16 - Ghosts

Holden actually ended up taking him to his apartment, arguing that not only would it save him money, but no one would think to look for him there. Roan had to admit that was true, and besides, he was too tired to actually protest.

As it was, he didn’t think he’d have to worry about Holden hitting on him, because once you saw a guy come within a few shattered bones of turning into a lion, could you actually be attracted to him? Well, perhaps if you were the kinky sort into transformation porn, or if you had a cat fetish of some kind. There were quite a few people like that, especially on the internet, but Holden had never been one. He’d have been pretty up front if that was his fetish.

They’d barely been there five minutes, and Roan had said he was sleeping on the sofa, when Holden’s cell phone went off. It was his special phone, the one only his clients knew about. He answered it with an amused expression on his face, and Roan tried not to listen as he helped himself to a drink from Holden’s fridge. He could only hear Holden’s side of the conversation, but from what he could tell, Holden was surprised to hear from this client, whom he didn’t think was in town, and the client was both a little drunk and a little horny. Holden agreed to visit him at his hotel for double rate, since it was “off hours” and he was on a night off. The client apparently agreed to the double rate, and requested something, because Holden said he’d bring “it” (he had no idea what “it” was, and he absolutely didn’t want to know under any circumstances).

As soon as Holden closed his phone, he grimaced in embarrassment, and said, “You’d never guess who that was.”

He wasn’t actually offering to tell him. He kept his client confidentiality better than most private investigators and lawyers he knew. Oh sure, he’d talk about them, but with obviously phony names, and never gave any identifying details. Sure, he’d tell you this one guy likes to get the shit beat out of him, but he never gave you details that could help identify him on the street. They were all vague, sad people, the ones you’d be scared of if you didn’t pity them. “A televangelist or a Republican senator,” Roan guessed.

Holden chuckled. “Oh, you think they’re all closet queens, do you?”

“Self-loathing closet queens. If I were you, I’d secretly tape them and post it all over the internet. Which, I’ve been led to believe, is a series of tubes.”

Holden shook his head and smirked. “You’re such a cynic.”

“Says the guy who sells his body for a living.”

“Hey, I’m tapering off of that.”

“And going into porn.”

“It’s a better deal.”

“I’m sure it is. That’s the scary part.”

Holden smiled like he was suppressing a laugh, and said, “Help yourself to anything, my casa is your casa and whatnot, although I’d appreciate you not going through my porn stash. I should be back in a couple of hours, tops.”

Roan nodded, holding on to his can of soda like it was a lifeline. He wasn’t sure why; it stung like a son of a bitch going down. Carbonation and recent stomach pumping didn’t seem to mix. “Thanks.” Such a weak word, and yet he meant it sincerely for everything.

Holden seemed to understand the weight and breadth of it all, because his expression sobered. “It’s okay. You’re better than this, Roan. You don’t have to go this way.”

Roan almost said that he didn’t either, but held it in. Holden probably knew that, and there was no point in stating the obvious. While Holden disappeared into his bedroom to get ready, Roan collapsed on his couch, and was glad it was comfortable enough to sleep on. He felt like he was drifting off right now, going away to a happy place where he hadn’t come within two or three minutes of a full transformation, and where he didn’t accidentally overdose on painkillers in a hospital. And it was accidental, right? The scary thing was, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure himself. He was pretty sure if he was going to kill himself he’d just tuck his gun barrel underneath his chin at a slight angle, certain to blow the back of his skull out, and then pull the trigger, which would guarantee both success and the fact that he’d be dead before he even heard the shot. Only then did it occur to him that he should probably be worried that he had a planned suicide route.

When Holden appeared again, it was with a folded blanket and a pillow he put on the arm of the couch. “Get some sleep, you look like hell.”

“Let’s see you look perky after getting your stomach pumped.” He then noticed what Holden was wearing, and added, “Well, maybe you could.”

“Hey, he’s into bad boys,” Holden said, not so much defensively as in simple explanation. He was wearing a white t-shirt so tight that Roan could clearly see that he was wearing a nipple ring on the right side. His jeans were almost as skin tight, and ripped in strategic places, while he put on a black leather jacket with lots of extraneous chains, zippers, and chrome accents than was ever necessary. He jingled when he walked. “Slightly stereotypical, Hollywood style clean bad boys.”

“Again, couldn’t you do something better for money?”

He shrugged. “Prob’ly. But I’m getting twenty five hundred for one hours’ work. Where else am I gonna make that kinda money?”

He stared at him in disbelief. “He’s paying you two thousand dollars?”

“And I’m getting room service on top of that.” He grinned with a strange sort of savage pride. “He’s probably so drunk he’ll pass out before I have to fuck him, so it’ll be the easiest money I’ve made since Doug.”

“I’m not even gonna ask.”

Holden went to the door, but before he opened it, he said, “He’s a congressman, whose wife has the scariest hair helmet this side of the 700 Club.”

“I knew it. You should really expose these hypocrites.”

“Well, no one likes a tattletale. Besides, if it wasn’t for these self-loathing freaks, I’d have to get an honest job, and who wants to see that? Not me, sweetheart.” He waved at him from the door. “Ciao baby.”

Could he have picked a stranger sidekick if he tried? No, probably not. Roan figured he’d have to work pretty damn hard, and would definitely have to visit every sideshow he came across.

He was so exhausted he slept hard and, thankfully, dreamlessly. He never even heard when Holden came back, but when Roan cut through his bedroom to use the bathroom, he saw Holden was asleep on his bed, almost completely lost in a pile of comforters.

In his bathroom, Roan looked into the medicine chest out of habit, and found two amber prescription bottles. Both were for other people, but they were fake labels: the bottle for Peter Wang was supposedly for Xanax, but he looked inside and saw little blue pills - a/k/a Viagra. The bottle for Amanda Dear was supposedly for tetracycline, but contained pills of unclear intent; either way it didn’t smell at all like something from the antibiotic family. (And he knew that smell quite well, because all antibiotics stung his nose.) He was tempted to ask Holden about this, but that would have meant admitting he opened the bottles and looked inside, which was just too creepy and needy; basic junkie behavior.

He was going to head out to his car, and then remembered Holden drove him here. Fuck. He called a cab, and while waiting for it checked his messages.

He had several from Dee, almost all starting “You motherfucker”, which didn’t encourage him to listen longer. He fast forwarded through most of them. Chris also called, just to see if he had anything new to report. Rainbow had called early in the morning, to say that there was a “fracas” on church grounds last night, and David Harvey was now missing; no one knew what had happened to him. Rumors had it he (Roan) was to blame for all the violence last night, but for some reason no one wanted to pursue it with the police. “I don’t like that, Roan,” she said, sounding nervous. “If you did it I don’t like it either, but them not pressing charges? Something’s going on there. It can’t be good for you.”

Her concern was touching. Did he have anything to worry about? Perhaps. It was hard to tell what a loony church would do next. But he hoped they got the message that if they went after anything near and dear to him, they would pay, swiftly and bloodily.

Wow - that didn’t sound at all insane.

The last message was from one of the nicer nurses at the hospital, named Akembi. She let him know that Dylan was now conscious and asking for him. According to the time code on the message, she called a little over an hour ago.

As soon as the cab arrived, he had it take him to the hospital. Never mind that he hadn’t showered or changed his clothes, or eaten or even shaved off this beard he now had, he owed it to Dylan to see him. Also, selfishly, he had to make sure he was okay.

It was busy at the hospital when he arrived, but in a way that was good, as he was able to cut through the crowd and not gain the notice of anyone by the admissions desk.

When he ducked into Dylan’s room, he was sitting propped up in bed, talking to an intern in blue scrubs (thankfully not the intern he collapsed in front of). Dylan looked tired and bruised, his face still swollen and one eye blackened to the point that his eyelid was barely open on the right side. Still, there was a brightness in his eyes upon seeing him. The intern, a petite Indian woman with a rather severe bob, told him she’d come back later and gave Roan a polite nod as she left the room. Roan hugged Dylan - carefully - and kissed him on the unbruised side of his face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Dylan wrapped an arm around his waist and gave him a weak but affectionate squeeze. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is. They attacked you because of me.”

“You didn’t kill them, did you?”

He wasn’t kidding; Dylan’s tone of voice was deadly serious. He was glad he didn’t have to lie to him. “No, I didn’t. The cops got them first.”

Dylan let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank god. The first thing I thought was you were gonna kill them.”

“You know me too well.”

Dylan kissed his cheek affectionately. “I know. It scares me too.” He ran his hand over his beard, and scowled. “I can’t have been out that long.”

“It’s a long story.” He rested his head on his chest, not only so he could hear his heartbeat, but also so he didn’t have to look him in the eye. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were mad at me.”

“Why the hell would I be mad at you? You didn’t make them hurt me. You have to expect the occasional psycho when you’re dating Batman.”

He groaned into his chest. “Please, don’t you start.”

“What, they can call you that down at the station, but I can’t?” Roan could hear the smile in his voice.

“You do, and there might be some Robin jokes headed your way.”

“Oh, please don’t. I don’t like tights. Also, that’s a bit creepy.”

“What, the Dark Knight and his little Boy Wonder?”

Dylan mock shuddered. “Eww. How did they ever get away with that?”

“I have no idea.” Dylan stroked his hair, and Roan just enjoyed it for a moment. Suddenly the lingering aches of last night didn’t seem so bad. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have the worst hangover of my life. But I’m not sure if I got it before or after the truck hit me.”

Roan kissed him softly, on the throat and up his neck, his skin tasting like salt, stopping at a gentle kiss on the lips. As much as it pained him to looked down into his bruised face, he did, carefully stroking his hair back from his forehead, avoiding the stitches. “If I say I’m sorry again, will you hit me?”

“That’s not very Buddhist.” He paused briefly. “Yes.” He gave him a pained smile, his fingertips stroking the back of Roan’s neck, a ghostly feeling that raised goosebumps along his spine. His fingers were cold, whatever that meant. “Just get me out of here, and consider yourself forgiven.”

There was too much concern in his one good eye. Roan knew, with a sinking feeling, what that was about. So now it was his turn to suck it up and be brave. As soon as he was sure he could do it, he looked down at him, and said, “I’m going to lay off the pills, okay? I can’t promise that I’ll stop cold, ‘cause I’m still going to need them come transition time, but I promise that I’ll stop taking them for no reason other than to get numb.”

Dylan stroked his hair, his look somewhat doubting, but he nodded faintly. “I guess that’s all I can ask right now. Will you let me help you? Will you open up to me?”

He nodded, not sure if that was a promise he could actually keep. But he would try, so maybe that was worth something. “I’ll try. You know I’m no good at this shit.”

“Hey, you’re Batman. You’re great at everything.”

He scowled at him while Dylan grinned, revealing old blood on his teeth. Before he could say anything, a doctor came in and chased him out, which was fair enough. He talked to another doctor about releasing Dylan, but they wanted to keep him overnight. They were waiting for some test results to come back, and besides, they were always cautious about head injuries, and he was unconscious for a long time.

Roan was wondering how to break the news to Dylan that he had to suffer through another night here when his phone hummed in his pocket. He thought it might be Dee calling to cuss him out, but a check of the number display revealed it to be Murphy. He supposed it was her turn to have a go at him, so he answered. “Hey Dropkick.”

“Hey Angus,” she replied just as casually. “You get up to some shit last night at the church?”

“I’m taking the Fifth.”

“That’s what I thought.” She sighed wearily. “Well, beyond that, I thought you’d want to know about Roland Chesney.”

“What about him?” But even as he asked, he thought he knew. If he was a bust, she’d have told him without preamble.

“I think we found something.”

15 - Subtle Body

Roan found himself sloshing through ankle deep water, not a hundred percent sure where he was. Looking up, he saw he was somewhere off the coast … or at least on a beach of some sort. Although it seemed like there was some hulking shape off in the water, obscured by thick fog, and the coastline was an unfamiliar blend of cement colored sand and broken rocks as big as satellite dishes. As he waded towards shore, he saw someone sitting on one of the rocks.

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” he asked the figure, as snakes the color of water fled before his advancing footsteps. Drug dream? Oh yeah, big time.

“Of course it is. What d’ya expect?”

He froze hearing the voice. He had honestly expected Paris, his usual dream companion, but this voice had an Irish accent. He felt a coldness in his stomach as his gut twisted, and oily sweat prickled on his back. Oh shit. “Connor?”

“Not what you were expectin‘, right?” He could see him now, sitting on top of a boulder with his knees drawn up to his chest, arm around his legs. He looked just like he always did, his shockingly deep black hair mussed up and making his skin look Gothically pale. His eyes were a vivid blue, Caribbean sea blue, contrasting against the black lines of his eyebrows and the bruise colored smudges beneath his eyes, speaking quietly of too many late nights and too many binges. He had a pleasant oval face, almost impish, which highlighted his big, startling eyes, and it made Roan’s heart hurt to recall how oddly striking he was.

Connor never knew it, though. His hair always had the now fashionable “bedhead” look because he very rarely combed it; he seemed to think running his hands through his hair was enough. He never owned any hair products or cologne, and did all his clothes shopping at thrift stores (in fact, he taught Roan which ones were the best ones, and how to look for a good deal); he put to rest the stereotype of the vain gay man. Although maybe he was the living stereotype of the BoHo one, the artist who was deliberately shabby when he didn’t need to be. But he wasn’t pretentious or snobby; he was just a guy who didn’t know the rules and didn’t really care about them, preferring to make them up as he went along. He was always quite fiercely himself, which was why it was such a rush and such a pain to be with him. Heaven and hell in one pretty package. “You just don’t like thinkin’ about me, do ya?”

“You fucking hurt me, you selfish bastard,” he snapped, guilt making his stomach ache. “You didn’t have to kill yourself.”

He shrugged, sliding off the rock and down to the beach. “Sometimes it hurts so much you just don’t know how to deal with it anymore. You gotta know what that’s like.”

Roan stared at him, aware this was his subconscious lecturing him about something, using Connor as a warning and a reminder. He really resented it. “I am not you.”

“Course you’re not. You wouldn’t even know how to write a play.” Connor gave him a broken half grin, a kind he always used to give him after making a smart ass remark. He knew it made him look endearing. “We had some good times, yeah?”

Roan rubbed his forehead. What had happened to him? Something had happened; he was pretty sure of that. “Yeah, we did. And some pretty miserable ones.”

“I was a miserable bastard at times,” he admitted. “But so were you. You were so fuckin’ unhappy bein’ a cop.”

“It wasn’t easy. I got a lotta shit.” Roan thought about it for the first time in a long time. He didn’t let himself think of those days too often, because his memories of Connor were inextricably tied in with it. But thinking about that, he also recalled what a relief it was to shuck off the uniform at the end of the day (or night, depending on the shift), and how he felt free when he was with Con. He felt like he was truly himself, while at work he felt constrained. He didn’t feel that way anymore, but he did feel lost more often than not, and the only reason he could see for that was the absence of Paris. He was his polar north, and now that he was gone his own internal compass just didn’t work anymore.

Connor hugged him, and for a moment Roan panicked; he didn’t know what to do. The smell of Connor brought back so many memories, half bad and half good: the small tattoo on the back of his neck at the base (a heart - Con said his mother always told him he wore his heart on his sleeve, so he decided to put it somewhere else) that Roan used to kiss to wake him up on Sunday mornings; the ugly drunken fights; the incredibly hot make up sex; the low points of finding Con passed out at his computer or on the couch, a mostly empty bottle of Glenfiddich dribbling on the floor next to him; going to the opening of one of his plays and seeing the pure, giddy joy on Con’s face; coming back from the gym to find Con burning one of his manuscripts in a garbage can, setting off the fire alarm. So many ups and downs, so many good times and bad. There were few middle times; with Con it had always been great or horrid, almost never something in-between. Connor may have had an abbreviated life, but while he lived it, he lived it full throttle; Roan had to give him that.

Roan hugged him back, inhaling the memories along with his scent, and told him, “You were such a son of a bitch. I miss you.”

“You know I loved it when ya talked dirty to me,” he replied, and Roan laughed. Con pulled back and gave him that heartbreaking crooked grin, the one that always looked slightly lopsided, like he was imperfectly mimicking someone else’s smile.

Shortly after his death, Roan had been contacted by a journalist who wanted to interview him about Con and the “secret pain that killed him”. Roan declined to talk to anyone about Con, ever, under any circumstances. Everyone assumed it was his childhood sexual abuse - often acknowledged in some form or another in his plays - that was the biggest trauma in his life, but during a drunken ramble one night, Con told him that hurt, but it wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him. No, the worst thing, as far as he was concerned, was that his parents chose to believe his abuser over him, for years and years. Only when others started coming forward, accusing the priest of similar abuse, and a reporter discovered that the church had moved him around Ireland in advance of other sex scandals at the various parishes he worked for, did they decide to believe him. But by then it was too late; he was gone, emotionally, mentally, physically. As far as he was concerned, they had chosen the church over him. His anger towards them was unabated by time. In Connor’s will, he had a special message for his parents: “Not one cent. You don’t get my body, my ashes, a single scrap of paper. You abandoned me, and now I abandon you.” He left it all to his ex-wife and Roan; everything he owned, rights to his work, money, his ashes. Maybe the Monaghans knew - they didn’t show up for his memorial service, but they did show up for his will reading. Roan knew if Con left everything to him, they’d have taken it to court - no queer boy was getting anything else from their son - but since his ex-wife was made the executrix of his estate, they didn’t. No matter that it was a sexless, sham marriage, a last ditch attempt to earn acceptance from his parents, they still felt she was his wife, divorce or no divorce. It probably helped that, at the time of his death, he was barely scraping by. Only after his death was he suddenly considered a “genius”, and the money started coming in. Roan had thought that was a cliché, but apparently it was still true in some cases.

It occurred to him that his ex-wife had left a message on his machine a week or two ago. He’d never returned it, but only because he got busy and forgot. Was this his subconscious’s way of reminding him? No, probably not. There was probably more to it than that. As if to send that point home, Con told him, “If numbing yourself if all you can think about, something’s wrong.”

He sighed wearily. “You are so not the person to tell me that.”

Connor grimaced slightly before cupping his face in his hand. “No, love, there’s no one better to tell you that.”

And then Roan suddenly remembered what had happened.

He woke up with a head full of cotton wool and a mouth full of sourness, his throat and stomach aching, a tube under his nose pumping air that was scented vaguely like plastic. It felt like his stomach and throat lining had been scrubbed away with a wire brush. Stomach pumped? Probably. He gave himself a moment to acclimate, then took the tube off and let it fall on the floor. He knew there was another patient in the room, separated by a curtain, but judging from the sounds of a monitor that wasn’t his, that guy wasn’t going to be bothered by anything he did.

How stupid - he took too many pills. The worst part was he had several more aches on top of the old one. What a fucking pain in the ass. (Actually the only part of him that didn’t hurt at the moment. ) As he sat up, he saw movement in the dark near the doorway, and a familiar voice asked, “I just can’t leave you alone for one second tonight, can I?”

Holden. Oh Jesus. “How long have I been here?”

Mostly just by the shadow of his posture alone, Roan could tell Holden was at once amused and appalled by the whole situation. He couldn’t blame him. “At the hospital? No idea. But it’s been almost two hours since they pumped your stomach.”

“Fuck.” It was bad enough to feel totally humiliated - it was worse to be so in front of Holden for the second (or possibly third) time tonight. He sat on the side of the hard hospital bed, the cool air on his legs letting him know he was in a paper hospital gown. Great, another humiliation. “I have your clothes,” Holden said, and stepped forward to put them on the end of the bed. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see his face, for which he was glad. “This has been a remarkably shitty night for you, hasn’t it?”

“I think that’s an understatement.” He grabbed the clothes, and slipped on his jeans under his gown. He felt unsteady on his feet, hollow in the gut, but he didn’t know what was physical and what was emotional. Yeah, you knew when you were self-destructive, but you thought you had it under control … until you didn’t. Connor must have gone through something similar, thinking his alcoholism and depression and self-loathing was nothing he couldn’t handle, until it killed him. He never wanted to become Con, but at some point he had.

After he ripped off the gown and pulled his shirt on, he asked, “How’s the Harvey situation?”

Holden leaned back beside the doorway, so Roan could see him as a solid shape in the dark, with a casually cocked hip and his arms folded over his chest, like he was trying to hold in everything he actually wanted to say. “You’ll never see him again.”

“Do I get details with that?”

“Be happy without them.” He paused briefly, signally a topic shift. “There was some speculation over whether it was a suicide attempt, but I was able to convince them it was accidental, that this is your transformation week, and you were so desperate to check up on Dylan that you came here straight from home. Apparently a lot of infecteds accidentally OD on pain meds around transformation time, because you guys are in so much pain, and things are so wacky what with being a cat and being a person and whatnot.”

“And you knew that how?”

“PBS had a report about it.” In spite of the darkness, he must have known that Roan was staring at him, because he added defensively, “Hey, I sometimes have some time to kill in client’s hotel rooms, and there’s shit on, okay?”

Dressed and standing as straight as he could at the moment, he had to ask, “How’s Dylan?”

“Asleep, as far as I know. But there’s no way you’re getting back in his room. Not only is Nurse Rached on guard, but the intern you passed out in front of is still pushing for a psych consult. “

Shit. Roan considered his options, and wasn’t too surprised that he had few. He absolutely didn’t want to stay here if he didn’t have the option to leave. He needed to stay with Dylan … but he really didn’t like the sound of a psych consult. That was a one way ticket to Crazyville for good. “Can you get me out of here?”

Holden’s silhouette cocked his head like that was stupidest question he’d heard all night (quite possibly). “Did you forget who you were talking to? Honey, I can get you out of almost anything.”

There was a joke there, but he decided not to make it. He was going to owe Holden a lot for this, so he supposed he should simply be grateful for his generosity and his easy gift of gab

Holden snuck him out of the hospital through a way he didn‘t know existed, but was apparently for the janitorial staff. Roan almost asked him how he knew about it, but decided that this was just the type of thing Holden would go out of his way to know. Roan never entered a place without being aware of the immediate exits, and Holden never went anywhere without taking note of the more obscure ways out. He had the spirit of a sneak thief in him.

Holden led him towards his car, and Roan was going to object, but then realized he probably was in no shape to drive right now. He was lucky to have gotten away with it earlier. The drugs may have been theoretically out of his system, but his head was still swimming, and he felt unconscionably hollow, like he was just the husk of a human being. “Where am I taking you?” Holden asked.

That was a good question. If he went home, the cops could find him easily, as could Dee, whom he was more concerned about. Dee was just going to kill him once Shep told him what happened. He wanted to put this off as long as possible. Also, there were a whole bunch of nice, comforting pills waiting for him at home, and he didn’t know if he was strong enough to fight the need for them right now. “Not home; I can’t deal with that right now. How about a motel or something?”

Holden shrugged and got in the car, and Roan got in the passenger side, figuring that was an okay. “You know, you caught a break,” he told him, once Roan had collapsed into the passenger seat. “The guy whose arm you snapped like a swizzle stick? He couldn’t give a description to the police, and seemed to think you were wearing a prosthesis on your face. “

He didn‘t even remember anything coherent after arriving at the church. His memory was like a broken mirror, something so completely broken and disconnected it was hard to imagine that it had ever been one whole piece. “The cops will know who it was.” And they would too. What they would do about it was another story.

“They’d have to prove it. And I caught up with you before you reached the church, so we have no idea who the fuck that could have been.”

Just like that; an easy lie, casually delivered, so reflex it almost sounded like a natural truth. He looked at him curiously, but Holden was watching the road. His face flashed in and out as it was illuminated briefly by passing lights, and plunged back into darkness again. Roan didn‘t even notice when he started the car. “Why are you helping me?”

“It’s called friendship. Look it up.” He glanced at him, then shot him a brief, almost feral smile, all teeth and confidence. “C’mon, Roan, you were always good to me and my boys. Consider this good karma coming back at you.”

And the more cynical side of him knew that Holden liked to collect favors and people who might turn out to be good to know at some point in time, and he may have just fallen in that category. Was he going to protest it right now, though? No. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the passenger window, which felt inordinately good right now. He watched the road slip by like a fast running river, and wondered how long he would feel this empty. “Am I going crazy?”

“No, you’re just self-destructing. I’ve seen it happen to a lot of people. Most people do it one drink at a time, but you just had to go and prove to everyone you were gay by being flamboyant about it.” He scoffed in mock disgust. “Okay, we get it, you’re dying inside. Do you have to make a big deal out of it, cocksucker?”

Roan wasn’t sure if trying to make a joke out of it was helpful. Well, it was laugh or cry, wasn’t it? “Are you saying you’ve never self-destructed?”

“Oh, fuck no. I love myself too much to do that. That’s the key - be a conceited fuck, and you’ll never want to implode.” He winked at him as they passed beneath the halo of a streetlight.

It almost made him laugh. Not quite, but the fact that he nearly wanted to seemed remarkable. He thought about Connor for a moment, and realized it didn’t hurt quite like it used to. Would he get there with Paris one of these days? Maybe. Not just now, though. “Are you still bucking for an assistant job?”

“After tonight, I better damn well have it.”

“I’m on the verge of making you partner,” he admitted, and to his surprise, Holden chuckled at that.

Maybe he wasn’t too far gone if he made someone else laugh. It gave him hope.

14 - Stranger By The Minute

By the time he staggered to his car, Roan was already half-conscious from the pain.

He couldn’t say how many bones had broken and reset themselves, or how many muscles had torn; all he knew was it was too damn many, and by the time he fought the lion back, he was shaking and involuntarily crying from the pain. And only the pain, damn it. But the humiliation was bad enough.

With trembling hands he got the glove compartment open and managed to wrestle the top off the first bottle of pills he grabbed - what they were was irrelevant; he only had codeine and vicodin in the car - and swallowed whatever was left in the bottle. Six or seven maybe; it didn’t matter in the big scheme of things, as nothing short of elephant tranquilizers were going to kill the pain. He felt like he was full of broken glass, his nerves on fire and melting into barbed wire, his skull shattered like an egg and hastily glued back together again. He spit blood from his aching mouth and tried to wash the taste of it out of his mouth with the water he had stashed under the seat, but it wasn’t up to the task. He simply tasted more blood, coppery and salty, and he forced himself to drive and get the fuck out of there even though he hadn’t been able to stem the flow of tears from his eyes. At least they were no longer pink with blood.

His mind didn’t know where to focus; it reeled like a drunken tilt-a-whirl. Where the hell had Holden come from? Why was he there? How did he know about Dylan?

(He had wanted to kill Harvey so badly. His terror was a sweet appetizer for what was to come.)

Was Holden really going to “take care” of Harvey? Roan thought he had the answer to this: yes. He hadn’t been lying. There was no way he could have lied to him in that condition. Was he really going to let Holden do his dirty work for him?

Yes, obviously. He could barely drive his fucking car right now. Homicide was way out of the question.

He swung by his office - it was on the way back to the hospital - and let himself in so he could use the bathroom. Turning on the light, he saw a horror show in the mirror, a blood splattered man who could have been Victim #1 in a slasher film. But it was him, of course, a bloody ruin that had no right to be still standing. But he tried to ignore the fact that his hair had grown an inch in the course of an hour, and that he now had a layer of reddish gold stubble hidden beneath the blood caked on his chin and cheeks.

He washed in the hottest water he could stand, filling the sink and sloshing a bit of blood tinted water over the sides as he cleaned his face and hands, and peeled off his shirt to clean off the blood on his torso. Hopefully he could salvage the shirt, because he really liked it. He found some more pain pills hidden in an Excedrin bottle and swigged them down with cold water straight from the faucet, and only then did his tears start to dry up. He sat down for a moment to let the pills work their magic, and wondered if there was a mental hospital that could contain an infected. You’d think there were some. Not all people took being infected well; many had psychotics breaks, or in the case of Paris, just had nervous breakdowns. It was hard to deal with becoming another species every once and a while, not to mention the pain of the transition and possible hazards (such as eating your pets, neighbors, or family).

Once he thought he could manage it, he got up and searched his office for spare clothes. He always kept some here just in case, so he had a clean t-shirt and pair of jeans to pull on. He put his blood soaked clothes in a plastic bag and stashed them in his garbage can. When he was in better shape, he’d come back for them.

He found a towel and wiped off the blood smears near the light switches, on the door, on his desk. If Fiona came here tomorrow and saw blood everywhere, she just might quit, and he rather liked her. As soon as he was done, he tossed it in the garbage can and went back out to his car. His body just throbbed with residual pain, but his head, while still aching, had a strange pill caused lightness to it as well. Was he safe to drive? Oh, fuck it - it was past the time after the bars had closed. The streets were as close to a graveyard as they ever came.

Roan made it to the hospital in one piece, but his head felt pumped full of helium, although the residual pain kept him anchored to this world, and he stumbled past busy and exhausted night shift workers who were honestly too wrapped up in their own dramas to notice him. Dylan was no longer in the room he had been in, but he had been moved recently enough that Roan was able to pick up his scent (in spite of the hospital smell of illness, blood, and cleaners that could peel the skin off a person) and follow it to the ICU. Or a place near the ICU; right now he couldn’t tell, and he didn’t much care. Dylan was still out cold, although someone had stitched up the cut on his head, and shaved off a tiny strip of hair to do it, throwing his haircut out of all whack. Roan touched his head, running his fingers carefully through his hair. “I don’t know how I do it. I always hurt the people I want to protect the most.”

He found a chair in the tiny room and pulled it over, collapsing in it and grabbing Dylan’s hand, laying his forehead on the edge of the bed. “I wish you could wake up and curse me the fuck out. Call me every name in the book, tell me how I ruined your life, kick me out of here. Just do it; I won’t fight back. Just wake up.”

He waited for Dylan to respond, to do something, but he slept while the machines kept a steady, uninteresting rhythm. Roan stared at the floor in the dark, and wondered how he could have fucked things up so badly.

****

“Y-you can’t -” the guy who was probably named Harvey said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Holden snapped, pressing down on the knife blade. Harvey shut his mouth so fast there was an audible click as his teeth slammed together. “I’m not interested in a single thing you have to say. You hurt Dylan. You’re fucking trash.” With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, which he flipped open and punched in a number with his thumb. It was on his speed dial, but it wasn’t a number he called often at all. It was just there as an emergency, something he could use if he absolutely had to.

After half a dozen rings, it sounded like the receiver was dropped before actually being answered. “Yeah?” The man on the other end slurred. In the background, very faintly, Holden heard the type of dramatic grunting and groaning he associated with porn.

“Spider, it’s Fox.” He kept his eyes on Harvey, never looked away. Harvey looked like he was contemplating shouting for help, but he weighed it against the knife at his throat, and thought better of it.

“Oh, Fox. What can I do for ya, man?”

“I have something I need to get rid of, but I don’t want to pay the dump fees. Want to help me haul it out?” It was code; clumsy code, and yet best when dealing with Spider. Spider was a member of a biker gang. Not a leather daddy one or a gay one, an overly macho het felonious one, the kind you occasionally saw getting busted by the feds on the evening news. Spider was one of the scariest looking dudes he had ever met, with the most tattoos of anyone he’d ever encountered, and he was painfully confused about his sexuality. Oh sure, he’d fuck bitches (and he always referred to women as bitches, unless he was calling them cunts), but he really enjoyed fucking guys, and he had a problem dealing with this. It didn’t fit the macho image he’d grown up with and worked so hard to cultivate. So while he hired the occasional male prostitute on the side - only ones he could pay to keep their mouths shut about him - he also worked out his internal conflicts with pool cues, spiked chains, and a pair of .45’s. Spider hadn’t been convicted of a felony in this state, to his knowledge, yet, but it was a given he would. He often bragged about how he beat a murder rap in Nevada because the chief of police was on the payroll of the drug gang they often ran coke for, but he really did kill the guy. The most disturbing thing about that was talking about the killing gave Spider a hard on.

He was a full on closet case who became a full on psycho because he couldn’t deal with his own personal dichotomy; he was also a methhead of a serious variety, usually high or drunk, as he had long ago given up dealing with the world sober. In spite of that, he had an inkling they might be falling under the feds’ radar, so he was very careful about what he talked about and to who. And he liked Dylan enough that he promised if he ever needed something - like, say, a guy killed - all he had to do was give the word.

It sounded like he took a drink of something before he said, “Sure. Where’re you stayin’ now?”

“A place off Riverside and 42nd. Got me a lot of cats.” Harvey was staring at him in mute horror, as the code really wasn’t that hard to figure out, and he was giving Spider directions to the church.

“Oh … that place? Okay. We talkin’ somethin’ big here?”

“Nope. Small potatoes.”

Spider snorted, and the groaning in the background had stopped, indicating he’d turned off the set. Was the snort a sign he’d done a bump? Maybe. He never saw him sober. “‘kay, I’ll be there soon.”

“Appreciate it.” There were no goodbyes; he simply folded the phone shut and slid it back into his pocket. “The man’s a professional. You’ll disappear, and it’ll be like you never existed at all.”

Harvey made a small noise like a whimper in the back of his throat. “P-please, no. I’m sorry -”

“Don’t beg,” Fox spat at him. “Don’t you have any spine at all? Jesus, you fuckheads who won’t even do your own dirty work make me sick.” He pressed the knife in hard, hard enough that it broke the skin, and a thin rivulet of blood started trickling down his neck. Harvey was struggling very hard not to cry. “Now be quiet and listen, because I’m only making this offer once. If you’re very fast, you might be able to get out of state before Spider finds you. Maybe. But once you’re gone, you’d better stay gone - you feel me? Abandon the church, don’t tell them what happened to you, never ever talk about Roan or even think of Dylan again. Because Spider’s gang runs all up and down the West Coast, from Vancouver to Baja, and one phone call from me is all it takes for a bunch of angry bikers to show up at your door. You bother Roan or anyone near him again, and you’ll be nothing but a dismembered, unidentifiable corpse strewn across the I-5 corridor. Understand?”

He wanted to nod, but the knife was still cutting into his throat. “I get it,” he whispered harshly, tears squeezing out the corners of his eyes. “I won’t - I’ll leave him alone, I won’t bother him again -”

“No, you won’t,” Holden agreed, staring him straight in the eye. Working a hunch, he said, “I think I’ll fuck you before you die.” There was a flinch, a blossom of fear in his eyes - yep, homophobe. They were really fun to mentally fuck with, because they arrogantly assumed every gay man was after their flabby, pale asses. Even if he paid him cash, Holden probably wouldn’t fuck this guy, but how was he to know that? He probably thought sex was all gays thought about, and that they fucked all the time. (Some wished they did, sure, but name a man who didn’t.)

He withdrew the knife from his neck, but still held it up so he could see the smear of blood on the blade. “Run. Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Never taking his eyes off of him, Harvey grabbed his coat and ran out the door, pretty fast for an out of shape guy.

There - that was his good Samaritan deed for the month. Roan probably would have felt bad about his death in the morning. Maybe. Well, odds were fifty-fifty.

Holden strolled through the tiny bungalow and found the bathroom off the small bedroom. He wiped the blood off the blade with toilet paper, and flushed the evidence before cleaning off the blade in the sink with antibacterial liquid soap and folding it back up. He could ditch the knife, but not here, not now; when Spider showed up, he could give it to him if he wanted, and he’d be happy to get rid of it or “recycle” it (use it himself). It probably wouldn’t be necessary - a cat cultist, go to the cops? Yeah, right.

The cops would probably be here by then, and Spider would hang back, unwilling to show his face around the uniforms, but he would loiter long enough to see if Dylan was in custody or not. If the gang had no cops on their payroll, they would have people on the inside, inmates, who would help him out. Spider was a psycho dirtbag in a whole pack of psycho dirtbags, but even they had their place.

Coming back through the bedroom, he saw a wallet on top of his dresser, along with a scattering of loose change. Holden checked the wallet, saw about forty five bucks in cash, a debit card, and a couple of credit cards. He pocketed the wallet - no way a guy took off without taking his wallet with him; that’d look suspicious - and figured his Boulevard boys would be eating and drinking good for a couple nights or so.

At least Harvey’s money would be going to a good cause.

****

Roan was in a half stupor and he knew it. He could see in the dark, through the dim light of the machines, and it looked like the floor was breathing. It was rising up and flattening out, in rhythm with Dylan’s breath, and he wondered how many pills he had.

Lifting his head caused the walls to shift around him, like they were on casters, and he wondered briefly if he had fallen into a Terry Gilliam film. He didn’t think so, but if Hunter S. Thompson ever actually did that many drugs at once, he finally knew what he felt like.

“I need to balance this out,” he told the still unconscious Dylan. “I need caffeine. I’ll be back.” He kissed him softly on his unbruised cheek, and felt a surge of anger buried beneath the muffling effects of the drugs. What was Holden doing to Harvey? He hoped it was good.

It took him a moment to lever himself up to his feet with the help of the bed, and then another moment to get his sea legs. Even then, he felt like he was staggering, and his head was swimming laps inside his skull. The funny thing was, he could still feel the pain - it still felt like his eyes had been plucked from their sockets and shoved back in with dirty fingers, like he had been pulverized by a sledgehammer and then plumped up with saline until he looked vaguely Human.

He got out to the corridor, where the lights suddenly seemed too bright and he had to close them for a moment before opening them slowly, readjusting to the light. While he was doing this, a young male intern in blue scrubs walked into the corridor, and giving him a look out of the corner of his eye while still reading a clipboard, said, “Sir, you shouldn’t be here.” He then stopped suddenly and looked back at him with wide eyed horror. He looked maybe twenty, super young, but he was one of those Asian guys that looked twenty even when they were forty. “Sir, are you all right?”

Roan wondered how much of his over-intoxication was showing on his face. It must have been a lot, because this guy was staring at him like he was a ghost. “I’m fine, I just need some coffee,” he said, as the hallway seemed to pitch and yaw like a storm tossed ship. Did he feel a little nauseous? Maybe.

But it soon became irrelevant, as he couldn’t fight the dark, narcotic tide any longer, and sank into the soft, warm blackness.