by Layla Dorine
“Fucking hell!”
The can hit the wall, toppled a lamp, and bounced harmlessly onto the bed while Vic carded his fingers through his hair and stomped from the room, annoyed. If he couldn’t study then he might as well clean up the place. He reached the hall closet, yanked it open, dragged the vacuum out, and plugged it in. At least it gave him something to do with his hands, and the noise had a way of boring into his skull, which helped drive his worried thoughts away.
He thought nothing of moving from the vacuuming to sweeping and mopping the kitchen and bathroom floors, fuming as he cleaned up the glass from the broken mirror. Muttered curses colored the air around him as he plucked shards from between the counter and the toilet and deposited them in the small trash can he carried. By the time he was done, he’d run out of names to call Terry and began making up new ones. Finished, he flopped on the couch and turned on the television. Reality TV, lovely. He flipped a few stations and stopped on a movie about fighting robots, trying not to imagine what Nicky had gotten up to. Nothing too self-destructive, he hoped.
Fifteen minutes in and he was fidgeting, wiggling and shifting around on the couch, having already dug all the lint and loose change from beneath the cushions, along with Nicky’s battered flask and a crushed coke can. He didn’t even wanna know how that had gotten stuck there.
“Fuck it,” he grumbled as he turned off the television. He’d mow. At least the noise would make thinking harder. The rumble of the mower and the warm afternoon just coupled to make him more irritable though, and when he finished, covered in sweat and bits of grass, his first thought was to grab a shower then find himself some lunch.
He checked his phone on the way through, wishing Nicky had called, but the only text was from a classmate, asking if Vic could email her his notes from the bug lecture. With a sigh, Vic stomped to his room and righted his lamp, rummaged through his papers, scanned in the notes, and then e-mailed them. For the briefest moment he considered trying to study some more, then said to hell with it, put on his headphones, flopped on his bed, and stared at the posters of mountains taped to his ceiling.
At some point he must have dozed off because he awoke to the feeling of his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. It was Nicky. He breathed a sigh of relief as he answered it, feeling some of the tension drain from the muscles in his neck.
“Hey,” Vic answered.
“Just got your message. I had my phone turned off.”
“Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Vic told him, glad to hear that Nicky sounded calm.
“Just peachy. Was that all?”
Okay, so maybe Nicky didn’t sound so calm. There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice that Vic wasn’t sure he liked. “Do you want to go for Chinese when I finish my class?”
“Nope, I’ve got dinner and beer, I’ll be home in the morning.”
“Oh, okay,” Vic replied, frowning at his phone. Nicky hung up before Vic could say anything more, and with a shake of his head Vic dialed the Chinese restaurant and ordered a meal, resigned to having to eat alone, again. But first, a shower. He reeked.
***
Out at the desert track, Nicky sat beside a bonfire with a six-pack and a small bottle of whiskey. He’d fibbed a little when he’d told Vic he had food. Booze was better anyway.
Staring into the coals, Nicky listened to the wood pop and watched the sparks drift on the wind. He tried to figure out what he’d done so wrong that it had made Terry decide to cheat on him. He’d never asked his ex for a goddamned thing and had almost always been willing to let him take the lead in everything they did. He’d thought they had fun together, working on their bikes, racing, and helping each other improve, learning new tricks and analyzing races, often ending up fucking like bunnies in front of the television rather than waiting until they got to their bed.
Their arguments had been few, far between, and petty—never a serious rift. So where the hell had he gone wrong?
Nicky cracked open another beer and kicked it back, watching the stars as he downed it. Four years, hell, twelve years of friendship, and all of a sudden Terry flips a switch, kicks him to the curb, and starts going out with someone else? Had it truly been out of the blue, or had Nicky just failed to see the signs that it was coming? Hadn’t he paid enough attention to Terry and their relationship? Had he somehow let Terry down? Everything had gone to hell the moment Terry stood up and made his announcement. Nicky wondered if he could have stopped it all if only he’d done something differently. But what?
With a sigh, Nicky set the empty beer bottle down and stretched out on his side, his head cushioned by his wadded-up jacket. He drank and watched the fire while he pined for Terry, remembering the way they’d come out here together, sitting and staring into the flames, talking about their hopes and dreams for the future. Terry’s head pillowed in Nicky’s lap as Nicky stroked his hair.
Nicky sighed again as he thought about the nights he’d surprised Terry with picnic baskets full of food he’d carefully prepared in their kitchen. Not like he was really proficient at cooking—he wasn’t—but for Terry he’d tried. He could grill a steak and make amazing baked beans. Couple those with some seasoned sliced potatoes and a pile of brownies for dessert and the meals had been more than adequate. Or maybe Terry had just been being kind to him when he’d praised the food.
If he were being totally honest, Vic was the real cook in the house. He’d already started wondering how long it would be before Vic ditched him too. With the way things were going, Nicky was pretty sure that if it came down to it, Vic would choose his friendship with Terry over a friendship with him. Terry was funny and outgoing, smarter than he cared to show, and had a wicked sense of humor to boot. Nicky knew deep down that he couldn’t compare. Maybe that was why Terry had left him; maybe Dirk was everything that he never could have been.
Nicky cracked open another beer and chucked a log on the fire before drinking it down. Tonight he wished he were far away from here. Halfway across the country in the place he’d lived the early years of his life. Too bad there was nothing there to go back to and no one there who would even remember him.
Besides, he had a good sponsor and a real chance of touring the country. He owned the house he lived in, thanks to the insurance money his aunt had kept in trust for him after his father died, and while living alone might suck, he knew he could do it if it came to that. Maybe it was time to make some friends outside of the racing circuit anyway, since many of the other riders had been talking to him less and less after he and Terry broke up. He wondered what Terry had said to them; or maybe it was better if he didn’t know. Best to just say nothing to any of them before he came off as an insecure and jealous bastard, like he’d looked today.
His jaw clenched when he thought about the way he’d shoved Dirk, prompting him to take another drink. That was just the kind of crap Terry would get a kick out of spreading around.
Had he been too jealous over the course of their relationship? Too possessive maybe? Had he taken up too much of Terry’s time? He frowned, trying to recall if he’d ever had reason to be jealous, but he couldn’t remember a time when Terry hadn’t said “I’m taken” before Nicky could say a word. So what the fuck had he done so wrong?
In his anger, Nicky slammed his fist down, sloshing beer over his fingers. It was a bad move. The glass bottle smashed into a rock, shattering. White hot pain shot through his hand and he looked down to see the bottom of the bottle impaled in his palm and wrist.
Nicky cringed and pulled the glass from his hand, blood gushing into the sand. It took him a minute to realize the cut was bad and that he’d better stop the bleeding. Fumbling, he pulled off his T-shirt, trying to remember back four years to high school health classes and the first aid unit. What had the teacher said? Elevate and put pressure?
He wrapped his T-shirt around his hand, flinching when he pressed on the wound and felt the stab of glass still in his palm. Something must have broken off in there. He raised his hand over his head an
d felt blood beginning to slide down his arm. He wrapped the T-shirt tighter and staggered to his feet, nearly tripping over the empty whiskey bottle. He was too drunk to drive and he knew it. Shaking, he leaned against the side of his truck, holding his hand pressed tight to his side as he fished his cell phone from his pocket and tried to dial Vic.
Fingers slick, he dropped it twice before completing the call. Vic’s voice on the other end a welcoming sound.
“Yeah?”
Nicky could hear the sound of paper crumbling, and the clatter of a pen as it was set down. “Umm, Vic, I’m too drunk to drive,” Nicky slurred.
“Okay. Where are you?”
“The track. I was drinking. I’ve got a bonfire going.”
“Thought you were going to stay out there for the night?”
“I was, but I, umm, I cut my hand and it’s kinda bad.” Nicky felt the blood beginning to drip through his shirt. From the other end of the line, he could hear the sound of a chair scrapping wood, and a thump, like Vic was tripping on things.
“How bad?”
“I wrapped my T-shirt around it, but it’s bleeding through.”
“Shit, Nicky! You need to keep that hand up and put pressure on it. Sit by the fire; I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“Mmmkay, Vic.”
“Nicky!”
“Mmm yeah?”
“Do not pass out!” Vic’s tone startled Nicky. He’d never heard his friend sound so serious or so stern.
“Okay, Vic.”
“Hang up, put pressure on it, now!”
“Okay, Vic,” Nicky said, hanging up and sitting back by the fire, holding the shirt tight against his hand. So stupid, he cursed himself as he swayed a little. At least it didn’t hurt; or maybe it was all he’d drunk. Pathetic. That was why Terry had dumped him: he was utterly fucking pathetic. God he felt like an asshole. Vic had probably been studying and his hand didn’t seem to be bleeding so bad now that he was holding it. He’d be just fine for the night.
Fishing out his phone again, he hit redial and lay against his jacket, eyes half-lidded. “Vic?”
“Why aren’t you putting pressure on that cut?”
“Was gonna tell you it’s okay not to come. You were studying. I forgot. I’m an asshole. I’ll sleep it off and drive home in the morning.”
“Bullshit, Nicky. Hang up your fucking phone and keep pressure on that cut, dammit.”
***
Vic hung up on Nicky and pressed the accelerator faster. At this point he was wishing for a cop. He’d make them chase him all the way to Nicky. Twenty miles. Twenty fuckin’ miles. His fingers twitched on the wheel, gripping, tapping, squeezing the hell out of it as he pressed harder on the gas. Go figure he wouldn’t see one. Keeping a close watch for the turnoff sign, he still nearly missed it. Whipping the car into the turn, he cursed Terry for being a bastard and Nicky for being too proud to admit he was upset. If Nicky had just been honest with him they could have had Chinese and watched a movie and Nicky would be passed out on the couch right now instead of bleeding in the desert somewhere.
He saw the campfire and came to a screeching halt beside Nicky’s truck. Nicky heard him pull in and stumbled to his feet, nearly falling. Vic caught him and started leading him to the car.
“Put out the fire,” Nicky muttered.
“Let’s get you in the car first,” Vic replied as he helped him in. In the light of the car, Vic could see blood on Nicky’s jeans and his friend’s glazed, half-lidded eyes. He didn’t want to unwrap Nicky’s hand to take a look at the wound for fear that it would bleed even more, so he quickly put out the fire and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Sorry,” Nicky muttered.
“Damn it, I’m glad you called. At least you knew better than to drive.”
“Still sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Mmmmkay,” Nicky muttered and went silent.
Vic was silent too, driving fast and still praying for a cop while glancing occasionally at Nicky, who was huddled against the door.
“Still awake?” Vic asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Stay that way. I don’t need you passing out on me.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” Vic huffed, worry for his friend making him gruffer than he intended.
Both were silent again, until they pulled up to the hospital. Nicky tried to get out on his own and fell in a drunken heap on the sidewalk. Vic came around the car and helped him up, supporting him as he staggered inside.
“He had an accident,” Vic told the nurse at the desk. “He’s bleeding pretty bad. Help him.”
“Done bleeding. Wanna sleep now,” Nicky murmured.
He was whisked to the back, leaving a shaken Vic alone in the waiting room. Chairs sat in front of a long row of windows. Vic went to stand by one, staring out into the night as he watched the cars roll into the parking lot and an ambulance roar up with lights and sirens blaring. He drummed his fingers on the wall before finally taking a seat, the stack of magazines on the table beside him completely unappealing.
While he waited, he cleaned the sand from beneath his fingernails with his keys, counted the number of blue tiles that ran down the hallway, and fidgeted so much that the lady sitting two seats down kept shooting him sidelong glances and finally got up and moved. Vic was just about to try the sludge in the coffee pot when Nicky was escorted into the room with thirty-one stitches covered by a thick, white bandage.
“Now you make sure to keep that dry, hun,” the nurse reminded him.
Dark circles stood out beneath Nicky’s bright green eyes, dilated, though from the booze or a painkiller Vic wasn’t sure.
“I will,” Nicky muttered.
“Time to go home,” Vic told him as he slid an arm around Nicky, who was almost asleep on his feet.
“Sorry for fucking up your night, Vic,” Nicky rambled as they got in the car. “Sorry for being such a pathetic fuck up.”
“You’re not. It’s fine. We’ll talk tomorrow; okay?”
“Yeah,” Nicky muttered with a sigh.
Vic sighed as well and drove them home, having to half-drag, half-carry Nicky into the house. He got him to the couch, covered him up, and then sat in the chair for a little while, watching Nicky sleep.
Chapter Two
For the second day in a row Nicky awoke in pain, only this time he wasn’t alone in the living room. He saw Vic in the chair, slouched in a very uncomfortable-looking position, and felt even worse for what he’d done the night before.
“You’re awake,” Vic commented when he opened his eyes. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” Nicky replied, sitting up a little bit more and looking around until he finally spied the clock. “Oh God, it’s only nine-fifteen. Vic, I’m so fuckin’ sorry about last night. I—”
“Stop apologizing! Dammit, Nicky! Do you think I would have wanted you to sit out there and bleed to death?”
“Would’ve been my own damn fault.”
“Yeah, it would have been. Doesn’t mean I want to see it happen though.”
Nicky just shrugged and stood, still a bit unsteady.
“How’s the hand?”
“Hurts like hell. I’m gonna go take a shower.”
“Keep that hand dry. I’ll get a shower after you’re done and we’ll go back and get your truck and your bike.”
“No, Vic, seriously, you’ve wasted enough time on me. Finish your paper. I can get the truck.”
“How?”
“Vic…”
“How, Nicky?”
“Gonna hitch,” Nicky told him as he headed for the stairs.
Vic sat there stunned and outraged before stalking to his room.
Nicky left a short time later, and Vic let him, knowing arguing would get him nowhere, and on top of it, he didn’t want to fuck up and say something he shouldn’t, or, worse, go off on Nicky for his self-destructive behavior. As soon as the door shut he sank down on the couch
and beat his head against the padding; then he stalked up the steps to his room and slammed the door. It might have been satisfying if he wasn’t the only one in the house to hear it.
***
Out on the highway it didn’t take Nicky long to get a ride out to the track, but he was wishing he hadn’t bothered when he saw Terry’s truck parked near his own. Terry was already gearing up for a ride, but at least Dirk wasn’t with him.
“Something wrong with that pretty truck of yours?” Terry asked. His tone wasn’t casual though, and Nicky knew Terry was trying to bait him.
Nicky refused to give him the satisfaction and went about cleaning up the glass and mess from the night before.
“Or maybe something is wrong with you. What happened to the hand, Erickson?”
Nicky flinched. They’d disintegrated to last names now. It was odd, hearing Terry refer to him that way after all the years they’d known one another. Still, he wasn’t going to let Terry get to him. He dumped the glass in the trash and fished his keys out of his pocket before turning to go, glad he’d loaded his bike into the bed of his truck the night before.
“Wonder what your sponsors will think of their golden boy getting messed up right before a big race.”
“I’m still racing, Terry,” Nicky informed him as he opened the door to the truck.
“You don’t deserve that fuckin’ spot and you know it! I’m a better rider than you, and the only goddamned reason they chose you was because you cut me off in the Takoma race to win it.”
Nicky slammed the truck door. “Is that what this is all about, Terry? Takoma? You’re pissed at me, broke up with me, because I saw an open line and took it?”
“That sponsorship should have been mine and you know it.”
“And you know that I would rather still have you than some damned sponsorship,” Nicky shot back.
“Yeah, well, I don’t want you. Why would I when I have Dirk? He’s better than you are in every way you can possibly imagine, and probably even in ways you can’t. You never were very creative.”
