matt awoke would hopefully answer a question that had been plaguing him: What had really happened the night Drew left home?
July 2, 1993
“Matt.” The whispered voice jerked Matt from a troubled sleep. He had barely been back in his bed an hour; he had fallen asleep at Gavin’s again and had to sneak out of the other boy’s bedroom, sliding carefully out from under his heavy bicep to do so. He had stood in the moonlit room, looking down at Gavin’s handsome face for a long time afterward. Gavin had frowned in his sleep, the hand that had previously been wrapped tight around Matt’s waist twitching with its sudden emptiness.
Matt wanted nothing more than to crawl back into that embrace, a heated, confusing, infinitely desired position...yet ultimately too dangerous. He understood that all of his family, perhaps save Nikki, knew of his feelings for Gavin. Drew, by nature of being the closest to Matt, had the greatest understanding of just how entwined the two boys’ lives, and hearts, were. But now Micah had picked up on something, and Matt was forced to consider his options: stay away from Gavin in order to protect him (not really an option at all, since Matt thought it was possible he wouldn’t survive without Gavin), or continue as they had been, friends with the teasing possibility of more, sticking close enough that, hopefully, Matt could discern when or if Micah made a move.
Matt would kill him.
He knew he should probably feel more remorse or shame over that. Instead, he welcomed the thought, before bending low and brushing his lips to Gavin’s temple, smiling when the boy snuffled in his sleep, whispering Matt’s name into his pillow.
“Are you awake?” Drew stepped over the threshold and into his bedroom, closing the door silently behind him, movements stealthy.
Matt sat up on an elbow and rubbed a tired palm across his bleary eyes. “I am now,” he complained.
“Shh,” Drew shushed him, holding a finger to his mouth.
Matt saw the bag slung over Drew’s shoulder and noted his brother was fully dressed. “Where are you going?”
Drew sat on the edge of his bed, letting the bag fall silently to the carpet. “I’m leaving, Matt.”
They studied each other in the dark. Drew was four years older, and at nineteen, it was probably a miracle he hadn’t left before now. Matt had always been utterly grateful for whatever had kept him tethered here; Drew had been his buffer, and his savior, too many times to count.
“I wish I could take you with me,” Drew whispered when Matt didn’t reply. “But you know he’d only come after us. At least if it’s me alone, I might have a shot.”
Matt’s eyes fell to the sheet wrapped around his legs, pinning him to the bed under Drew’s weight. He tried not to feel claustrophobic at the thought.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Drew huffed a laugh. “Why are you apologizing? God, Matt,” he shook his head. “I should be apologizing to you.”
Matt’s eyes flew to his face. “What? Why? You’re the only reason I made it this far, you know that,” he said earnestly, one hand clasping Drew’s wrist.
Drew smiled sadly. “No, Matty. I’m the reason you’re here.”
An icy dread settled over Matt and he withdrew his hand. He knew unequivocally that he did not want to hear whatever Drew was going to tell him, but he was frozen, unable to escape, fear warring with a fierce desire to know the truth, a truth that had eluded him all his life.
“Tell me.”
Drew swallowed hard. “I tell you this, Matt, and you have to swear to me, you’ll never breathe a word of it to another soul, not even Gavin.” He reached over and gripped Matt’s fingers tightly between his. “Your lives depend on that, Matt. Yours, the DeLucas...this never leaves this room, okay?”
Matt nodded once, palms clammy with sweat and fear.
Drew blinked rapidly, and Matt wondered if he was fighting tears. His strong, independent older brother, the one with the rakish sense of humor, overprotective to a fault; that he would cry made Matt even more nervous to hear his words.
“You were four years old when you came here,” Drew said softly.
Matt frowned. Four years old... Drew’s words tumbled over themselves in his head, their implication dark and frighteningly bleak.
Drew squeezed his hand again. “You were four, and I saw you playing in a park. We were in Michigan then. It was my job to find you, find someone at any rate, the right age. God,” Drew laughed darkly. “I was eight fucking years old, Matt, and I was sent out on recon to find another angel,” he spat the word and Matt flinched.
“I don’t understand.” Matt thought he might be on the verge of hyperventilating. Fuck, what Drew was telling him, if what he was saying were true...Matt was not a Laurel.
Matt was not a Laurel.
“He kidnapped you,” Drew said bluntly. “Isaiah. We drove three days, crossing the midwest, hiding our tracks, using disguises. I think my hair color changed three times before we made it to Detroit.”
“Why?” Matt whispered, head spinning.
Drew shrugged. “I don’t know, I think it’s how he got all of us.”
They sat in silence, one struggling to absorb the new information, the other letting go of the guilt from keeping the secret for years.
“Your name was Jimmy,” Drew said softly. “I don’t remember your last name, but your mother was beautiful. You have her eyes.”
Matt looked up sharply. “You,” he swallowed. “You saw my mother? What? How?” His head was spinning; he had always been told their mother, their mother, had run away after giving birth to Nikki.
Drew’s features turned stony. “He took your mother too,” he said quietly. “She caught me, as I was leading him, you, away from the swings. We almost made it, she was nearly too late.” He trailed off, eyes faraway. “Then Isaiah pulled up in the truck and Micah and Luke jumped out of the back, grabbed both of you, all three of us.” His voice broke and he dropped his head to his hands, covering his face.
Matt scooted close, wrapped his arms around him. “It’s okay,” he soothed, even though it wasn’t. He was reeling from everything Drew had said.
Drew’s shaking subsided after a few minutes, and when he lifted his head, his eyes were dry. Matt let his arms fall to his sides
and the two brothers studied each other for a long moment. “You’re sixteen,” Drew whispered.
Matt frowned. “What?”
“You’re a year older than you think,” Drew smiled wistfully. “You were so pretty, those gorgeous baby blues. Isaiah only gave me one instruction: I want blue eyes this time.” Drew shrugged. “Yours were the prettiest eyes I had ever seen.”
Matt felt sick.
Drew continued. “Unfortunately, I fucked it all up anyway. Your face was too distinctive, those eyes too memorable. We had to keep you hidden for months before Isaiah trusted someone wouldn’t recognize you. When it was time for you to go to school, he made you a year younger.”
“Gavin,” Matt whispered.
Drew nodded. “Gavin.” He laughed, and the sound was too loud in the dark room. “That’s the fucking irony, isn’t it? If he hadn’t lied about your age, you would never have met Gavin and you would probably be the favored son by now. God, Micah would probably be as dead as Luke.”
Matt flinched. Luke’s death was something they never mentioned, ever. Drew had shielded Matt from the worst of it, but Matt still remembered the older boy’s screams, and to this day he avoided the northeast corner of their wide backyard, where he knew the bones were buried deep beneath the earth. He had never known what had caused Isaiah’s wrath that night, but he knew it had something to do with Micah’s sudden popularity with their father. He had always wondered who had dealt the final blow.
To the rest of the world, Luke had simply gone to live with their mother. No one questioned it. Matt had learned when he was very young that most people would rather look away, assuming the best instead of the darkness their instincts warned them about.
Unless you were Antonia DeLuca. Antonia had questioned plenty over the years, and while Matt had always been grateful to her for her love and surrogate mothering, he had also known since he was seven (eight?) that Antonia DeLuca had his back.
It had been a particularly bad week. Isaiah and Micah had had a girl in the basement rooms for days, and her weak cries when Matt was forced to bring her food at night gave him nightmares. He wasn’t sleeping, and it was taking its toll, deep, dark circles rimming his sunken eyes. It was a Thursday when he had had enough. He climbed out of his window and carefully navigated the white lattice against the siding; it was a cheerful sight in the spring, climbing wisteria full of purple, fragrant blooms. Matt used it as an escape route more and more, sometimes climbing the tree outside of Gavin’s bedroom and talking to him through the window until they were both yawning, unable to stay awake.
