Fight Page 8

  I waited for him to say something else, but he seemed to be finished.

  “Why do I trust you?” I tried to tell myself I'd trusted Carl, too, and look how that turned out. But no, what Vic inspired was something Carl never gave me; calm. Even cuffed and terrified, right then, in that hallway, I felt safe, and it wasn't a feeling I was at all used to. It wasn't just because he had a badge, either. My father had been a cop. He'd also been an over-stressed, lonely, volatile man full of dangerous edges and hidden traps.

  “You can trust me. And you can trust Chewy. Jim. Let him help. Listen to him.”

  “I want you there.” For the barest moment, I worried it sounded pathetically frightened the way I said that, but then, when his hand stroked down my back, I found I didn't care if it did. “I can't...”

  “Yes, you can. Just tell the truth. As much of it as you can, as accurately as you can.”

  “You don't understand.” I would have looked at him, tried to catch his eye, make him see I was serious, but what I had to say next I could barely say out loud, never mind while I watched his expression change from helpful to horrified at how much of an idiot I actually was. “I can't tell them what he did.” The cold hate in homophobic Simpson's eyes sent a chill through me, even in memory. “Before he left.” I swallowed hard, took in a deep breath, and spilled it all out as fast as I could. Still the words left the acrid taste of fear and anger on my tongue and an empty pit of loathing in my belly.

  Vic's hand had stopped moving. His entire body was stiff. He said nothing for too long.

  I twisted away from him. “You see?” I asked, bitterness spitting out over him with the words, “and you're supposed to be on my side. I can't tell them that.” Then I realized the look on his face wasn't disgust. It wasn't horror that I'd let it happen. It was rage, and it wasn't directed at me. “Vic?” I stepped further away. I knew that look too well. My father, Carl, they wore it a lot.

  Vic didn't actually let me out of his grasp. His face was a mask of anger but it softened almost immediately when I pulled at his grip, frantic to get away. He let me go, but I didn't move. His free hand cupped my face, tipped it up so I couldn't look away from him. “That's just something else I'll make him pay for, one way or another.”

  “Please don't.” I didn't want that twisted look on his face, ever. “I just want it all over.”

  He nodded. “Me too. I know it's hard, but you can't not tell them.”

  “Hard?” I wanted to pull away, turn my back on him, but I couldn't make myself.

  “Impossible, then. But you have to. The whole truth. He's the one who did this. He put you here. I know it. I just have to prove it. They have to know what kind of a man he is. When the proof comes, it will be that much easier to convince them.”

  “And what if the proof never comes? What if he just never shows up?”

  “Paul, he will. Because the one thing a guy like that can never stomach is to lose the thing he sees as his greatest treasure, the thing he thinks he's doing it all for. He won't run away without you.”

  I wanted to be sick all over again at the thought that Carl did any of the things it looked like he'd done for any reason that had anything to do with me. Maybe Vic saw that in my face, maybe he misinterpreted it. I don't know.

  He just hugged me close again and whispered, “You're safe. I am not letting him close. He won't touch you ever again.”

  Like I was a damsel, needing his protection. I had no desire to be the pathetic creature who longed to believe that kind of promise, who needed it, but there it was. And I did want to believe it. I did want to hide there inside his arms and never come out. Of course, there was no way to stay. Too soon he was moving away, clearing his throat, and leading me off down the hall and into a small room with a one-way glass wall, a table and chairs, and all I could think was how much it shouldn't look like every movie set of every cop show I'd ever seen.

  In the end, they didn't let him in, and maybe that was better for both of us. If he had to stand there while I recited everything Carl had said and done the night before, and he'd had to watch me reveal every bruise while in the same room, I don't know if either one of us would have been able to stay calm. I'd seen his distress over the way Carl had treated me twice now, and I didn't think he could hide it. I didn't see any way his feelings could be interpreted as good for either my case or his career. And after Sanders drilled me through the horrific scene for the third time, I had to suspect he'd deliberately placed Vic on the other side of that glass to protect his partner, at least, if not me.

  After the tenth, twelfth—I'd lost count—time I told my story, and they prodded for more details, some trip-up to latch onto, I was so tired I could barely think straight. I almost didn't notice the urgent knock on the door when it came.

  It was Vic, hurtling inside, his face completely too pale to be good. “Jim.”

  Sanders pursed his lips, turned his head. “What?” Maybe he was tired too. Maybe he just liked being surly and difficult with Vic.

  “I need you. We have to go to the hospital. There's been another victim. Brian Jacobs. Only this time the bastard missed. He didn't quite kill him.”

  There was a lot of commotion after that. A lot of white noise I didn't hear after Vic said Brian's name, in conjunction with ‘victim', ‘hospital', and ‘not quite dead'.

  “We have our guy, Bradley.” This buzzed through my mind fog from the other cop, Simpson, who had been backing up Sanders’ questions with more and nastier ones of his own. He pointed at me. “You brought him in yourself. We just have to find the hole in his story.”

  “There's no hole,” I insisted.

  Simpson stood up. “You go ahead and believe that.” He turned his back on me. Clearly, I was nothing to him but a bit of grunge someone had dragged into his presence. He turned his glare on Sanders, ignoring Vic with the same disdain he'd shown me throughout. “We have enough to book him, and you know it. Go on ahead, off on your little expedition. We're done here anyway.” He took hold of me then and dragged me to my feet, sticking his face too close to mine. “We'll figure out where the lies are, punk. Don't think we won't.”

  He was towing me out. Past Vic, too pale, and Sanders, tired, frustrated, and furious with everyone.

  “Wait!” I hauled myself free of the cop's grip and turned to where Vic was already hurrying away. “What about Brian?” I called after him. “What happened?”

  Vic glanced back, stopped, and I saw his fists tight, his shoulders hunched forward. “I don't know. I have to go find out. Paul...”

  I clenched my teeth. He had to leave me there. There was no choice. If Brian was hurt, he had to go find out what happened. I nodded. The other cop was dragging me away, not back to the squad room, but deeper into the building.

  He wasn't gentle about tossing me into a cell. “Have fun with this one.” He tapped the opening in the barred door. “I'll take those cuffs now.” A nasty grin spread over his face as he glanced past me, to the men sprawled in the cell behind me. “Or would you rather keep ‘em? I hear you like it that way.”

  I stuck my hands through the slot without looking at him.

  “Say please.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Complete silence greeted my outburst, forcing me to look up. The nasty grin only widened as he peeled his lips back from his teeth, and his eyes gleamed meanly. It was a far more frightening expression than anything I'd seen on Carl's face. There was no rage there, no manic disregard for me. It was just calculated, premeditated cruelty. “Think you got your pronouns mixed, there. I'm sure someone will be pleased to open up that pretty ass of yours, freak.” He made no move to unlock the manacles.

  Pride had kept my mouth shut through the worst of what Carl could throw at me. He was one man, and something still human in him stopped him before he ever hurt me beyond forgiveness. There was none of that here. A quick glance over my shoulder at the men lounging against the bars behind me told me, acting or not, it didn't matter what I did or didn't say. I w
as screwed.

  “Please.” The worst part was not being able to meet his eye.

  Snickers all round. God. Fuck, let these assholes be posers. This was a police lock-up, not high-security prison. They were here for misdemeanors; public displays of drunkenness, petty theft. God, I hoped so.

  For a split second, I thought he would walk away, leaving me there, cuffed and helpless. He didn't, but the roughness he employed to free me opened up the cuts on my wrist. I had the irrational thought that the scent of blood would mark me as easy prey. Irrational, because I was pretty sure there were a lot of things about me that marked me out even without that.

  I made a point of ignoring the others. They made a point of watching my every move. I felt like an idiot, but I kept my back to the bars anyway, and glared through rows of bars and cells to the window at the farthest end of the room. The sky was dull, gray and overcast, and where I sat, I could watch it grow darker and darker. All through the cavernous room, sounds of voices and laughter floated. Lights had been turned down, enough to make it hard to see beyond the next few cells, but it wasn't exactly dark. This was a small taste, I knew. Nothing compared to what it could be like, would be like, if Vic didn't manage to make them understand.

  Please. Fuck. Let him figure it out.

  I picked absently at the ragged bandages as time passed. My cell mates speculated loudly and lewdly as to how and why I happened to have acquired them in the first place. I kept quiet. Dinner was brought, though I didn't eat much, or argue when one of the others took my tray before I was done.

  Vic will fix this. I kept telling myself that as I watched the bruiser eat my meal. It was one meal. The only meal I would miss for being here, because Vic was not going to let this happen.

  It must have been some sort of signal, because as soon as the dishes were gone the scathing speculation about my sexual practices quickly escalated. I crouched with my back pressed hard against the bars in one corner of a bunk and hoped to hell it wasn't going to turn physical.

  That's when Sanders appeared. His huge form striding down the row of cells turned my own roomies docile as lambs well before he got to our door. He made quick work of getting the guard to open it.

  “Come on.” He nodded at me. “Someone here to pick you up.”

  Just like that. It was over. I glanced at the far away window and the deep gray-brown of evening lit by orange streetlights.

  “Who?” It couldn't be Vic, or he would have come down here himself. At least, I had the sudden revelation that I hoped he would. Brian was apparently in hospital, and if so, Lil would be there too. I didn't know anyone else who cared enough.

  “Let's go,” was all he said. Not like I was going to quibble. I followed him back down the long, echoing hallway, away from the jeers toward freedom.

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  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  * * * *

  The motel stank of stale liquor and cigarette smoke. Carl had stopped off to buy some new clothes, lube, and condoms before finding this shithole and signing in using another of Paul's credit cards. He switched on the light and gazed around, disgusted by the squalor. It reminded him of where he'd just been and everything he strove to get away from. He wanted things clean, orderly, right. He laughed, the sound dry and without feeling. Fucking irony. Gotta love it. Okay, so he liked things clean, yet he risked getting sullied by blood every time he gave in to that all-consuming urge inside him. If he thought about it, he'd formed a pattern with that. Getting dirty then getting clean afterward. Yeah, he liked that analogy.

  He dumped his bags beside the double bed. Shit, doesn't this place have a maid? Yeah, it'd been given a cursory clean, but it wasn't to his standards. Still, beggars can't be choosers and all that crap. He needed to sleep awhile before heading out to find a giving asshole who'd help assuage the raging need throbbing in his balls. No good picking someone up when he wasn't at his best. Fatigue led to mistakes, and he couldn't allow that. No, despite his desire to ram his cock inside a guy tied up with his belt, he'd have to wait.

  A wave of lethargy swept over him, and he flopped onto the bed, hands braced behind his head. The aroma of dust and unwashed bodies wafted up, and he closed his eyes, blocking out thoughts of dirty beds and how often the sheets were cleaned in this place. He'd shower after his nap anyway, and once he returned home he could have a good soak to rinse away the filth he'd encountered on this trip.

  Filth. Fucking right. This trip had been full of it.

  But I'm doing it for Paul.

  He pondered on whether Paul had been picked up by the cops yet. He'll be so damn pleased to hear I've offered bail to get him out when I go back. A smile curved his mouth at thoughts of their reunion, how Paul would lean on him for support. I'll take him to his place and show him a different kind of love. Yeah, and he'll be up for it, being so grateful and all.

  Carl dozed, too hyped to sleep properly, and revisited the last few hours. Damn, Kevin being finally gone had given him freedom. It winged through him like a tangible thing, a drug that rivaled any on the underground market. He should have done this years ago. If only he'd known how good it would feel.

  So fucking free, like the past has gone and I'm here with a clean slate.

  Time passed, and he opened his eyes to glance at his watch. Yep, late enough now to hit the shower and visit a club. Rejuvenated by his musings, he got up and headed to the bathroom, disrobing along the way. He turned the dial and waited for the water to heat—too much to expect instant warmth in a hellhole like this—then climbed into the tub. He soaped up with the cheap, unscented shower gel left by a previous customer and used it to wash his hair. With the water pattering over his body, he went over everything he'd done, the need to make sure he hadn't messed up paramount.

  I left Brian's and I— Brian. Shit.

  Would the guy have called the cops on him? He didn't think Brian had the balls.

  But Lil has.

  Heart rate soaring, he stumbled from the tub, skidding out of the bathroom to scoop up his dirty shirt. Drying himself, he rushed to the bag of new clothes and took them out, ripping off tags and dressing fast. He pulled on his boots then stuffed his other clothes into the bag, glancing around to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. He laughed wryly. If I think I haven't left anything behind, I'm retarded. Quickly, he took the blanket from the bed by its four corners and yanked open the motel door, flapping the material out into the night, praying any hairs or skin flakes would come off. Back inside, he grabbed the pillow and repeated his actions, inspecting it to make sure it was clean. Fuck it, just take the damn things with you. Jamming the blanket and pillow under his arm and picking up his bag, he went outside and threw them into the back seat of his vehicle, slamming the door and going back inside his room.

  In the bathroom again, he unhooked the showerhead from the wall and switched on the water, swirling the bath in the sporadic stream. Once done, he wiped the showerhead with tissue then entered the main room. Covering his hand with the bottom of his new shirt, he mock-polished every surface whether he'd touched the damn things or not. Satisfied he'd covered his ass, he picked up the discarded clothes tags and left the room, closing the door by hooking his boot around the bottom.

  Seated in the pickup, he gripped the wheel and took a deep breath, mentally retracing his steps inside that room just in case he'd missed anything. He hadn't, but something nagged at the edges of his brain, gnawing with sharp teeth but not allowing him to grasp onto it and work out what he'd done wrong.

  Think. Think, goddamn it!

  He stared at the closed motel door and thought. Thought so hard his head hurt, throbbing right along with those teeth that kept biting, nibbling, irritating.

  The credit card. I used Paul's card when he's probably in jail. Shit, shit, shit!

  He shoved the stick into reverse and screeched the pickup in a backward arc, stomping on the gas and slamming the stick into drive. He sped across the car park, his heart beating so fast
his head lightened, and drew up to the exit. Cars zoomed past on the highway, too many of them for him to pull out. He cursed, palms and brow sweating, fingers clenching and unclenching the steering wheel. He stared left then right. It looked like a gap was coming up. If he was quick he could nip between two cars. A flashing light blipped about five cars down, and his stomach clenched, real fear gripping him for the first time since he'd started this shit.

  Fuck. Cops. The card. Why the hell did I use it? Why didn't I think?

  He smacked the wheel with the heel of his hand, the horn giving a short bark of protest. The sound jolted him into action, and he took the chance and skidded out of the exit, easing between two cars, narrowly missing an accident. More horns blared, and he slowed in case the cops behind caught sight of his pickup speeding along the highway. Eyes continually glancing from the rearview mirror to the road ahead, he let out a ragged breath as the cop car turned into the motel parking lot, its lights dousing.

  He was safe. For now.

  Getting his nerves under control, Carl drove on, contemplating changing his plans. He nodded, mentally talking to himself about what he should do next.

  The next town is too close. Fuck it, I'll head for the one after that. Clubs will still be open by the time I get there. He frowned at the voice of his conscience that asked: You sure you ought to go? Fuck, yeah, I'm sure. They'll be looking for me, I dig that, but what I plan to do won't take long. Pick up some guy, go back to his place, do what I've got to do, then leave. I can manage that, right? He nodded again. Yeah, I can manage that.

  * * * *

  The club had its own car park, and Carl wedged the pickup between a Ford Focus and a Subaru situated at the rear, bushes overhanging the bumpers. He'd calmed on his journey, forcing himself to concentrate on what lay ahead. He coached himself one final time before reaching into his bag and rooting around for a baseball cap, his flick knife, the lube, and the packet of three. Cap on, he slid his stuff in the back pocket of his jeans. Out of his vehicle, he locked up and studied the area from the shadows. Cameras mounted at the top of tall poles in the far corners pointed at the car park. Others lower down appeared to point to the outside of the club, probably to catch any violent action from drunken revelers. He eyed the higher cameras. What did he care if they'd caught images of the pickup coming in? It wasn't his, and he doubted the cops this far away from where he'd stolen it were aware it was in their town.