1 – This Boy

Things could be weirder, but Holden was kind of glad they weren’t, because he thought his head might explode.

When he arrived at the hospital with Scott, they found Dylan looking like he hadn’t slept for days (possible), and so weary he didn’t even comment on the fact that they had arrived together. When he told them the lion had woken up but Roan hadn’t yet, Holden understood why he looked so tired and frazzled. What did that mean, exactly? Dylan was afraid it meant something went wrong during the surgery, but Holden had another idea, one that made him angry enough to want to go into the room and punch Roan.

Roan was hiding.

The fucker had just given up. He decided he didn’t like what he was anymore and shut down, letting the lion run amok. He pulled Scott aside, and whispered to him to keep Dylan company while he went and visited Roan. Scott obviously had questions, but he asked him to trust him and he agreed.

Scott poured on the charm and got Dylan to agree to go have a decent cup of tea with him (there was a Starbucks down the street – of course there was, as it was a law in Washington State you could be no more than five minutes away from one at all times), and as soon as they were gone, he snuck into his room. (He wasn’t a hundred percent sure anyone was supposed to be in there, so he wanted to make sure he wasn’t intercepted by an overzealous nurse.)

There were signs Dylan had been sleeping here, from the cot in the corner covered with blankets to the sketchbook sitting on the floor beside it, the cover smeared with charcoal. Roan was laying in his hospital bed, out cold, surrounded by all his bleeping machines, not perfectly bald but almost, his head covered with a rusty red fuzz like dried blood. He looked more human with his hair trimmed back so violently, but that was a funny thing to think, because he hardly looked inhuman with it.

Whatever. It didn’t really matter now anyways. He took a deep breath, gave himself a moment to feel awkward about talking to an unconscious man, and just got down to business. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, Roan? Really? What kind of an asshole do you take me for? I don’t really care if you give up and hide behind the lion all day long, that’s your choice, but I hope you rot on the guilt of what you’re doing to Dylan and every other one of us stupid motherfuckers who care about you. And don’t think I’m picking up your slack, ‘cause fuck you, I have my own life to lead, and I’m not a detective. You are, so wake the fuck up and get on with it. You wanna feel sorry for yourself? Fine, but do it at home like the rest of us.”

He started walking away, but he was angry now, and realized he had more to say, so he turned back. “You think I haven’t just wanted to give up and die? I have, millions of times, but then I remembered my parents, the violent johns, the evangelicals who would like to kill all the gays, and I realize I have to live, if only to piss them off. That’s what you have to do too. You have to live to piss off all the infected haters out there, fight back for those who can’t. And do it fast, ‘cause I’m on the verge of beating the shit out of you. Especially since you’re in no position to fight back. It’s the safest time to beat you senseless.” Of course he couldn’t actually hit him, because it would be just his luck to hit him and bring the lion lunging out at him. He’d be the first man mauled to death by a lion in human form. He’d get a posthumous place in the Guinness Book of World Records.

This time he did walk away, but he decided to put a final boot in his ribs before he went. “Oh, and I think Scott and I are dating now, or something like that. I dunno; I don’t really do relationships. You want anymore details, you’re gonna hafta wake up and ask. Chew on that for a while.” On the back of everything else, it was weak, but it was the only ammo he had left.

Dylan and Scott weren’t yet back from the Starbucks, so he went to join them. Scott had convinced Dylan to share a brownie with him, and when Holden joined them at the table, Scott broke off a piece of his brownie and gave it to him. “Watchin’ my carbs,” he said, in a manner that Holden knew this was his way of getting Dylan to eat something. Holden played along, because Dylan looked so exhausted, not just physically, but emotionally and probably mentally. As much fun as Roan probably was in bed, the agony of being his husband probably wasn’t worth it. He was lightning, and in his shadow all you got was burned.

Scott tried to get Dylan to go with them to the Del Toro film festival, but while Dylan was a fan, he felt he had to return to the hospital. It was like watching the poor son of a bitch slink off to his own execution, and he felt bad for him. He knew Dylan didn’t trust him, but he couldn’t really blame him. He couldn’t define his relationship with Roan in any way; it wasn’t an affair, but he knew a side of Roan that Dylan really didn’t, so in a way it was. Dylan married Bruce Wayne, but he didn’t know a single thing about Batman.

Oh fuck – bad metaphor. This made him Robin. So, Hulk and … no. Iron Man? No. Wolverine? No. Goddamn it, didn’t any other superhero have a sidekick?

A lack of anything better to do led to him going to the film festival with Scott. It occurred to Holden the last time he was in a theater, he snuck in to get some sleep in relative safety. He couldn’t remember the last time he came to a theater to see an actual film.

They were good movies, and Scott was good as his word, buying them sodas, popcorn, nachos, and Gummi Bears, as Scott turned out to really like Gummi Bears (actually all kinds of Gummi candy, but all the theater had was bears). Holden accused him of liking Jell-O too, and Scott made the gross (but endearing) admission that his grandmother used to feed him hot liquid Jell-O when he was sick, and when he got a cold, he still craved raspberry Jell-O “punch”. Really disgusting, and yet it seemed to suit him somehow.

There was a certain unreality that hit you after you were up all night watching films. When they came out of the theater with dawn painting the sky several vibrant pastels, Holden felt slightly high, as if he’d stepped out into another world, perhaps one better than his own. He hoped so.

Holden intended to drive Scott home, but he said he just wanted to sleep now, fuck going home, so they ended up sleeping at his place. That’s all they did; not only were they too tired to have sex, but they didn’t really undress either. They just collapsed on his bed and went to sleep almost immediately, and Holden knew that was a sign he was getting older. He preferred sleeping alone, he didn’t like anyone impinging on his space and often found it difficult to sleep when sharing a bed, but he had no trouble this time. Still, when he woke up with Scott’s arm around him, he was momentarily disoriented. But he was conscious enough to reach for the phone, his Fox cell, and he knew who was calling him because of the specialized ringtone.

Yes, he had a specialized ringtone for every client. (Hell, he had a specialized ringtone for Roan too on his regular cell, although he probably wouldn’t like to know it was “Wolf Like Me” by TV On The Radio.) Since it was “London Calling”, he knew it was Trevor.

Trevor’s real name was Graham, and yes, he was British. He’d been a client of his for a long time, almost two years, and he was probably his favorite client, because he wasn’t bad looking (not handsome per se, but not unattractive, and trim and in good shape) , he was generous, and he always treated him with respect. This was a business arrangement, he knew it, and he acted like it was, which Holden rather liked. It felt like they were on even footing, like they were equals, and to be brutally honest, he always felt like he was above most of his clients in some way. That probably wasn’t fair, but it helped his self-esteem immeasurably.

Graham was, like Scott, bisexual, and in the closet about it. He had a wife and two kids, and they had no idea about his proclivities, as he kept his “urges” stifled at home. But on the road, he decided to let it out, figuring it was unlikely it would ever get back to his family. He traveled a lot, therefore he didn’t have too much pent up urges. Holden had no idea who he worked for or in what capacity, although he had the idea he was an executive of some sort. He liked that, as he honestly didn’t care where his clients worked or what they did, or even about their families. He wasn’t a therapist, although he was treated that way quite a bit. Graham didn’t treat him that way; sometimes he mentioned problems with a colleague or a client of his own (a business client, not someone he was sleeping with for money), but not often. They traded lots of small talk, current events, odd little things. Graham had started asking him for book recommendations for flights since he liked the first book Holden had recommended to him, which seemed funny. “Why am I reading this? Oh, my rent boy said it was good.” From Graham, he’d learned enough about British politics to make him wonder if he was involved in it in some way.

Graham had caught an earlier flight, and was in town right now. As Holden rubbed sleep from his eyes, he told him he’d be there in twenty minutes. After hanging up, he noticed it was almost two in the afternoon, so at least he’d gotten some sleep.

Scott was still sleeping, the deep “drooling on the pillow” kind, and while he felt like he should tell him to do his damn laundry if he was going to drool on his pillow, he figured they’d both gotten worse things on the sheets. He’d live, it was just the idea of it.

He showered quickly and got dressed in loose fitting jeans, a loose blue t-shirt, and his black Converse sneakers. Graham didn’t require him to dress like a cartoon hustler, all tight clothes and package enhancing underwear, because they were far beyond that now. There was something oddly comfortable in the whole arrangement, even though it was still a purchasing agreement.

He didn’t need to take anything besides the usuals (condoms, lube, Viagra), because Graham was also very vanilla.  You’d think he’d be into kink (where he got this idea the Brits were kinky he had no idea – Monty Python?) but he wasn’t.

He considered leaving Scott a note, but why? It felt weird. So he simply wrote “Had to go” on a Post-It and stuck it on the bathroom mirror, where he was sure to see it. He kind of hoped he wouldn’t be here when he got back, because there was only so much togetherness he could take in a day.

When he arrived at the Sheridan Hotel, he found Graham in his room, eating a light lunch of tomato bisque soup, a fancy ass cheese plate, and some artisan bread along with a beer he declared “absolutely terrible” (he was very chauvinistic about Britain having the best beers).  Still, he invited him to join him, and since he hadn’t had any breakfast, he did. The soup wasn’t bad, but he really loved all the grapes that came with the cheese plate; Graham didn’t eat grapes, as he thought they were awful for some unfathomable reason.

It was a pleasant afternoon, familiar, comfortable – that word again – and free of any attachments, which may have been the best part of it. He came out after showering to find Graham ironing his shirt. He’d never seen anyone iron anything, but Graham was kind of fussy about his appearance, which was probably the most stereotypical thing about him. Holden got dressed, but kept an eye on Graham as he stood there in his pale blue boxers and a thin, close fitting white undershirt he called a “vest”, ironing his white dress shirt. He was forty nine but looked about forty, his brown hair cut short and neat, the lines around his eyes still within the window of time when they’re refined looking and not sad. He was ironing edges so sharp they looked like they could draw blood. “You’re the only person I’ve ever seen iron,” he admitted.

Graham glanced up at him, not stopping, and scoffed. “What, your mother didn’t iron your clothes when you were a child?”

“No, I don’t think so. She hated laundry. We had a cleaning lady most of the time.”

That made him set his little travel iron aside – yes, it was his iron; Holden had seen him unpack it from his luggage – and stare at him with something like wonder. “You had servants?”

“Just the one. What, you were expecting a dirt poor refugee?”

“No, but … it’s a little surprising.” He chuckled to himself as he slid on his iron warned and flattened shirt, and Holden prompted him. “What?”

“You are a mystery to me, Fox. I suspect you’re much more clever than you let on.”

“Me? Nah. I’m only as clever as I need to be.”

Graham had this way of looking at you that said he didn’t quite believe you, but he’d play along. His eyes were such a pale hazel they were almost another color entirely, something like weak tea, and had such an intelligence in them you knew you didn’t want to argue with him if you could at all avoid it. “If you say so.” It was while he was stepping into his assuredly expensive slacks that he said, “I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to Las Vegas the weekend of the 27th.”

He had just finished zipping up his own jeans, and was caught off guard. “What? What for?”

“Oh, I have some dreary conference there, and last time I was bored out of mind. What is the appeal of gambling? Do you know?”

“It’s the lure of money for nothing. If you can call blowing your last hundred bucks on a slim chance nothing.”

“Ah, is that it? Anyways, I thought you could come along as my assistant. You’d be free to do whatever you want while I’m attending the conference, but I’d hope you’d be available afterwards. “

After all this time, still coy with his wording. It was a habit of his he just couldn’t break. “You’re not gonna tell people I’m only there to lift your luggage, are you?”

That made him genuinely laugh, showing he was aware of the latest “homophobe really a big fat homo” scandal. At this point, Holden thought everyone should collectively agree that those who rabidly hated gays were clearly gay themselves, and totally ignore their self-hating bullshit. Everyone would be better off. “God no. I’m not that pathetic, am I? You’re clever enough to actually be my assistant. I know for a fact you’re smarter than the latest intern in the office. Dear lord, you can hear pebbles rattling in his skull when he shakes his head.”

Holden himself didn’t like Vegas. He went once, and found it sordid, but not in an enjoyable way. Skeevy, like an eighty year old priest who can’t stop pawing you. He chalked it up as one of those straight people things he’d never understand, but the fact that a bi didn’t get it either made him feel better. (Although he was a fussy Brit, so maybe that lessened the impact.) “When you say weekend … you mean the entire weekend?”

He nodded, neither mussing his hair or rumpling his collar. “Yes, the twenty seventh and the twenty eighth. I’ll take care of the plane ticket and lodgings, and of course your meals are on me.”

“On top of my usual fee?”

“Of course.”

“That’s quite a bit of money.”

“I can afford it, and you’re worth it. Can you do it?”

It wasn’t the first time a client had requested more than his usual time. He actually required extra if someone had wanted him to spend the night, and some had actually paid it. But two days in a row? Weird, but again, not unheard of. It was two weeks away, and he had nothing going that weekend as far as he knew. If any other clients called that weekend, he’d just tell them he was busy. It was weird, but he liked Graham and knew he wasn’t a freak, just very probably lonely and wanting someone he knew and trusted. “Yeah, I’m sure I could. Just let me know the time I should show up at Sea-Tac.”

That made Graham grace him with a genuinely sweet half smile that he wouldn’t have expected from a man of his age and station. And while Holden smiled back, he found himself once again wondering how his life could be so fucking weird.

****

On his way home, he realized he hadn’t been shopping for a while, so he stopped to get a few things. Now Holden felt weird being in a store, behaving like a normal person, But he was a normal person, wasn’t he? He just happened to be a prostitute and a freelance vigilante sidekick to a lion guy. Nothing abnormal about that. Christ, he should start doing acid, just so stuff started making more sense.

It was early evening by the time he got back home, and Scott was gone, like he expected. He left a note that simply read “Call me”, and he wasn’t sure if he would or wouldn’t.

He tossed a frozen dinner in the microwave, and while it heated poured himself a glass of gin, the only glass of gin he was going to allow himself tonight. He was going to limit his intake, see if things got any clearer. He doubted it, but he wanted to make sure.

He watched television, but without any awareness of what he was watching, mindlessly shoving food in his mouth, not one hundred percent sure what he was eating. His best guess was some kind of meatloaf. He should have read the box more carefully.

He decided to check his phone messages, and that’s when the phone rang. He had a long moment where he mentally debated letting it go to call messaging, but on the fourth ring he answered it. “Yeah?”

There was a small noise, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, and that was enough to let him know it was a woman on the other end of the line. “This Fox?”

“Yeah,” he replied warily. Did he know this voice?

There was a sniff before she replied, “It’s Tika, ‘member?”

“TIka …” he scoured his memory, glad he hadn’t had enough alcohol to blur everything. “Shit, Trey Tika?”

“That’s me.”

“Holy fuck, girl, where you been? Last I heard, you were doing a nickel in Purdy.” Purdy was the home of a women’s prison, and Tika had been no stranger to it. She was one of the working girls – nee common streetwalkers – he knew in his early days. Her nickname was Trey, and was somehow related to her love of wigs, but he was never sure how and always felt too stupid to ask. The male and female prostitutes rarely fraternized, but they got along fairly well.

“Yeah, I got out last year. I’ve been tryin’ to stay clean …” she trailed off, sniffing again. Either she’d been crying or doing a bump. “”Look, I need your help. Rico’s dead.”

You know what? He hadn’t had enough gin to deal with this right now. Fuck sobriety; it was highly overrated.

Yes, this is a shameless plug, but the money that comes from the shirt sales in the Comixtreme Zazzle store - #mce_temp_url# – helps pay for my server as well. So if you’d like to help me out here, I’d appreciate it. (And I vouch for the “lion man” shirt – it’s pretty spiffy looking in person.)

18 – Cavity Carousel

Dylan waited until Doctor Rosenberg showed up before telling anyone what happened, mainly because he didn’t want anyone busting in with guns blazing. Not that that was likely to happen, but even a small possibility was too much of a possibility.

Once she arrived, he told her in confidence what happened. For a moment, she stared at him over her glasses, perched on the end of her nose. “The lion woke up in his body?”

“Yes.”

“How is that possible?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

She huffed a sigh through her nose before rubbing her eyes like she was in pain. “Goddamn that little pisher, he’s always thinking up new ways to complicate my life.” Once she stopped pinching the bridge of her nose, she reset her glasses, and walked over to the nearest nurse’s station. Dylan followed, but kept an eye on the door of Roan’s room. Not that he could get out, but he didn’t want anyone accidentally going in.

She picked up the phone, hit a button, and said, “Gonna need you to bust out the cannon and get up to room 25-IU. Make it a high dosage, as this guy has a tolerance.”

As soon as she hung up, he repeated, “Cannon?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “What we call the drug gun. We gotta liven up the place.”

“You don’t need to send a sniper in. Just give me a needle, I could probably get close enough to him to jab him.”

“Seriously? Even though he was growling at you?”

“It was only growling. If it’s the lion, it may not know how to get around in a bipedal body.”

For a moment, her stare was relentless. “And you just came up with that, huh?”

He glared back at her. “I think it would have attacked me otherwise.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that it’s a lion, and I don’t think it’s interested in playing backgammon with me.”

She didn’t seem amused, but this wasn’t a laughing moment. Except Roan would probably say it was, although he would say that about everything, therefore he wasn’t a good source of opinion.

Finally she settled for shaking her head. “Kid, you’re not a nurse, you’re not vetted by the hospital, the lawsuit potential is just too huge, setting aside other stuff like reason and common sense. So thanks but no thanks, I’m leavin’ it to my sniper.”

He would have argued with her, but he had no grounds if she was going to take a legal angle. So he let it go, at least for now, although he felt a slight sinking in his stomach when the orderly arrived with the tranquilizer gun propped on his shoulder. He would never get used to people shooting Roan, but maybe that was a good thing.

As he went about putting Roan down, Dylan had to ask Rosenberg, one more time, “What does it mean? Will Roan ever wake up?”

“Kiddo, I really don’t know. But I’m gonna kick his ass if he doesn’t.”

“Get in line,” he sighed. Again, Dylan found himself in the position of wishing he had nothing to do with Roan, and being afraid Roan would have nothing to do with him. Was there any way to win with this man? Would he ever know for sure?

Oh Buddha, why couldn’t he have fallen in love with a less complicated man?

****

There was no point in putting it off any longer. Using Roan’s records, Holden called up Aunt Abby, and braced himself for the torrent of bitterness. Luckily, he had his camp bitchy attitude locked and loaded. Did she think she could out bitch a gay man? He wanted to hear that.

As soon as she answered – her voice clipped, short, hard edged – he launched into his spiel. “I’m Holden Krause, calling for Roan McKichan, and I’m letting you know we’re terminating our services.”

There was a moment of tense silence before she replied, “What?”

“We’re cashing the check for work done, but our contract is null and void, because you lied to us. We’re really not pleased with that.”

Again, another pause, but he could sense her growing fury. He was good at spotting fury, he had a lot of experience with it. “Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you implying?”

“I’m an associate investigator, because you are not worth Mr. McKichan’s time anymore. We know Tyler Edwards was impersonating your nephew, and you know where you fucked up? Having him beaten. Too many witnesses. Next time, hire smarter thugs.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can the bullshit, sister. We know you can’t afford the money you’ve been spending without skimming … or help from your very rich daddy. How much do you want me to divulge here? Because I could get into specifics.” That was partly true. He talked to Randi Kim after visiting Roan’s office and finding it cordoned off by crime tape, with a good part of its front charred black. (It was mostly surface damage, though, nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a cosmetic Band-Aid.)

Randi admitted to him, over a quickie nosh at a taco truck down the street, that she had been avoiding Roan since her brother Grant was arrested. She knew the fact that he was still alive and hadn’t been shanked in prison yet was all courtesy of Roan, but she hadn’t quite worked up to seeing him. Roan occasionally left her phone messages, by now never expecting her to call back. She felt weird around him now, and couldn’t say why, except she felt guilty, angry at him and grateful at the same time, and not sure their friendship could ever go back to where it was before all of this. When she heard he was in the hospital, though, she supposed she should make amends. He told her that might be a good idea, and in return, she looked up a couple of financial records for him.

Abby’s voice, already cold, took on an even frostier edge. “You’re lying. Financial records are sealed.”

“Yes, unless you know somebody who doesn’t mind breaking the law, and you’d be surprised how few lawful people I know. By the way, if you’re near your computer now, go ahead and look up the Seattle area Craigslist, personals section.”

“Are – are you fucking insane?”

“Fine, be that way. Let me read you the ad: ‘Adam Jepson – your father is looking for you in the Seattle area now. Leave as quickly as possible.’ Just posted that an hour ago. It’ll run for a week, in every section I could post it in. It’ll also be in the Stranger and the Times too. If he saw it right away, he could already be half way to Vancouver by now. Got any family in Canada?”

“You stupid … I paid you to find him, not send him deeper into hiding!”

“Under false pretenses. That’s not how we do business.”

“You fucking asshole. I’ll sue you!”

“Will you now? Please do. I’d love to see your family drama dragged into open court, ‘cause maybe then the truth will come out. But I really wouldn’t go the revenge route on us or Tyler Edwards. Money can buy you a lot, honey, but it can’t buy you protection from the likes of us.” Yeah, the Human lion and the vigilante hooker – she didn’t have a prayer.

He then hung up on her, closing the phone even as he heard her blustering. He’d called her on his trick phone, his Fox phone, one used by his clients only. It was impossible to trace; star 69 would get you nowhere, it didn’t show up on caller ID. He didn’t want anyone having his number who didn’t intend to use it for its specific purpose. No suspicious wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, or coworkers would ever track him down. He prided himself on being impossible.

He did wonder what was going on in the Jephson family. Was Vernon Jephson actually looking for his son to harm him? Is that why he split? Roan seemed to imply as much in his notes. It wouldn’t surprise Holden either, as families could fuck with people worse than any maniac stranger ever could. He knew that personally.

He changed into slightly more respectable clothes, deciding to pay a visit to Dylan at the hospital, see how Roan was doing, and let him know that whenever Roan woke up, he could tell him the Jephson case was closed. Well, for now. There was no telling if something would come back to haunt them, or if Roan would be inclined to peek under more rocks.

He’d seen in the paper that Lee’s body had finally been found. He recalled going back that night, cleaning up the blood. He didn’t need to get rid of the knife or the crossbow (or his wallet), because they were gone by the time he got back. Funny how that worked. Nobody called the police, no one reported the body, and he wasn’t at all surprised. The paper seemed to assume the body was that of a transient, and he wondered if they’d ever discover the truth. They might not bother to look.

Not that he read the paper anymore, besides the Stranger. It was just he visited a client this morning, and he got the paper in his hotel room. Holden read it while Henry was in the shower. It was really weird, because for a moment, he felt a genuine disconnect between who he was at that moment and who he was when they went after Lee. He could feel the schism inside him, the two different people that shared his skin. It wasn’t a proper split personality, just the roles he decided to play: hooker and vigilante. Which was the real one? Was either of them real? He honestly didn’t know. Roan had a reason to be split in two, but he didn’t. He really didn’t like to think about who he actually was, because the very nature of the question was solipsistic and boring, way too close to that narcissistic touchy-feely stuff they peddled on all varieties of daytime talk shows. He was just a person. A weird person, but a person, and to think more about it was to invite trouble.

He was shrugging on his jacket when there was a knock at the door. By now, it was becoming a familiar knock.

With a weary sigh, he opened the door on Scott, who immediately held up a green colored flyer. “Guillermo Del Toro film festival at the Grand,” he said, with no preamble. “Wanna go with me?”

Holden scowled at him, and took the flyer. It listed three films: Cronos, The Devil’s Backbone, and Pan’s Labyrinth. He recognized one of those names. “Spanish horror films? Really?”

“What? I’d go with Grey if he was here, but he’s not. So you wanna go?”

“I’m the back up plan?”

“C’mon, don’t be that way. I hate goin’ to movies alone. Come with me, it’ll be fun. You could probably use your cultural horizons expanded anyways.” He gave him a teasing little smile, but he wasn’t letting him off that easy.

“Oh, so the suburban jock is telling me I need my horizons expanded.”

“You’re sexy when you’re pissed off.”

Holden glared at him, and tried very hard not to laugh. Scott was just grinning at him like an idiot. “This is six hours plus of movies.”

“I know, it goes all night. There’s nachos and Red Bull on me.”

The joke there was too good to let go. “On you? Where on you exactly?”

That made Scott laugh. It was an open laugh, unselfconscious, and it reminded him why he liked him, beyond him being as sexy as all hell. “We’ll hafta figure that out on the way.” Scott’s clear blue eyes scanned him, looked him up and down, and noticed the clean corduroys, dark red shirt, and classy leather jacket. “You got a date?” He asked without jealously, just curiosity, which was another thing to like about Scott. Holden didn’t need possessive, didn’t need any hetero-normative bullshit impinging on his job, and Scott, who still kept his options open when it came to women, didn’t want him to infringe on his ability to date either. So they were even.

“I was just going to the hospital to see if Roan has woken up yet. Wanna come with me?”

All humor fled Scott’s expression. “He’s still not awake?”

Holden just shook his head. “Physically he seems to be okay, but … brain surgery, you know? Anything can happen.”

He nodded solemnly in return. “If you think they wouldn’t mind me stopping by, I’ll go.”

“Dylan probably needs all the moral support he can get.”

“From us, it’s immoral support, right?”

“What a horrible joke. Now I’m not sure I wanna be seen in public with you.”

He grinned at him again, all charm and teeth. “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

“You better not be calling me a bitch, bitch,” Holden replied, pulling out his keys. Scott took that as his cue to step back, so he could come out and close the door behind him.

Now what did this mean? This pseudo-relationship he had going with Scott … he didn’t understand it, and he really didn’t want to understand it. It was a bit of fun that was starting to get out of hand, but the worst part of it was it didn’t feel that bad. It was kind of nice to have sex when he wanted to, not because he was paid to do it, and he was kind of surprised that he had any sex drive at all. He was pretty sure he’d completely sublimated his desires to suit his job. Should he be worried that he hadn’t, or should he take it to mean he was as human as anyone else?

He loved how the questions never stopped coming. Maybe one of these days, he’d get some answers he liked.

****

The End (for now)

P.S.: All these chapter titles were These Arms Are Snakes songs. See, I dedicated this story to them for a reason …