Follow Him Home (Alternate Worlds Book 1)

by P. W. Davies

  “What had he been doing there?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, I suspected immediately that it wasn’t something legal. I still haven’t asked him specifically about it. At the time, though, I waded into his life the same way you did – with a heavy amount of caution, pushed aside by an even larger sense of intrigue. It took a few weeks and several follow-up dates for him to come out and tell me, but I appreciated that he let me arrive at the place where I could accept it first. He tends to follow your lead like that.” His smile touched the corners of his eyes. “Within a few months, I’d bought a larger condo and he had one of the keys.”

  Peter’s lips quirked, the action involuntary. As he shifted down from his stool, leaving the rest of his breakfast unattended, he brushed his fingers across Victor’s cheek and leaned in to touch noses with him. The shorter man shut his eyes in response.

  “I’m trying to come to terms with all of this,” Peter said, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Forgive me if I sound judgmental. I understand who he is, but the worst thing it’s been for me so far is a run through a shady part of Northeast Philly.”

  Victor breathed a chuckle. “You’ve gotten off easy, then.” Lifting enough to brush noses with Peter, he slid his fingers up to the collar of the taller man’s scrubs. “I worry about him, too. It’s only natural. You might not understand all the reasons why he does it, but it seems to be a part of him.”

  Before Peter could respond, Victor captured his lips with his. Pulling away from the kiss bordered on painful, the tingles of need making an unwelcomed resurgence which threatened to make both men lose track of time. Victor ended it, but lingered in Peter’s space for an additional moment. “Sadly, I have a client meeting. If you’d like to stay here, though, you can. Maybe Christian will be back before then.”

  “I should’ve brought a change of clothes,” Peter responded, his smile more subdued, but still present.

  “Be better prepared next time, then.” Victor nipped at his bottom lip again before walking away. He kept his focus on his walk to the bedroom, leaving Peter with the sight of his back. Looking back at his plate, he determined to finish up what he had started. The fatigue which had followed him from work continued pursuing him and after depositing his plate into the sink, he strode over to the couch. Peter hadn’t realized he’d started to doze until a kiss placed on the top of his head woke him up.

  Glancing upward, he saw Victor dressed in his three-piece suit. “Sweet dreams,” he said, a devilish grin on his lips again when he turned to leave the condo. Peter offered a faint smile in return, sinking back into sleep only moments after the door clicked shut. Faintly, he remembered a time when the room went from slightly chilled to warm again, though whatever had that effect didn’t register to him at first. It wasn’t until much later, when his eyes finally summoned enough gumption to open fully that he realized a blanket had been draped across him.

  Peter gathered the fabric closer to his body and frowned when he realized his benefactor had left the condo. “Christian,” he murmured, reaching up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. A yawn and stretch preempted him tossing his blanket to the side, assaulting him with a chill again. Struggling to rise to his feet, he stumbled over to the digital display for the thermostat and verified the reading before wading closer to the bedrooms. Victor’s room still looked meticulous, undoubtedly arranged the way he’d made it after he woke. Drifting over to the room Christian occupied, he turned on the light, hopeful that he’d find the other man curled up in bed.

  The bed had been left empty, however. Both blankets and sheets remained made up and looked like it hadn’t been occupied in days. Probably not since Peter had last fallen asleep beside Christian. Reaching into his pocket, he produced his iPhone and glanced at the recent messages, looking for any sign of life from his would-be boyfriend. When he discovered his inbox empty, he opened their last text conversation, rereading it first before typing out another entry.

  ‘Thanks for the warmth and comfort,’ he said. ‘It would’ve been cozier with you here.’

  After hitting send, he pocketed the phone. Walking toward the refrigerator, he helped himself to leftovers, and after eating, stepped into the shower to wash away the grime of one shift, in preparation for the next. One final glance at his phone display promised to be as disappointing as the ones which had preceded it, but when a message illuminated the screen, Peter stopped his preparations and hurried to load the remainder of the text.

  ‘Had to stop by for a change of clothing. Staying looked inviting, love. Please promise you’ll save a spot for me when I can see you again.’

  Peter stared at the message. When a sickening feeling lingered in his stomach after reading it once, he read it a second time, trying to figure out what about it left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Standing in the middle of Christian’s room, with his used scrubs laid out on the bed and a towel wrapped around his waist, Peter sat slowly on the mattress and considered the text.

  ‘When you can see me again?’ he finally typed, hitting send afterward.

  It didn’t feel right, he thought.

  It didn’t feel right at all.

  Frowning, he swiped the screen away from the text messages, into the place where his phone contacts were stored. When he found the number for work, he pressed the button, waiting until someone picked up on the other line before affecting a weak tone of voice. “Yeah,” he said, murmuring both that word and the ones which followed. “I need to talk to Chloe Poole, please. Tell her it’s Peter.”

  When the girl on the other end of the line placed him on hold, he stood and padded his way to the walk-in closet on the far side of the room. Opening the door, he strode far enough into the sea of clothing for him to find the light. Once the darkness had been dispelled, a variety of options presented themselves to him. Distantly, he wondered if anything inside would fit.

  Chloe caught him halfway through wondering if he’d have time to run to his apartment for something to wear. “Hi, doll,” she said. “When do I get to see your smiling face tonight?”

  Peter affected the somber, illness-addled voice again. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said. “I know we’re scheduled for a date, but I’m wondering if Ravi or June would switch with me again. Something knocked me off my feet when I got home and I’ve only crawled far enough to make it to the bathroom.”

  “Oh, ouch. I hope you didn’t get what those twins who came in at 3 in the morning had. We had to put the one on an IV.”

  “Nah. No.” Peter cleared his throat. “I’m double-fisting electrolytes in-between dizzy spells.” Wandering toward where a collection of button-down shirts hung, he slid past the first few until he reached a portion which looked larger in size. Plucking one out, he held it up against his torso. “If nobody’s available, I could stumble in, but I promise I wouldn’t be good for anyone.”

  “No, I think we could probably convince Ravi in here, at the very least. Though you know you’ll never hear the end of it.” Chloe sighed. Whether she believed the story being told to her, Peter could hear the notes of acceptance in her voice, presented if only to communicate her understanding. “I’ll handle it for you, dear. You go crawl back into bed. Do you have a shift tomorrow night?”

  “It’s my first night off. Tell Ravi to call me if he needs me to cover.”

  “I will. Goodnight, Dr. Dawes.”

  The customary click of her hanging up the phone preceded Peter pocketing his. When the shirt passed his preliminary examination, he slid the fabric from its hanger and walked back out of the closet and digging through his backpack yielded a clean pair of underwear and a spare pair of jeans. Within a few minutes, he had an outfit assembled and with one glance in the mirror, he decided it would have to do for the boyfriend of a hitman.

  Perking an eyebrow at that thought, he rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a bottle of gel. Once he’d run the product through his hair, he cleared himself to head out.

  The security guard at the desk nodded at him in recognition as he
strode toward the entryway. Exchanging the gesture, he felt inside his pockets one last time for his wallet and keys before heading out onto the city streets again. November had been mild, but the sun still threatened to set in the horizon, making the mid-afternoon look much later than the clock suggested. Stealing a quick glance at his iPhone, Peter saw no response from Christian, which made him only more determined to see through his course of action.

  Even if it made his sense of self-preservation waver a little.

  Peter sighed, walking down the street until a taxi passed him where he stood. When another followed in its wake, he waved it down and climbed inside, describing the neighborhood where Christian’s bar lay. Throughout the journey away from Rittenhouse, Peter spent the time both reconsidering his actions and solidifying his commitment to pressing forward. Here lay a world he knew nothing about, with people whose reputations should have his blood running cold, and he was about to ask them the whereabouts of an assassin.

  “Should probably reexamine my life choices after tonight,” he murmured, quiet so the taxi driver couldn’t hear him. While only intended facetiously, Peter mulled on the statement long enough to realize he might find himself considering it more seriously by the end of the night, depending on how much of a direct threat to his person he faced. Taking a deep breath, Peter watched Center City turn into Northern Liberties and tensed when they hit a patch of traffic. When they entered Kensington, enough time had passed for him to work up his share of nerves.

  His share, and the share of somebody else, he thought while walking through Northeast Philadelphia.

  It didn’t take long for him to find the corner where the bar lay. The sun had almost fully dipped into the horizon, and the intruding darkness made the neon signs stand out, their glow beckoning him closer to the establishment. He read the advertised selections like he had the first night; this time more to procrastinate and less to sate his own curiosity. Another deep breath preempted him walking up to the front doors of the bar and even then, his hand hovered first before gripping onto the metal handle. Pulling the door open, he strode inside before he could reconsider.

  When the door swung shut behind him, Peter found himself the center of attention. The bartender lifted his head, peering up at Peter, while several of the people who were playing pool in the back turned around to look at him. He flashed a smile at them, walking to the wooden counter before he could stop himself and settling onto one of the stools.

  The bartender raised an eyebrow and wandered over to him. Chestnut-haired and trim, he resembled the man who had been tending bar the night Peter visited only in build. “What can I get you?” he asked, revealing a Southern drawl.

  “If you have Yuengling, that’ll work,” Peter said.

  The request prompted a nod. As the bartender lowered a glass from overhead, turning it around while walking to the tap, Peter used the opportunity to appraise the people there. While he couldn’t spot Christian in the crowd, one of the men looked like a patron who had been there during his last visit and provided at least a small glimmer of hope that somebody there might have seen Christian recently. Peter saw no sign of Roland, either, but he guessed that was probably good, all things considered.

  “Gonna break your neck cranin’ it like that,” the bartender interrupted, drawing Peter’s focus back to him. When Peter shifted in his stool to face the counter again, he caught the other man still evaluating him with an upturned eyebrow. “A word to the wise. This isn’t your casual sorta place. If you came to people watch, and not to drink beer, you might try the bar on Frankford.”

  “No. I mean…” Peter sighed. “I came here looking for somebody, but no, I’m not people watching. At the same time, I appreciate the warning.”

  “That you needed the warnin’ means you’re either some special brand of crazy or stupid.” A smirk teased at the corners of his mouth. “The name’s Tony. Who’re you lookin’ for?”

  Peter glanced around once more before leaning closer to his beer, lowering his voice. “Do you know a man named Christian Richardson?” he asked.

  Tony barked a laugh. The other patrons shifted their attention back to the bar again, this time only for a fleeting moment. When they’d resumed their activities, Tony bent enough to look Peter in the eye. “You know,” he said, matching Peter’s lowered volume, “Doin’ this looks really conspicuous.” Punctuating the comment with a wink, Tony straightened his posture and resumed talking normally. “Secondly, I can’t tell if you’re actually askin’ me this or if you’re tryin’ to get a rise out of me.”

  “Then you know him?”

  “I know better’n to answer that question, if that’s what you mean.”

  Peter nodded, lifting the beer and taking a sip. Tony watched him, remaining in place like a sentry trying to determine if he should even let Peter finish his drink before kicking him out. “I get it, I do,” Peter said. “But this is important. I think he might be in trouble.”

  “Hypothetically speakin’, if I knew him, I’d say he lives in the Commonwealth of Trouble. That bein’ said, considerin’ it’s obvious you’re not from any of the mob families in the area, I’m really curious about what spaceship you flew in here from.”

  “Kid’s his new boy toy,” a gruff voice interrupted. “Who’s apparently stupider than the medical degree would suggest.”

  Tony looked up at him first before Peter summoned the gumption to twist around in his stool, with the intention of making eye contact. A hand rested on Peter’s shoulder before he could, however, the man adding, “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m planning on sitting.” As he settled on the stool beside Peter, Roland came into view, settling in his seat to face Peter.

  “Can I get you anythin’, boss?” Tony asked.

  “Shot of whiskey for the kid. The rest of the bottle for me.”

  Breathing a chuckle, Tony turned to fill the order. Peter watched him wander away before daring to look the other man in the eye. His gaze shifted immediately to the ugly scar before settling on the rest of his face. If Roland was aware of that, he chose to ignore it. “So, what brings you here looking for our boy?” he asked, leaning an elbow on the counter.

  His hand still clutching onto the glass, Peter brought the beer to his lips, stalling by taking a sip. “Well, I,” he began, pausing to collect himself before starting over again. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of Christian and he hasn’t been responding. It had me a little worried.”

  “He blew you off and now you’re worried?” Roland snorted. “Whoo boy. Please tell me you’re not one of those one-night stands who doesn’t know how to take a hint.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t think I’d run from a bar with him and still screw him if I didn’t detect a little emotional investment from him. Especially after learning what he does for a living.”

  From some hidden storehouse of courage, Peter continued making eye contact with Roland, despite knowing he had decided to attempt sassy with a man who earned money killing people. Swallowing down a healthy amount of his beer, Peter set the glass back down and refused to look away, sensing the other man testing his mettle and realizing if there was any time to pretend being worldlier than he was, this was the moment. He’d treated people with broken limbs and blood spurting all over the floor. He’d watched people die and brought people back to life. If nothing else, Peter clung to that while Roland weighed him.

  Once he had finished, Roland snorted, thanking Tony when he brought a bottle of Bushmills and two shot glasses. Taking the cap off the bottle himself, he filled both shot glasses and slid one over to Peter, taking the other one in hand. “Christian is slipping,” he said. “Didn’t want to acknowledge it and yet here it is, staring me in the eyeballs.” Shaking his head, he downed the shot without so much as a wince, prompting Peter to do the same. The alcohol burned, and a cough stuck in Peter’s throat, mercifully staying in place while Peter regrouped. Before he could refuse, Roland poured him another. “So, you know what he does.”

  “On
ly speaking in general terms.” Peter lifted the shot glass, not to be outdone. Downing this shot proved easier than the one which preceded it. “It’s not like he gave me a list of contracts and clients.”

  “Comforting. Already thought he was getting soft with the lawyer. You’re making me think he’s lost his marbles completely.” Sighing, he disposed of his shot and poured another, filling Peter’s glass again. “Kid, you shouldn’t be here right now, period. Whatever the hell you and Christian talk about in bed is up to you two and quite frankly, the less I know about that, the better. If he’s laying low, it’s for a damn good reason.” Roland drank down his second shot and grinned. “You ran to his place of work looking for him. Just so you know.”

  “I know I did. I had a bad feeling about it, though.” Peter sighed. This time, he held back on drinking down his third offering of whiskey, feeling the two he’d already consumed muddling his thoughts. “Some guy named Mark Talbot wound up in the hospital during one of my shifts. I remembered him being one of the people after Christian and I was afraid…”

  “Wait a minute, kid,” Roland said, interrupting. “Mark Talbot is in town?”

  “Yes. Multiple stab wounds, though all were non-fatal. They released him within twenty-four hours.”

  “Fuck.” Roland took a deep breath inward and drank down more whiskey, not looking nearly as affected by the alcohol as Peter had begun to feel. He shook his head, setting down the depleted shot glass. “If he was going after him, then he’s stupider than I realized.”

  “I know he wanted to talk to Christian the other night.”

  “Talk is one way of putting it.” Roland frowned, his gaze shifting back to Peter after having briefly retreated. Opening his mouth to make a comment, he thought the better of whatever it was and shook his head, lifting to a stand. “This is well above your pay grade. You’re entering into a world of ugly you want no part of, because this part doesn’t take you to bed afterward, am I clear?” He held the gaze steady, hoping to underscore a point as much with his eyes as he did with his words. Reaching forward, he patted Peter’s shoulder again. “Drinks are on me. Crawl your way back home and be patient. If Christian got himself in the middle of a pile of shit, then leave it to him to dig his way out.”