Lesser Evils, Part 4
4 – Abracadabra
Rosenberg objected to the idea of an outpatient biopsy, although didn’t HMO’s do shit like that all the time? Besides, Roan being who he was, being opened up wouldn’t hurt him; he’d heal faster than a normal, get on with his life. But she still objected.
So they set aside the biopsy for another day. He did agree to get the brain scan though, if only to appease her, and he hoped she knew what a sacrifice that was.
There was something awful about being squashed in a narrow metal tube, which echoed with strange noises (clanks, hums, sinister science fiction type sounds), and made you feel like you had been shoved into a torpedo and were about to be fired at an enemy vessel. That wouldn’t have been a bad way to die, come to think of it – flung at the enemy like a biological weapon, which was in essence what he was. Rosenberg sometimes talked to him, and since he was a captive audience inside the big scanning machine, she told him about all the assholes out there (fellow virologists) who make various claims about the virus and infecteds, while she was sitting on him (in a figurative sense, of course), and could blow all those putzes away. Did she want him to give consent to release information on him? Too bad, she wasn’t going to get it.
He wondered if he was going stir crazy in the tube. He felt like he’d been in the scanner for most of the day, but it was about an hour. Even though he’d done nothing but remain motionless in the damn tube, he felt both jittery and exhausted. She wanted to talk some more, schedule him for a biopsy, but he was in no mood for a talk and told her he’d schedule them later on his way out the door. He believed she called him a very nasty name, but maybe she was talking to someone else.
He sat in the car, wondering what he was going to do. His head hurt from the noises and the lights in the scanner – was she trying to trigger a migraine? He could believe it – and struggled to open a bottle of Percocet. His hands were shaking, and he wasn’t sure why. There were so many reasons for him to fall to pieces right now. Not that he was planning to, but it was nice to know he had a pass if he couldn’t hold his shit together.
He swallowed a couple of pills with lukewarm bottled water that tasted more like plastic than anything else, and pondered his next move. He should tell Dylan; it was only fair that he knew his freak husband had a freak problem. He couldn’t show up at work and tell him, that was cruel, but right now he was doing his usual weekly work for the temple, and there was no way in hell he was going to track him down and tell him now. He could make dinner tonight, break it to him then … except no, that seemed awful too. He was going to have to think of a better way to break it to him.
“So what now, genius?” he asked himself. He wished he knew.
Did the thought he might die actually bother him? Or was it the method? He wouldn’t mind death if it was fast; the thought of a slow death made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Not like that; any way but that.
The best thing for it was distraction. And who better to pursue a hopeless case than a man who was a hopeless case himself? He started the car and headed out towards the Eagle, hoping the rest of the day was better from here on out.
It could be worse, but he was seriously hoping the universe was done fucking him for now.
****
Holden was just trying to decide if he wanted to throw frozen blueberries into his smoothie when there was a knock at his door.
That was weird, mainly because he rarely if ever had unannounced visitors. Oh, sometimes Roan came over with little warning, usually when there was a situation, but it didn’t sound like Roan. When he knocked, he usually shook the door in its frame. His little segues into Hulk-dom sometimes made itself known in the oddest places.
Curious, he approached, wondering if he should grab his gun first. Oh sure, he wasn’t an infected, and he wasn’t sure any of these fundie haters even knew who he was (he made damn sure he was a difficult man to know and find – he even paid his rent under a fake identity), but these days you couldn’t be too sure. He knew the “kill the cats” bastards were just trying to scare people into submission, but they were just making him angrier by the second. Maybe it was being a preacher’s son and knowing exactly what kind of hypocritical, nasty bastards they actually were, and how little they genuinely thought of their loyal followers, but perhaps he was just projecting. He supposed there were some good God boys out there, but any that preached hate and homicide were instantly ruled out.
He glanced out his peep hole, approaching it from the side so anyone waiting for a light shift would just be shooting through the door, but he was surprised by who he saw. If this was an FCC member, he’d undergone a serious brainwashing.
Holden unlocked the door and opened it wide enough to lean against the door frame. “Hey little boy, you lost?”
Scott Murray, the way too cute hockey player, seemed a little thrown off by the statement. Good Canadian boy, was he? He’d witnessed hockey fights and heard a couple of things to the contrary. He chuckled nervously and scratched his forehead before saying, “Sorry to just drop by like this, I was hoping to talk to you. Is this a bad time?”
“No, I guess not. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”
He stopped staring at his chest – until he opened the door and felt the cool air, Holden forgot he was wearing nothing but the sweatpants he stepped into after his shower (well, it wasn’t like nudity was uncommon for him …) – and gave him a curious, almost wary look. “Huh?”
Holden opened the door wide and made a sweeping arm gesture towards the interior of his apartment. “My casa is your casa.”
For a moment he looked like he might turn and run away. But he gathered his courage like a good little macho man and came in. Holden had to swallow a laugh. Oh, it was too easy playing with the nervous and shy, and too damn fun too. As soon as he shut the door, he asked, “Who told you where I lived?” He tried not to sound hostile, but he was curious.
“Oh, um, Diego, that paramedic? I kinda lied to him, I said Roan wanted us to work on something together, but I didn’t know where you were, and Roan wasn’t answering his phone.”
“I’ll give you credit for plausibility. That sounds like Roan.”
“I thought so.”
He walked back to the kitchenette, wondering if Scott was watching his ass. Well, did they look any good in these sweatpants? He couldn’t remember. “Can I offer you a drink? I’m making a smoothie, I’m sure there’ll be extra.”
“Um, no thanks. Can I, uh, sit down?”
“What, you don’t sit in your own home? Of course you can sit down. Just don’t put your feet up on my couch or I’ll cut you.”
Scott laughed nervously, and whatever he said after that was lost in the whir of the blender. When it stopped, and he was pouring the smoothie into a glass, Scott tried again. “So, um, I was wondering … um …”
“If I’m a prostitute? Yes. What else can I help you with?” He turned around to see Scott just staring at him from his couch with a look somewhere between surprise and disbelief. He sipped from his smoothie to keep from laughing.
Scott actually looked small in his civilian clothes, a pair of loose jeans, a t-shirt advertising some skate shop he’d never heard of (had he heard of any skate shops?) and a black leather jacket, and the innocent look on his face made him look barely old enough to shave. Of course he really wasn’t that old, was he? It was easy to forget, just like it was easy to forget how much of his hockey gear wasn’t actually him. That stuff added about fifteen pounds to a guy. Still, what he did have of body mass was mostly solid muscle; if he had a single ounce of fat, it wasn’t visible. “Um, wow,” he finally said, running a hand nervously through his shaggy black hair. “I guess Diego was right about you.”
“Oh? What did he say?”
“He said you had no shame.”
“Shame is for the weak. Do I look weak to you?”
It took a moment for Scott to look at him, but his eyes were furtive and skittish. Poor boy. Holden wasn’t sure if he should comfort him or torment him. “No.”
“There you go.” He leaned on the counter of the kitchenette, looking out into the living room, so there was a physical barrier to mimic the psychological and emotional one between them. He couldn’t help but wonder where this conversation was going to go, and yet he was curious to play out the line for a bit.
“I thought you were Roan’s assistant.”
“I am. But that’s a part time thing at best. And I’m not just any old hooker, but one of those high class prostitutes that you hear about in various political scandals. I have a page on the agency’s web site and everything. Awesome picture of me, if I don’t say so myself.”
His look was dubious, like he thought he was kidding. “I thought those were only female.”
“Generally. But not in big cities with sizable gay populations. I mean, there are high class male hookers in Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Boston, New Orleans … and don’t even ask about San Francisco. But you probably guessed that.”
“I guessed nothing. I’m surprised by this.”
“Why?”
“You just … I guess I imagine male hookers as …”
“Twinks? Transvestites? Scrawny little HIV victims? Strung out junkies? Sexually abused train wrecks? Give me the high sign when I get close.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to offend you -”
“You think this is offended? Sweetheart, when I’m offended, you will know. The taste of blood will be a major giveaway.”
That made Scott smile, like he thought it would. Macho men generally responded to macho, good or bad. “See, that’s why I’m having a hard time with this.”
“What, ’cause I’m not a victim type?”
“I guess. I’m not sure that’s what I was going for …”
“Look, I sell myself, sure, but I’m not a doormat. I didn’t start out as some club kid pimped out by his sugar daddy. I knew what I was getting into when I got into it, and I did my time on the street. You survive there by either adopting the colors of a predator, or attaching yourself remora like to a much bigger fish than you.”
He weighed this carefully, with the slightest twitch of his eyebrow. Scott did have those great, eerily clear blue eyes, the kind that always reminded Holden of Husky dogs. It made him seem more innocent than he probably was. “You gonna make me guess what you did?”
“My street name is Fox. Does that help at all?”
He considered that a moment, and finally remembered that a fox was indeed a predator. They were small and considered cute by some, which was probably why people forgot what they actually were. Did that explain why some people forgot what he was too? Well, no; he wasn’t small, and no one had ever called him cute. “I guess it does,” Scott finally admitted, and looked at him with more obviously critical eyes. There was no intent to offend, though; he was simply scrutinizing him, looking for some crack in his armor that would explain him. He wished Captain Canada good luck, ’cause he was going to need it. “I still don’t understand why you sell yourself. You seem smart, you seem tough. So … why?”
He shrugged. “Why not? It’s good money.”
“You can’t do something else for money?”
“Who said it was all about money?”
Scott stared at him in bewilderment. “Didn’t you?”
“No. I gave you one reason out of many. Gotta look out for those little details, they tell you more about a person than you might realize.”
He shook his head and stood up, flinging his hands up as if lobbing a heavy gun overboard. “This is a mind fuck. You’re mind fucking me.”
“I mind fuck everyone. It’s a little freebie.”
Those crystal clear eyes locked onto his again, and Holden watched a current of anger sizzle and fly by. Maybe he wasn’t on ‘roids – he was too scrawny, his skin too clear, his muscles too realistic for it – but something kept his temper close to the surface. Could have just been years of playing hockey; Scott wasn’t one to fight a lot, but he did fight, and he grew up in an atmosphere that didn’t frown on it. Fighting was to hockey as homoerotic ass grabbing was to football – something done without a lot of thought. “Is that why you’re Roan’s assistant? To irritate people until they talk?”
“No, that’s just a lovely little side benefit.”
He gave him a stony look, his eyes like agates. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Fucking with people? Sure. Who doesn’t?”
Ooh, he didn’t like that. His mouth twisted in irritation as he turned towards the door. “I give up. Why did I even come here?”
“’Cause you wondered how much I charged.”
That made him stop dead, his back stiffening like someone just put ice down his shirt. “What?”
“Oh, come on. We’re both adults here, and I’m not gonna rat you out to your team. That’s part of what you pay me for when you hire me: privacy and silence. There are cheaper hustlers, but with me you get a guarantee of no diseases, and discretion. I’m not going to tell on you to your wife, girlfriend, or co-workers, and if you become big and famous someday, I’m not going to out you on Oprah and write a tell all memoir about how you liked me to fuck you in a clown mask. I may be a whore, but I’m not that kind of whore. I do have standards. Play fair with me, and I play fair with you. No games, no bullshit.”
His expression was studiously blank, as if he was trying to give nothing away. He was trying, but failing. “Clown mask?”
“People have weird kinks; I don’t judge. Although clowns are freaky.”
“You know I don’t hafta pay for sex, right?”
“Oh yeah. You’re gorgeous and an athlete, two bonuses in the getting laid sweepstakes. But I also know you’re locally fairly well known, and meeting guys has an extra layer of peril.”
He scoffed, and his half smile was attractive and somewhat convincing. “I have a girlfriend.”
“Many of my clients do; that’s so not the point. You’re bi, we both know it, so what’s with the pose? Drop it, hon, we’re all friends here.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “Are we?”
Holden flashed him one of his more seductive smiles. “I’d like to think so. When’s the last time you were with a man? In a Biblical sense.”
“I thought the Bible frowned on that.”
That made him chuckle. “You’re talking to a preacher’s son here. The Bible frowns on many things, and yet seems good on slavery and selling your daughters, so I’m thinking it’s schizophrenic at best.”
“You’re a preacher’s son? Wow. How come almost every gay guy I meet comes from an ultra religious home?”
“You’ve noticed too, huh?”
“Yeah. My first boyfriend was a Mormon.”
“You have Mormons in Canada?”
“I know, right? But he was cute. Couldn’t shoot for shit, though.”
“He was a hockey player too?”
“No, lacrosse. He initially wanted me to teach him how to play, but I saw through that pretty quickly.”
Perhaps this was why he sort of liked him, beyond him being pretty damn hot – they had a lot in common. “I used to be a jock, you know. I was the star baseball pitcher at my tony private Christian school. My first boyfriend was the captain of the swim team.”
Scott chuckled. “It’s always the swim team.”
“Hey, it allows the fussy gay boy to wax his body hair and have a legitimate reason for it.”
“I suppose.”
“So how long has it been?” He knew he was pushing it. He had no idea how comfortable Scott was with his sexuality, although the fact that he was still in the closet suggested some discomfort. Was it all career related? He guessed not. Scott struck him as surprisingly reasonable for a semi-pro athlete, enough that Holden wondered why he would put off by his own sexuality, and why he went the jock route. Then again, some people wondered the same thing about him being a prostitute, so it all evened out.
He seemed torn between staying and leaving, but Scott seemed to come to some internal decision and stood his ground. “Six months.”
He let out a low whistle, shaking his head while giving him one of his sliest smiles. “Nasty. I don’t know if I could go that long without sex.”
“I’ve had sex. I got a girlfriend, remember? It’s just …” he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it adorably. “It’s different with a man, y’know? I mean, I’m fine with women most of the time, but every now and then …”
“You want raw, animalistic, no strings attached sex? Hell, that’s the only kind I like.”
They held each other’s gaze for a very long time, a silent battle of potentialities, desire, and awkwardness. Would it be awkward if he took Scott on as a client, since he was part of Roan’s inner circle of super freaks? Maybe for Scott, but it wouldn’t be for him; he had no problems separating his work from the rest of his life. There was Fox and there was Holden, and while they were closely related, they were still very different.
Scott lied to most of his teammates (surely the unfathomable Grey and terminally weird Tank knew, and obviously didn’t care), so why couldn’t he lie to Roan? The only problem was Scott seemed to idolize Roan. He could feel weird around him. Oh, so fucking what? That was his hang up.
Scott finally admitted, “I don’t know if I could do that.”
“You’d be surprised what you’re capable of.” He opened a drawer by the sink, and after rummaging around, found one of his business cards. All it had on it was the web address of his escort agency page and one of his private cell numbers (no name, nothing else – if you got the card, you knew what it was and why), so if anyone found it, they’d have no idea what it was. Unless they looked up the web address, then he was screwed.
Holden held out the card to him. “Change your mind, give me a call.”
Scott studied the plain card, looking at the few things on the front and flipping it over to see if there was anything on the back, before meeting his eyes again. “I couldn’t just ask you out for a beer?”
He almost laughed, but he seemed half serious. “I don’t know. You could try.”
“I could, I guess,” he said, but only shot him a small, somewhat embarrassed smile before leaving his apartment.
Funny. He could totally see why Roan liked him.
