Only Keep You

by JD Chambers

  In a few minutes, I’ll be home and I’ll get the safety and security of the real thing. Not the man, but the collar. Although, if I’m lucky, the man too. Hopefully he’s missing me as much as I miss him and shows up after his brother’s barbecue.

  Since I’m on the drunk side of tipsy – I think my singing “Lurve, lurve, lurve” like a Beatle’s song is the deciding factor – I’m going to call an Uber instead of driving myself home. I’ll just go double-check and make sure that my car is all locked up. I open the app and input the Game Over location for a pick-up.

  My ride is three minutes away. Wonderful.

  Employees always park in the alley behind Game Over for work so that we don’t take up the prime parking spots along College Avenue. It’s habit now, I guess, because that’s where I always park whenever I come hang out in Old Town. No time limits or parking fees. And I know Ted will call if he arrives in the morning and sees my car still here, just to make sure I’m okay. It’s happened on countless occasions. Kind of like having a nice older brother looking out for you.

  I reach the car and lean against it for a second, enjoying the brief respite from the dizziness that has only gotten worse the longer I’ve stood there. I straighten up to check that the back door is locked, when my head slams against the door so hard that stars burst behind my eyelids. I slide down to my ass, no longer able to fight gravity.

  My head throbs, and I rest on all fours, leaning my head against my folded arms. The world still sways, but I try to hold still to keep the spinning and throbbing at bay. It doesn’t help, and my beers and those ridiculous cherry bombs come back up onto the pavement underneath me.

  “Give me your wallet.”

  It’s then that I feel something hard pressing against the back of my head, and I realize that I didn’t hit my head against the door because of drunkenness.

  “No prob,” I slur and press my palms to the car to pull myself to my feet, coming face-to-mask with my attacker. He’s bigger than me, but I know not to fight him anyway. It’s only money. I almost toss out that he can take my car too but bite my tongue. My POS car is probably more of a hassle than it’s worth. Plus, it’s a stick shift.

  “Can you drive a stick shift?”

  He doesn’t answer, just thrusts the gun again in my direction.

  I prop myself up against the car and reach into my back pocket. My phone.

  “Drop it.”

  “Sorry,” I slur and do as he says, praying the fall doesn’t shatter my screen. “Priorities.”

  He tenses up. I see it in his posture. Well, dumbass, that’s what you get when you try to mug a drunk guy. And give him what is most likely a concussion.

  I reach into my other pocket and pull out my wallet. He snatches it with his gun-free hand and starts to stuff it into his hoodie.

  Wait, my tag. He can have whatever the fuck he wants, but not my tag. I try to say the words, but my brain is still foggy from the alcohol and the hard slam to the car door. But I need my tag. I try to plead and reach for the wallet back, but in my state, it’s more of a lunge, and even in the dark, even behind a mask, I suddenly see more whites of his eyes as I surprise my attacker.

  A deafening bang reverberates through the alley, followed by pain in my gut.

  You know in cartoons, when the point of view is set to only show someone’s feet running away? That’s what my focus narrows to. The white sneakers running away from me, the sound of the gravel crunching with each footfall. The edges of my vision blur so that it really looks like I’m watching it happen and not experiencing it myself.

  Once the feet are gone, I have nothing left to focus on, except how cold I suddenly am. And how tired. And why in the world is my t-shirt suddenly wet and clinging to my stomach? It’s not even raining.

  My hand automatically reaches for my wallet, for the comfort of the tag, but the twisting sends a gut-wrenching pain through my side. I vomit again, even though there’s not much left to come back up. My nostrils burn, whether from bile or the funny burnt smell that’s giving me a headache. Maybe a nap is the best course of action.

  Yeah, I just need a quick nap.

  14

  Arthur

  The barbecue is similar to Westley’s birthday. No beer, yes stoner friends. Except this time, they open the door to the patio and grill some brats and hot dogs, and tofu dogs for Dromi. Westley even tries grilling corn on the cob, but he didn’t know to soak them first and the kernels are still a little tough. He and his friends don’t seem to notice, although I can’t fake it enough to continue eating it out of politeness.

  Westley’s patio opens onto a green space shared by all of the apartments. Other residents have similar ideas today, grilling and playing and enjoying the holiday. One group of guys and a dog play Frisbee. One young girl tries to fly a kite, but there’s not enough wind, and she fails miserably. She carries the tangled mess back inside, crying to her parents. We spend the afternoon relaxing, stuffing our faces, and playing games. Dromi tries to get us to start a round of Magic the Gathering, while Chris wants to play croquet. He brought a set and everything. Westley has a strange assortment of friends. When Terry, Rohit, and I were in college, a barbecue for us would have included Lady Gaga, wine coolers, and dancing. Come to think of it, we were probably a pretty strange assortment as well back then.

  “What happened to your boyfriend? Too ashamed of your little brother to bring him along?” Westley asks as we watch Daniel and Dromi chasing Chris around the lawn with croquet mallets.

  “Yuens don’t fish for compliments,” I say in my pretend Dad voice. “We earn them.” Westley snorts. “Dave had to be in the parade this morning, so he couldn’t make it.”

  “Sure. I think you’re making him up.”

  “I am not making him up. He exists.”

  “Okay, then let’s see a picture.”

  I have pictures of Dave, but they’re all from Pride, where you can clearly see his collar and leash, and many show his hood. Not that I’m trying to hide it, but I haven’t asked Dave yet if he’s okay with me sharing.

  When I hesitate, Westley laughs. “See? He’s so fake, you don’t even have a fake picture to try to sell him to me.”

  “I don’t need to sell you. We’re meeting up later. I’ll send you one then,” I tell him. “But when you see how adorable he is and want a Dave of your own, don’t blame me.”

  “Sure. Speaking of Yuens, Mom and Dad called the other day.”

  “What?” Westley’s lawn chairs are the rickety metal frame kind, and my surprise almost has mine folding underneath me. “What did they want?”

  “Nothing,” he says, reaching into his cooler and pulling out sodas for us both. “They said that they missed me and wanted to see how I was doing.”

  No one called to see how I was doing, but I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man and it seems petulant to dwell on that fact.

  “And that was it?”

  “Yeah. They mentioned taking a vacation down to Florida next month, which was weird.”

  “Very weird. They haven’t gone on vacation since …”

  “That medical museum in Philly.”

  I shudder at the memory. That place freaked me the fuck out.

  “Maybe they’re mellowing out in their old age?” It would be a miracle. And about twenty years too late, in my case, but if it means good things for Westley, then I’m all for it.

  “Maybe,” he says, taking a sip from his soda and watching his friends run around like idiots. “And if not, at least I’ve got you.”

  I extend a fist and he bumps it.

  There’s hardly any daylight left when I drive back home from Westley’s barbecue. He invited me to stay for the fireworks – apparently the roof of his apartment has a great view – but I miss Dave.

  By the time I make it to Dave’s apartment, the daylight is totally gone, and a small part of me hopes that he’s home waiting for me. I know he went out with friends tonight, but I can admit to being selfish and wanting to monopolize Dave
’s time.

  I let myself in with the key Dave made for me since I spend so much time over here anyway. After several knocks and no answer, I assume he’s still out having fun.

  I kick off my shoes and arrange them neatly by the front door. The fridge has nothing but beer, so I grab a glass of water and some of the already-popped white cheddar popcorn from his pantry. I pull up an old episode of Drag Race on Hulu and settle in to watch, making myself at home. Funny how I now think of Dave’s apartment, with its thrift store mishmash décor, as home more than my own perfectly styled duplex.

  I must have dozed off a bit, because Alyssa Edward’s tongue pop almost startles me off the couch. Still no Dave. I clean up after myself and shut off the TV, before stripping down to my briefs. At least I can take a little nap before he gets home.

  I’m once again startled awake, but I have no idea what caused it this time. My phone tells me it’s three thirty in the morning.

  “Dave?”

  I ignore the texts I’ve gotten from my brother, and search for ones from Dave, but there are no new texts from this evening. Willing them to be there doesn’t make it so.

  I flip on the lamp beside the bed, but the apartment still looks exactly as it did three hours ago.

  Arthur: Are you coming home soon?

  It shows that the text was delivered, but it never changes to read, so I dial his number and get his voice mail.

  Fuck.

  On the one hand, I’m sure he’s fine and I’m just overreacting.

  On the other, I need to be sure.

  After my internal debate wastes another fifteen minutes, I get dressed and get in my car. We’ve been dating for months now, so I know where Dave parks when he goes out. I also know the bars and restaurants where he tends to go, although every place will be closed by now. But maybe if I see his car, I’ll know he’s at least safe and probably crashing on a friend’s couch, sleeping off his night.

  The night is eerily quiet, and it takes no time at all to make it to Old Town. Dread has been eating away at me all evening. Before I turn onto the cross street that meets the alley to the Game Over employee parking lot, I’m already greeted by red and blue flashing lights bouncing off nearby buildings. Dread turns to panic as I park on a side street and rush toward the alley.

  A man in a blue uniform stops me. It’s then that I notice the yellow tape.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this is a crime scene. You can’t come back here.”

  “But that’s my boyfriend’s car,” I gasp, pointing to Dave’s old coupe. “Did something happen to him? Is he okay?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Arthur Yuen.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Yuen, but we aren’t releasing any details at the moment.”

  I search the scene for signs of Dave, but only see cops milling around, and ...

  “Ted!”

  The man’s head jolts upward from his deep discussion with another officer. I wave to get his attention, and the panic in my stomach turns to terror when I see his haggard expression.

  “Arthur, you need to go to the hospital,” Ted tells me by the time he reaches the police tape.

  “What happened?”

  “Dave was shot. I don’t know how he’s doing. I was only notified because it happened in my parking lot,” he says, his hands rubbing his head like he can wipe the evening from his brain manually. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  My limbs feel like ice, and my hands shake, but I manage to get myself to the hospital in one piece. After what feels like an eternity of trying to find parking, I finally make it to the emergency room, only to be blocked by the front desk.

  “If you aren’t family, we can’t give you any information. You can take a seat in the waiting room.”

  I wait alone for hours, until a little after six o’clock, when Ted and a redheaded man arrive.

  “How is he?” the man asks.

  “I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything.”

  Ted heads over to the desk and the redhead sits down next to me and takes my hand.

  “I’m Kieran, by the way. Ted’s boyfriend. Not some random grabber of stranger’s hands.” I try to smile at his attempt at humor but can’t manage it.

  When Ted finally returns, he sits on my other side and takes hold of that hand. I wish I could say that their presence warms me up, but it doesn’t. I’m as cold and scared as I have been all night long.

  “He’s in surgery right now. He was in critical condition when he came in. That’s all she can tell me.”

  The words soak into my already exhausted mind and I deflate into the uncomfortable and scratchy emergency room chair. Kieran reaches up and wipes at my cheeks with his thumb. I didn’t even feel the tears.

  “Why did she tell you and not Arthur?” he asks Ted as he continues his ministrations of me.

  “The policeman who took my statement said he’d call ahead for me. Wasn’t sure it would do any good, but he wanted to help. Nice guy. I wish there was more I could do to help them.”

  I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but soon the waiting room fills up with more friends of Dave, most of whom I don’t recognize. One man with glasses says he’s Craig’s boyfriend, and I would recognize Craig if he were here, because he brings Game Over deposits to the bank. But apparently, he’s opening the store so Ted can stay here.

  A little bit later, a man and woman come in and Kieran overhears them tell the woman at the front desk that they are Dave’s parents. They look put together, his dad in a suit, his mom in full makeup and perfect hair, dressed like she’s ready to host a society luncheon, or whatever the fuck it is they do. I don’t mean to be so bitter, but after hearing the way they treated Dave growing up, I have sympathy resentment issues.

  Meanwhile, the group of Dave’s friends all look like they were dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, messy hair and mismatched clothes. I think Kieran even has on two different shoes. Red-rimmed eyes all around. The contrast is startling.

  The woman must have mentioned us, because the Taylors turn to survey us, then hastily return to the front desk. When they finish there, they head to the opposite end of the waiting room without another glance in our direction.

  “I’m going to go talk to them,” Ted says, rising from his seat and stretching. We pretend not to hear the loud pop when he twists his back.

  “Good luck,” Kieran says with a wrinkled nose.

  We watch Ted approach, holding out his hand that Dave’s mother turns her nose up at, but Dave’s father shakes. His hold lingers, turning a greeting into a posture, as he hovers by Ted. I think he’s trying to loom over Ted, but Ted’s too damn big. The look on Dave’s father’s face would indicate his words aren’t pleasantries. Beside me, Kieran tenses up and I think he’s about to rush to his boyfriend’s rescue when Ted stands straighter and taller, definitely out-alpha-ing Dave’s dad. I can’t hear what Ted says, but Dave’s parents don’t even attempt to hide their disdain. Seconds later, Ted returns, with Kieran protectively wrapping himself around him.

  It makes my limbs ache for Dave.

  “He’s out of surgery, but they won’t tell us anything else.”

  “They who?” I ask.

  “His parents.”

  “I need some air,” I say and thankfully no one stops me or volunteers to join me as I pass through the automatic doors and pace the sidewalk.

  I need something to do, so as I pace, I pull out my phone and text back my brother, whose earlier texts had teased me about not sending a picture of Dave.

  Westley: Pic?

  Westley: I’m waiting …

  Arthur: He’s in the hospital

  Westley: A likely story

  I can’t. Not over text, so I hit “send” and call my brother.

  “Oh shit, you’re not kidding, are you?”

  “Why would I kid about something like that?”

  “Sorry, I just … do you want me there?”

  I should say no. A stronger man w
ould say no. My parents wouldn’t need anyone else there, but I’m not my parents and right now I don’t feel very strong.

  “Yeah,” I say, as shaky as my breath.

  “I’m on my way.”

  15

  Dave

  Soft voices and beeps first register in my consciousness before anything else, and I ride that sea of half-awareness for an unknown time before finally waking up. Not sure what’s going on, but when I try to move, I can’t. My body won’t respond. Not even to open my mouth and ask what the fuck is going on. All that I can manage is a long whine that I feel as much in my nose as I do the back of my throat.

  A hand strokes my hair, and a woman’s gentle voice tells me to go back to sleep. I’m good with commands, and the world goes dark again.

  This happens several times before I’m conscious enough for the pain to seep past the heavy fog clouding my brain, like bolts of lightning piercing an otherwise heavy darkness.

  Somewhere along the way, someone has explained to me what is happening in that calming voice that keeps me pleasantly floating, but it isn’t sticking. And then I fall back asleep. But this time, it feels like someone has reached into my gut, taken my organs, and squeezed them in a white-hot vise.

  “On a scale of one to ten, what’s your pain level?” the same gentle voice asks, but fuck that. I try to speak, but it takes several tries just to pry my mouth open.

  “Ten,” I croak after three tries.

  She then tries to explain how they’re switching me from one drug to another, but I can’t focus. I just know that it hurts and I want it to stop. Twenty minutes later, the pain has subsided, but the puking has started, even if the only thing coming up at this point is bile. And now my gut aches again.

  I have no idea how long this cycle lasts. The pain, the brief relief, the vomiting. Trying to hide from it all with sleep, only to get woken up again by the pain. It finally sinks in, the words the nurse has been saying. I was shot in the abdomen. Two surgeries and a foot fewer intestines than I had before, and I’m going to be fine. But I don’t feel fine. I’m in constant tears because I just want this to stop. Why won’t it stop?