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  Panic slightly eased, Carl peered out again. The guy remained where he was, gaze fixed on the door, jaw muscles flexing. Tousled brown hair flopped over his forehead, and a hooked nose bore signs the man liked a drink or two, broken red veins prominent. His hooded green eyes gave Carl the creeps, but he stayed his position. No way would some man scare him.

  “What do you want?” Carl asked, his even voice belying the tremor of insecurity nestling in his gut.

  “Gas leak in the building.”

  Carl laughed at the irony. Did everyone use that fucking excuse? “Yeah, pull the other one.”

  The guy lifted a small laminated card attached to a chain around his neck. “Got my identification right here, sir.”

  Carl looked it over, unable to read it clearly, but the photograph on it matched the man. Didn't mean a damn thing, though. The police—wily bastards—were well able to create cards like that. He'd seen it on TV.

  “Think I'm stupid?” Carl said, narrowing his eyes. “If there's a leak, we'll come out when I smell gas and not before. So, like I said, fuck off.” He waited for the man to give up and go away.

  He didn't. Lowering the card, he raised a clipboard, the paper attached complete with gas company logo. Still didn't mean anything. Anyone could mock up that kind of shit these days.

  “Sir, if I could just come in to check, I'll be gone within five minutes.”

  The clipboard went out of sight.

  “I don't think so, buddy.” Carl sniffed—smelled no gas. Scrubbed his chin. Itched to grab a knife, open the door, and ram the blade into the guy's chest.

  Can't. Mustn't.

  He glanced back to the bedroom. Paul still slept.

  “Sir, if I don't gain access to check, I'll have to call the police.”

  Carl returned his attention to the door. “Say what? Like they're going to be bothered about something like this!”

  “Let me in. Now!”

  The man's tone of voice and words sent Carl back to another time. His breath caught in his throat, and he pressed his back to the door, hands splayed against the wood. Kevin had said the exact same thing one time Carl had fled to his room and barricaded himself in, knowing the belt was to come. Carl had been messing around in the living room, kicking a ball against the wall—something Kevin wouldn't tolerate if he was in the room. Kevin was in the shower, getting ready for his weekly night out at the local bar. The ball knocked Kevin's glass of red wine on a brand-new shirt he'd laid out on the back of the sofa. Rather than wait and admit he'd done it, Carl ran to his room, dragging a chest of drawers in front of the door, chest heaving as he drew in huge gulps of air.

  I'm for it. He'll see it and come get me...

  The creak of the floorboards outside Carl's room indicated Kevin had left the bathroom and walked past. One of the stairs groaned under his father's weight—the fifth one down if memory served right—and Carl breathed harder, knowing Kevin would see the stain and come roaring up the stairs, irate as fuck.

  He had and hammered on the door, the knob turning as he tried to gain entry. “Let me in. Now!”

  Carl hunkered in the corner, wedged between the bed and the wall, knees to his chest, arms about his shins. Shaking.

  “Kid, I said let me in! You ruined my shirt? Yeah, I know you did, else why can't I get in here?” A pause. “I mean it, kid. Open the fucking door!”

  Carl's guts had rolled over, and warm tears dribbled down his face, dripping off his jawline onto his grubby Superman T-shirt. He swiped them with the back of his hand, sick to death of living in fear, of hoping Kevin would give up and go away. He didn't.

  The chest of drawers slowly inched forward, the base scraping the floorboards, the whine it produced much like the one Carl wanted to release. Kevin's face appeared in the partially open doorway, eyes ablaze and mouth drawn back over his teeth. He'd shoved his way inside then, shunting the drawers out of the way, and advanced on Carl. Shivering, Carl tried to push himself further into the corner, wished the wall was made of fluid so he could swim to safety. Kevin reached out and gripped Carl's hair in an evil fist, yanking the boy upright and flinging him onto the bed.

  “Think you could get away with that, kid?”

  Kevin's red-wine breath stung Carl's eyes, and he closed them, rolling over, waiting for the inevitable.

  It came swiftly, the belt's bite wicked on his ass and thighs. Carl clamped his lips closed, determined not to cry out, but the lashes gained speed, the snap of them against his body too much to handle.

  His cry had sounded like a wounded animal.

  Carl gritted his teeth now, irked that tears fell down his face, mimicking the event of years ago.

  “No,” Carl said to the guy outside. “Get lost.”

  “Well, then. I have no alternative but to—”

  “I'm warning you, man. Fuck off!” Carl's words seeped between his clamped teeth, and he balled his fists, willing himself not to give in and let the guy in.

  "Let him in, kid. Bet you can't face up to what you've done."

  Turning, he made sure the door was secure then walked into the kitchen. Irate, he unplugged the fridge and gripped the sides, his intention to scoot the appliance in front of the door thwarted by a loud crack. He ran into the hallway and leaned toward the spy hole. The guy held a rammer and was in the process of swinging it back for another smack at the wood. Other men stood beside and behind him, their flak jackets evidence of who they were.

  Gas man my ass.

  His anger grew, and, with no time to block the entrance, Carl lunged for the bedroom, slamming the door. Uncaring whether Paul woke now, he moved to the wardrobe and slid down one side, pushing it toward the door. Sweat broke out under his arms, and his face grew hot with the exertion. Wardrobe in place, he dashed to the window and looked out. No cops occupied the rear grounds, but he couldn't exit the apartment from there. He didn't want to. His plan had been to get himself and Paul somewhere no one could touch them—and that plan hadn't changed. It would have to be implemented sooner, that was all. He snapped the drapes closed and stood beside the bed, looking down at Paul. Should he wake him or let him pass on oblivious?

  A resounding snap rent the air, followed by the sound of the front door smacking against the hallway wall.

  “Shit!” Carl whispered.

  Paul opened his eyes and stared at Carl, mouth agape. “What's going on?”

  Carl eyed him. “Some bastard at the door breaking in.”

  Paul's mouth twitched. Was that a smile trying to break out there?

  No, he wouldn't find this funny. He wants to be with me as much as I want to be with him. I can see it in his eyes. See the shock. He loves me.

  Carl longed to join Paul on the bed and kiss away his fears. Shouts from the hallway filled his ears, and he clamped his hands over them, humming to drown them out. With an infusion of strength, he darted to the wardrobe, patting around on top until his fingers touched what he sought. He found the handle and pulled it toward him, taking the gun case down and placing it on the bed.

  “What are you doing?” Paul asked, eyes wide, panic written all over his face.

  “Doing what I should have done a long time ago.” Carl snapped open the case and removed the gun, inserting the bullets with a steady hand.

  “And what's that?” Paul stared from Carl to the door then back again.

  “You expecting someone?” Carl asked, pointing the gun at Paul.

  “No. No! I— Look, whoever it is...maybe we can get rid of them.”

  “Get rid of them? Not likely. They're cops. Too many of them. Not enough bullets.”

  “What are the cops doing here?”

  Carl studied Paul. Did he know? He must do. I saw that brawny cop at Brian's earlier. No fucking way Paul isn't aware of what I've done.

  “Coming for me. I wanted to explain, but—”

  Heavy footsteps running down the hall cut him off, and a thump on the bedroom door jarred Carl's last nerve.

  “Police! Come out with y
our hands behind your head!”

  “Carl, make them go away,” Paul said.

  "You haven't got the balls, kid."

  “Shut up,” Carl snarled.

  “What?” Paul frowned.

  “No you. Him.” Carl jerked his head then looked at the gun, wishing he'd had time to explain, to make things right with Paul before he blew his head off.

  Then swallowed a bullet himself.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  * * * *

  I tried to sit up, remembered the bonds holding me, and shuddered back. I jerked experimentally at them, but Carl had made good work of keeping me captive.

  “Carl, please.” This wasn't how this was supposed to work. They'd said let him in, don't make him suspicious. They'd be there before he could do anything. But he'd arrived so soon, and they'd taken so long to come. Now what was I supposed to do? “Who are you talking about?”

  He didn't answer, just kept frowning at the gun, muttering and glancing at the door. I strained to hear Vic's voice through the hubbub, but everything was too chaotic.

  “We can figure this out, Carl. Please.” I twisted my head away, unable to think with the gun filling my field of vision.

  “Look at me, Paul.”

  “Put that away. Please.”

  “Look at me!”

  Terrified, I snapped my head around and did my best to ignore the threat pointed in my face. “Don't do this,” I whispered, my voice choked and pleading, as it too often was with him lately. “Please.”

  “This is the final stage. Everything I've done for you...”

  “Don't make me one of them.” I scooted forward as much as my tied hands would let me. If I could just touch him. Some surreal part of me needed to make sure he still had warmth in his skin.

  “One of who?”

  Outside the bedroom, voices shouted and feet stomped. My attention darted to the door and the dresser, but I quickly focused back on Carl. “Those men. I'm yours, remember? You did this all...” I couldn't say it. That would make it too real. “You said we'd go someplace together.”

  Carl just looked at me. The gun wavered but didn't fall.

  “You remember.” I swallowed, tugged at my bonds again, pulled my knees up, trying to get comfortable. “Back when...when we started? It was fantastic.” I managed a smile, even, and fought to ignore the commotion on the other side of the door. “You protected me from everyone.”

  Looking back now, I could see Carl's actions for the signs of dangerous obsession they were, but at the time it had been nice to be wanted that much.

  “We were so good together, Carl.”

  “Were?” Carl's brow drew down in a deep frown.

  “We're going to go away, remember?” I hastily reminded him. “Together. We're going to get all that back. Just you and me.”

  “You want that?”

  “I want you to be happy, Carl. Safe and happy.”

  “I had to...” Carl frowned harder. “You understand, right? They were...”

  “It doesn't matter now, Carl. It's over. Whatever they were, it's over now. Just you and me.” I yanked at my hands again. “See?”

  “You and me.” He shuffled over to the bed, flipped me easily onto my back, opened the belt holding my ankles, and knelt between my legs. The gun he set down on my chest. It was surprisingly heavy, and I couldn't take my eyes off it. At least for the moment it was out of his hands. Hands that were suddenly at my crotch, popping open the button on my jeans. Why haven't the police started coming through that door?

  “Carl?” It was all I could do not to squirm away.

  “One last time, Paul, yeah? You and me.”

  “Carl.” I glanced toward the door and the fracas in the hall. “Get rid of them first.”

  “Why?”

  He had my zipper open, and the beginnings of panic stirred in my gut. Why this frightened me more than having a deadly weapon pointed at my face I couldn't say. But I couldn't let him see it.

  “Because they'll see me.” I willed him to look at me while I could still fake sincerity enough to have him believe me. “I'm yours. No one else should see me. Make them go away.”

  * * * *

  Carl stilled his hands and stared ahead at the wall. Paul was right. He shouldn't be seen. Not by those bastards out there. They weren't worthy enough to set eyes upon him, taint him with their steely gazes. Paul was good and pure and whole. Not like them—those men had deserved to die. Deserved a knife to their damn guts.

  Blinking, he zipped up Paul's jeans and looked down at him.

  He's my life. The one I belong with. A loud banging smacked on the door. And those men out there...they're in my fucking way.

  Carl snatched the gun from Paul's chest, reversed off the bed on his knees, and turned to face the door. No way were those fuckers going to stop what he had in mind. He teetered on what to do next as the wardrobe nudged forward and an inch gap grew between the door and the frame. Shoot them both before they came in, or get rid of them as Paul had asked? He could do that one last thing for Paul, couldn't he? Shoot the motherfuckers to kingdom come then turn the gun on Paul, with promises he would join him a second later? He nodded and raised the gun, waiting for the wardrobe to slide across the floor with the weight of the first unlucky son of a bitch to walk into the room.

  His heart pounded hard and fast, and breaths rushed out of his mouth and nose. His two-hand hold on the gun remained steady, and shuffles from the bed sounded behind him. Paul hiding himself by curling his body into a ball? Yes, Paul was hiding himself. He no more wanted to be seen by those men than Carl wanted him seen.

  He still loves me. Shit, he understands, he really does.

  A surge of confidence winged through him, and Carl watched in a surreal state of calm as the wardrobe glided in a slow-motion arc, the gap between the door and frame growing wider, wider... A dark shape filled the space, full police gear on his bulky body, a helmet complete with lowered visor over his face. Carl's finger tightened on the trigger, and he hoped there were only six of them out there; otherwise he was fucked—he couldn't spare the time to reload if there were more. Adrenaline spread through him, and he snapped his finger back. The retort of gunfire shocked him for a second, the sound ringing in his ears and paining his head. A burning sensation speared his upper arm, and his hands separated, one still holding the gun, the fingers of the other grasping at the air like a claw. He staggered back—everything was so damn slow!—and the figure in the doorway jerked his head to the side as Carl's bullet ripped and splintered the doorframe.

  I missed! I fucking missed!

  His body at a forty-five degree angle now, Carl continued to fall back and smacked against the floor, a huge breath whooshing out of his mouth. Muffled voices—so far away, so quiet—filled the room, and he rolled onto his stomach.

  “You okay, Paul?” someone shouted.

  The tenor abraded Carl's nerves, the strength of the voice so loud compared to the other near-whispers. He winced, pain shooting up his arm, and he stared at the bed. At Paul, whose wide-eyed gaze was fixed on someone behind Carl.

  How the fuck do they know his name?

  “You did good,” the same voice said.

  He did good? What the hell?

  Something pinned Carl down at his lower back—A boot. Some bastard has his boot on me—and realization smacked him into real time, into knowing Paul had been part of some plan to catch him.

  He betrayed me. Fucking betrayed me. After all I've done for him!

  Carl raised the gun, finger pulling back the trigger, his intent to shoot Paul so no one else could have him.

  "Do it, kid. Kill him. He did good—he did good, you hear me? He's on their side not yours. He doesn't love you, and you know what you gotta do if he doesn't love you."

  The gun went off a second before another boot came down on Carl's arm, holding his wrist to the floor. The boot's tread bit into his skin, and he took his gaze from
Paul to watch the gun skittering across the floor. Another foot kicked it further away—so many legs and feet in here now—and Carl bucked, fighting to free himself from whoever held him down.

  “Cuff the bastard!” someone yelled, a new voice, louder than the previous.

  Rough hands yanked Carl's arms back, the pain in his bicep so severe his head spun. The cold touch of steel encircled his wrists, the snap of the handcuffs extraordinarily obscene in volume, and Carl cried out. Another, sharper pain swept through him, that of losing Paul, losing his control, losing every damn thing he'd worked so hard to get. He closed his eyes as someone hauled him to his feet, unable to look at Paul or any of the men crowding the bedroom. A fist closed around his upper arm, the one that burned like a bitch, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to give them any pleasure at his pain. A jerk sent him reeling sideways, and his eyes snapped open, his mouth following suit. He clamped his lips closed on the bark of indignation that threatened to spill and stared at a man in the doorway. A man he'd seen before. One he hadn't wanted to see again. Black dude, all muscles and brawn, all smug grin and piercing eyes.

  “Get him out of here,” the guy said, fists clenching. “Just get him the fuck away from Paul.”

  Carl made to glance back at the bed, but the helmeted officer shoved him forward. The black guy stepped aside, flattening himself against the hallway wall as though he was disgusted at the idea of Carl touching him. In the doorway, Carl stared at him, giving a glare he hoped summed up how he felt about some cop bastard who had designs on Paul. Yeah, he had designs all right. It was plain to see, and that knowledge tromped through Carl in thick-soled boots, churning his guts. Quick-flash images of this guy touching Paul sped through his mind, and he resisted walking, dragging his heels on the floor.