by John Inman
To control his rising hate and growing fear, he groped for Dilly’s hand and clutched it tightly inside his. Dilly edged closer, and that gave Boz the extra courage he needed to keep his emotions under control. It wasn’t easy, but he tried to ratchet down the tension.
“I didn’t see your car outside,” he ventured, hoping he sounded calm. Conversational.
Bobby narrowed his eyes as if he knew exactly what Boz was doing. “I stashed it in the trees farther down the lane. Wanted to surprise you.”
Boz didn’t answer.
Bobby glanced down at the box cutter in his hand, then back to Boz. “So are you surprised?”
Boz’s voice sounded emotionless in his own ears. Flat, as if all feeling had been sifted from it, like flour through a sieve. He squeezed Dilly’s hand as he uttered, “Somehow not as surprised as you’d think.”
Bobby offered up a mocking frown. “Aww. And I did so want to catch the two of you off guard.” He pouted grandly. “Are you saying I didn’t?”
“No,” Boz answered. “You didn’t. Not really. I think I’ve known for a long time that you’d come after us. It’s the drugs making you do it, you know. Everything you think is wrong with your life is brought about by the crystal meth you can’t seem to leave alone. You’re too addicted to see that it’s killing you.”
“I’m still alive enough to do what I have to do.”
“And what is that, Bobby? What is it you think you have to do?”
To Boz’s horror, Bobby dragged the tip of the box cutter blade across the back of his own hand. All three sets of eyes in the room stared at the blood welling up from Bobby’s wound. It flowed across the back of Bobby’s hand and dripped from his fingertips into his lap.
Bobby lifted his eyes from the bleeding gash and gazed blankly at first Dilly, then Boz.
“A preview of things to come,” Bobby softly muttered. He clenched his injured hand into a fist, and the blood ran quicker.
Boz took a step forward. “Stop!” he gasped, but Bobby merely continued to clench and unclench his hand, causing the blood to flow more freely.
To Boz’s own horrified amazement, he heard himself say, “Put the box cutter down, Bobby. Let me wrap your hand with a dish towel. I’ll drive you to the emergency room. You need stitches.”
He made a move to reach for a towel, for anything to stop the bleeding, but Bobby lifted the box cutter in his good hand and aimed it directly at Boz’s chest. “If you move from where you’re standing, I’ll cut your heart out.” Dilly grabbed Boz’s shirt and pulled him back. “Baby,” Dilly muttered, “don’t. Let the fucker bleed to death if he wants.”
Bobby threw his head back and laughed at that. He didn’t just laugh—he howled. He brayed. His reaction was so over the top, it served to shock Boz more than anything else that had happened so far. It was at that instant that Boz realized how unhinged Bobby Mayfield really was.
And how dangerous.
A fresh flurry of rain clattered across the tin roof. Lightning snapped and sizzled, followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud and sharp and close at hand that it rattled the cabin windows and made everybody jump.
As if that last blast of lightning had stirred everyone to life, Bobby unfolded himself from the chair and rose to take a step toward Boz. Bobby ignored his wounded hand as blood spattered the floor at his feet. His eyes were centered solely on Boz. There was self-pity in his eyes now. Boz could see it there, burning inside the black holes of his dilated pupils. Mixed with the self-pity was anger and sadness and hatred. And over everything, as if none of this was his fault at all, a desperate hopelessness brought about by the circumstances he now found himself in.
It was the hopelessness that scared Boz most.
His gaze traveled down to the box cutter clenched in Bobby’s uninjured hand, the blade now smeared with Bobby’s blood.
Seeing where his gaze had traveled, Bobby grinned and lifted the blade, holding it straight out in front of him, aimed directly at Boz’s eyes.
Chapter Forty-Five
BOBBY’S NERVES were more than frayed. They were in fucking tatters from the months-long ingestion of crystal meth, and tattered even further by his current need for additional meth, which he didn’t have. Because of his fragile state, his reaction to the last splintering crash of lightning was almost a parody of fear. He shrank in upon himself, cowering beneath the unexpected explosion of sound and light that seared his eyes and jarred his brain. His terror was so sharp that he cried out, his vision darkening for a second like maybe he was going to pass out. It took a good deal of willpower, to pull himself out of the shock and get a handle on the situation before he unraveled completely. In an attempt to make light of his startled reaction and maybe save face in the process, he smiled a garish smile and raised the box cutter, leveling it to within an inch of Boz’s brilliant blue eyes. There he let it hover, the blade reflecting orange sparks from the flames on the grate. Horror spread across Boz’s face, and while it pleased Bobby to see it there, at the same time it shamed him. Without warning, weakness flooded through him. He was on the brink of losing control, losing impetus. What he had set out to do seemed not so important anymore. Suddenly, his legs were rubber, his muscles limp. They trembled on the bone like overboiled meat. He needed sleep. He needed food. But more than anything, he needed another fat line of meth to smooth the edges from what was quickly becoming a textbook case of out-and-out fucking withdrawal. He had experienced withdrawal before. He knew what awaited him, and it wasn’t pretty.
Truth be told, he didn’t even care about the two queers in front of him anymore. They were simply a distraction, a roadblock to what he really needed. Another hit, another line. That was what mattered now. Another slow burn as meth’s blessed fire seared a path through the inflamed tissue of his nasal passages, traveling deeper and deeper until the fire scored his brain, where it would gnaw away, eating him alive, devouring his sad existence, his mediocrity, burying him under a blanketing numbness that only his addiction—his precious meth—could ever supply.
Bobby stumbled as his vision swam. He stared down at his injured hand. He suspected the bleeding had something to do with his sudden weakness. Why had he cut himself, for Christ’s sake? Had it been a ridiculous attempt to appear macho? Was he trying to make an impression? He didn’t have a clue. It was kind of funny really. He was here to do in the two faggots, so why was he slicing himself to pieces instead?
The words spilled from Bobby’s mouth before he knew they were coming. “It’s time to end this.”
Boz backed away from the box cutter blade, which Bobby still held within inches of his eye. He edged sideways to stand in front of the little faggot beside him. Bobby knew Boz. He knew what he was doing. He was going into protective mode. As if he thought he could really stop what was about to happen. As if he really thought he could protect this scrawny fucker that he pretended to love.
Bobby’s vision blurred from a shimmer of rising tears. Through the blur he saw Boz clutch at the little guy behind him. Holding him back, keeping him close. He knew in that moment that Boz really did love the man next to him. And it was that realization that almost sapped the last of his energy, stomping at Bobby’s poor fragile heart like a jackboot.
“Why did you do it?” he breathed, his voice weak and fluttering. “Why did you leave me, Boz? Why did you hurt me like that?”
Boz stood before him, clearly unmoved by Bobby’s words. He seemed to have found his courage all of a sudden. Bobby could see it in the coldness of his eyes. That coldness, more than anything, tore at Bobby’s heart. Beside Boz, the little faggot was looking desperately eager to act, to do something, to either fight back or run screaming into the trees, whichever his courage allowed. But all he did in the end was stand there and shiver in terror, which was about what Bobby expected. Dilly’s cowardice sickened Bobby. At least Boz was standing up to him. He had no time to worry about the other one, the coward. It was Boz Bobby cared about.
He pushed all thoug
hts of Dilly aside and concentrated on Boz. After all, the little one wasn’t a threat. And it was Boz Bobby had come here to punish.
To Bobby’s surprise, Boz gently cleared his throat. He uttered his words slowly and precisely, as if speaking them to a child. Bobby stared at Boz’s lips as he spoke. His voice was strong now. There was no fear in Boz’s eyes anymore. He seemed to really feel a need to explain. To make Bobby understand.
“I loved you once, Bobby. You know I did. But the drugs changed you. By the time you were truly addicted, your whole personality had already died. You weren’t who you used to be. You became something ugly. Your gentleness drowned beneath the drugs, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. There was nothing I could do to save you. I lost my grip, and you slipped away. Suddenly you weren’t there for me anymore. You were there only for the drugs.”
“But I loved you,” Bobby rasped, tears now filling his eyes. Blood drops tapped at his shoe as they dripped from his wounded hand. Oddly, there was no pain from the cut. The only pain Bobby felt came from a deeper place. It came from the cold, unfeeling sheen in Boz’s eyes and from the words that Boz spoke through tight, unsmiling lips. Lips that had once pleased Bobby so much. Lips that had once spoken gentle words and made gentle love. A burst of brand-new pain surged through Bobby every time Boz’s icy gaze fell on him.
And with every surge of pain, Bobby’s anger increased.
“I know you loved me,” Boz replied, his eyes softening. “But you loved the drugs more. You know you did. There was nothing I could do to help you. Or to help us. And then the cruelty began. I can’t begin to tell you how many times you hurt me. Physically. Mentally. Your anger, your contempt, was…. unstoppable. It constantly came out of nowhere.” Boz seemed to suddenly find his own anger. His lips thinned, his eyes narrowed. “You raped me, Bobby. Do you have any idea how that feels? To be raped? To be violated? And by someone who is supposed to love you? Someone who is supposed to protect you? Do you have any idea what that does to a person?”
Boz’s voice cracked, and his words slipped into silence. In the hush, a warm tear slide down Bobby’s cheek. His breath hitched, and he bit back a sob. The anger he had been holding in suddenly erupted in full force. He knew Boz was right. He knew it. But still the anger exploded within him. Anger at Boz. Anger at himself. Anger at the never-ending need for the drugs still ripping him to shreds even at this very fucking minute.
A feral scream tore out of him. In blind agony and madness, he lunged forward with the box cutter. Surprising even himself, Bobby switched targets at the last moment, veering away from the man he loved. Veering away from Boz.
Slicing the razor-sharp blade through the air in front of him, he spun to the right, slashing the blade across Dilly’s chest instead. Scoring his flesh. And in that instant, when Dilly’s blood began to seep through the cloth of his torn shirt, everyone froze in shock.
Even the storm seemed to stumble into silence.
Chapter Forty-Six
WITH BOZ’S cry of “No!” ringing in his ears, Dilly had a split-second to react when he saw the blade swing his way. He roughly pushed Boz clear, making him stumble, throwing him to his knees. A nanosecond later, the box cutter’s clean cutting edge, needle sharp, pared through Dilly’s shirtfront, slicing the fabric as neatly as a seamstress’s scissors. Dilly had shrunk away from the charging blade far enough to avoid the deep gash across his chest Mayfield clearly meant to deliver, but not far enough away to escape damage altogether.
The tip of the box cutter blade was as keen as a laser. It tore a paper-thin slash, six inches long, across his chest. Dilly stared down in shock as the wound welled with blood. He cried out in pain and slapped Bobby’s arm hard, dislodging the blade from his hand, sending the box cutter bouncing across the cabin floor.
In the same instant, while Mayfield stood helplessly watching his one and only weapon slide away under the couch, Dilly ignored the agony in his chest and lunged toward the fireplace. With his bare hands, he snatched the red-hot pot of boiling water from the hook it hung on. Bellowing in outrage at the all new flurry of pain searing his fingertips, he flung the pot across the room. The steaming hot water sluiced through the air, the brunt of it splashing Mayfield in the face, just as Dilly intended.
Mayfield screamed like a banshee. “My eyes!” Cursing and wailing in fury and pain, he spun back around and groped forward to grab Dilly by the neck. At that moment Dilly spotted Boz scrambling across the floor on his hands and knees, trying to rise to his feet. He gripped the back of a kitchen chair and pulled himself up while Mayfield still clutched at Dilly’s throat. Searching desperately for a weapon, Boz grabbed the burning kerosene lamp off the table, spun around, and threw himself forward. With a bellow of anger, he brought the lamp crashing down on Mayfield’s head, shattering the glass bowl and sending a cascade of burning kerosene over Mayfield’s back and shoulders.
As Mayfield screamed and writhed, the flames spread and grew, billowing up to the ceiling. Dilly wrenched himself free from Mayfield’s grip and away from the heat. Within the orange ball of fire encompassing his six-foot-five frame, Dilly read nothing but panic and terror on Mayfield’s blistering face. His eyes shone a cloudy gray, sightless and terrified, clearly blinded forever by the boiling water Dilly had flung in his face. Mayfield’s other injuries, including the raw red skin already sloughing from his cheeks, came from the burning kerosene eating into his flesh and igniting his clothes in blossoms of hungry flame.
Another scream erupted from Mayfield’s throat as he ran blindly forward, his arms swinging wildly in front of him. He crashed into a wall and fell sideways, hitting the floor hard. He balled himself into a fetal position, whimpering in pain as the flames continued to lick at his back, his chest, his face. In that instant, Boz grabbed Dilly from behind and pulled him toward the cabin door.
Dilly wrenched free and dove under the counter at the back of the cabin to retrieve both pets. He was rewarded for his kindness by a long scratch on his forearm from Grace, and a nip on the little finger from Leon. Still, he hugged both animals to his bloodied chest, and sprinted off, once again in Boz’s arms, to crash through the front door. They cleared the front steps and ran out into the cleansing rain, fleeing the stench of burning flesh. Once they were free of the cabin, a sizzling streak of lightning sliced across the sky above their heads, stopping them in their tracks.
From inside the cabin, they heard a plaintive scream. The sound was so horrifying, Dilly dropped the pets and clapped his hands over his ears to block it out.
Beside him, Boz scooped up the frightened animals, took Dilly by the arm, and led him farther from the cabin, back toward the car. They climbed inside out of the rain, and once there, Dilly broke down completely. He wept and wept as if his heart would break.
While Boz eased Dilly’s torn shirt apart to examine the damage that lay beneath, Dilly continued to cry, never once taking his hands from Boz’s face, from Boz’s hair, clutching at him like a drowning man trying to stay afloat in a bottomless, heaving sea.
Boz worked his way into Dilly’s line of sight, and said, “You’re safe, baby. You’re safe.” At the sound of his voice, Dilly leaned forward and burrowed deep into Boz’s arms. There, his weeping finally stilled.
Breathless now, still trembling with adrenaline and shock, he stared over Boz’s shoulder at the smoke billowing from the open cabin door. Through the smoke, orange flames began to eat at the cabin’s walls. Above their heads, the storm raised its voice from the heavens, bounding through the treetops, skimming the mountaintop beyond.
From inside the cabin came only a single engulfing sound—the thunderous roar of fire and flames. Of Bobby, Dilly heard no more. He couldn’t remember when the screaming had stopped and the fire took over. But he knew what it meant.
He knew exactly what it meant.
He closed his eyes and listened to the raindrops pound the roof of the car. Gathering the pets together, he tucked them between himself and Boz. Giving them shelter. M
aking them safe. Above the distant thunder, Grace’s contented purring competed with the grumbling storm.
When it was Boz’s turn to cry, Dilly held him close.
Softly, with his lips to Boz’s ear, Dilly whispered the same words Boz had offered him. “You’re safe now. It’s over. He won’t ever hurt you again.”
Epilogue
THE ROOM was ablaze with flowers. There were so many bouquets and arrangements, they swamped every available surface—in vases, drinking glasses, hospital-issue water pitchers, and the sort of generic decorative containers doled out by florists worldwide. Boz thought the room smelled like a garden. Except for the underlying hospital smells, of course.
He and Dilly were on the third floor of Mercy Hospital, up the hill from downtown San Diego and not far from their own homes. A bank of windows overlooked a parking lot that still lay puddled and sparkling from the latest cloudburst. The room was private, with only one bed. Beside the bed sat a wheelchair. Puffer sat in the wheelchair, his long skinny legs folded up in front of him, knees high like a spider. His girlfriend, Estelle, lay in the bed. They both looked a little worse for wear, but still, they were holding hands.
Just as Boz was holding Dilly’s.
Boz thought it a little unfair that he was the only one in the room without injuries. After all, it was his crazy ex who started all this. You’d think Boz would have come away with a black eye at least, or a fat lip. He did have a skinned knee from when Dilly pushed him out of the way during Mayfield’s box cutter attack, but it was so minor he didn’t dare mention it. Boz figured he deserved at least some sort of major discomfort, considering all the misery he had dragged everybody else through.
Dilly’s left hand, the one Boz wasn’t holding, was wrapped in a gauze mitten to protect the burns he’d received when he threw the pot of boiling water in Bobby’s face. Hidden beneath his shirt, he sported a bandage and twelve stitches, holding together the six-inch gash across his chest. During the fight back at the cabin, Dilly had broken his new glasses. Lost them entirely, in fact, leaving them behind in the fire so that even Gorilla Tape couldn’t resurrect them this time. As always, Dilly’s face appeared childlike and bare without them, his brown eyes too big for his features, like they were on the mornings when he woke up in Boz’s arms. Yet even with all that, and quite possibly because of all that, Boz thought he had never seen a sweeter and more handsome specimen of manhood. It was a struggle not to lose himself in Dilly’s great, wide, myopically squinting eyes every time he looked his way. And he was equally in danger every time Dilly looked back.
