by Lynn Lorenz
He could get used to this life.
If Donovan would ever let him go.
Chapter Eight
Mitchell got out of the cab, the plastic bag clutched in his fist and the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He trudged up the stairs to his apartment. After pushing open the door, he headed straight to the kitchen. He dropped his bags, pulled open a drawer, and found his address book.
He flipped through the pages until he located the number of his insurance agent.
The room spun. He leaned on the counter and closed his eyes. Waves of nausea raced over him, his stomach clenched, and he rushed to the sink and vomited. Shaking as he leaned over the sink, he turned the tap, rinsing the meager contents of his stomach down the drain. He cupped his hands, sipped some water and washed out his mouth. Tremors started in his legs and arms, then spread to his entire body.
Unable to raise his head, Mitchell clung to the side of the sink and tried to get the shaking under control. Water running from the tap and the pounding in his head drowned out the eerie silence of what had once been a sanctuary for him.
The shivers slowed and stopped. He splashed cold water on his perspiration-drenched face. After turning off the tap, he pulled out a chair from the table and sat before his legs gave out.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Mitchell leaned forward, elbows on the table, and cradled his head in his hands. It pounded like a son of a bitch. His life, once so calm and predictable, had become a fucking rollercoaster ride since he’d met Sammi. Long slow climbs to the summits of ecstasy, then breakneck-speed plunges to the bottom, then up again to careen around hairpin turns, and shooting him through an endless blackened tunnel. Making love with Sammi had been more wonderful than he’d ever experienced, even his times with Steve. But at what price?
Would he ever come out of the tunnel and into the light?
If he didn’t give up Sammi, Donovan’s goon would probably kill him. They had him by the balls. He’d lost his job. They knew his name, his address, his phone number. If they’d been in his computer, they probably knew his bank account.
Oh, shit.
Mitchell lurched to his feet and staggered to the study. He sat in the chair, turned on his PC and sat back to wait as it fired up. More than ever before, it felt as if it took forever to boot up. His fingers tapped the mouse pad as he waited. At last, the familiar jingle sounded and he put his hand on the mouse.
His desktop came up and icons popped into place. My Bank sat there, plain as day. Swallowing, he double-clicked it. His sign-in and password appeared already in place. He’d used the option to remember them. He hit Login to Your Account. The bank connected.
After clicking on Balance, he stared unbelieving at the screen.
Twenty-five dollars remained.
Fuck. He’d just deposited his paycheck. Even the extra cash cushion he kept for emergencies was gone. He clicked on Transaction History. His money had been transferred to another account. They’d wiped him out.
A growing fear gnawed at his belly. He closed the window and clicked on the icon for one of his two credit cards.
He’d used the saved ID and password there, too. How could he be so fucking stupid?
Mitchell clicked one open and hit the log-in.
Access Denied and Account Not Available flashed in red. They’d closed his account and fucked him royally. He didn’t bother checking out the other credit card. It would be the same.
These people were not playing with him.
“Shit!” He stood and, in a fury that swelled in him then exploded, he wiped his desk clean, sending papers, a pencil holder with all its contents, and several books crashing to the floor. “Damn that goddamned motherfucking bastard!”
Mitchell’s eyes filled with tears, but he fought them back. Sucking in a ragged breath, he straightened and let it out in a long, slow exhalation that emptied his lungs. Another deep breath and slow release.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, hit nine-one-one, and waited.
“I’d like to report a burglary.”
* * * *
Donovan watched as Moretti crossed the plush carpet with silent footsteps and placed a FedEx envelope on his desk. Picking it up, Donovan read the front of it. The sender’s address was a street in Rome. He smiled and ignored it. His intermediary would be too careful to put the real address on any paperwork that could be traced.
He opened it and let the contents fall out. A slip of paper and an Italian passport hit the desk. He picked up the passport and flipped to the front of it. Sammi’s face stared back at him. The paperwork couldn’t have been more perfect.
Sammi Constanza. As good a name as any for a man with no past.
As long as Sammi didn’t officially exist, Donovan held the power. Sammi’s last name had been lost in a sea of foster parents. With no birth certificate, that meant no name, and that meant no social security number, and a social security number meant everything. It meant you existed. You could work legally, you could vote, you could get a driver’s license.
Donovan tossed the passport down and picked up the paper. It was a deposit slip for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for his offshore account.
Part one of the transaction was complete.
He double-clicked the mouse and brought up his email. Clicked on New then he typed, Papers received. Item will be shipped in three days, added the address, then clicked Send and sat back.
Donovan’s eyes flicked to Moretti, standing at ease against the wall near the door.
“We have three days to find him and get him on that plane.”
“Yes, sir.” Moretti’s eyes didn’t move.
“Mitchell Collins?”
“Taken care of. I shut him down. No money, no credit, and by now, no job.”
Donovan smiled.
Mitchell Collins would understand what it meant to take what belonged to Donovan and what it cost.
* * * *
The police cruiser pulled up. Mitchell, sitting on the steps, didn’t bother to stand as the cop got out.
“You called about the break-in?” the officer called up to him.
“Yeah.” Mitchell nodded. “I think they’re the ones who slashed my tires, too.”
The officer stopped, circled Mitchell’s car, took out a small camera, and shot a photo. He came up the steps, camera and clipboard in his hands. “I need some info first.”
“Sure.” As the cop leaned against the railing, Mitchell gave him all the details, omitting that fact he and Sammi had been there when it happened last night, not today.
The cop left him on the stairs and checked out the door. “A kick-in.”
Smart cop. Mitchell kept his tendency to be a smartass in check and his mouth shut. For once.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Did you go inside?”
“Yeah. I checked it out, then called you.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“Yeah. I checked my computer. They got to my bank account. Closed my credit cards.”
“Bad break.” The cop grimaced and went inside.
Thirty minutes later, Mitchell sat on the stairs holding the police report. He’d need it for the insurance.
Exhausted and wrung out, he got to his feet and went back inside. Sitting in the kitchen, he dialed the insurance agent and gave him all the information. Since the guy handled his renter’s and car insurance, he mentioned the car’s flat tires. The agent told him to get them fixed and send him the bill.
Mitchell hung up. How was he going to pay for anything with no money and no credit cards? He’d given the last of his cash to Brian to buy clothes for Sammi. He’d have to wait for his final paycheck to clear at the end of the month before he had any money. There were savings, but it was through the company and with all the red tape, it would be over a week before he could have some money sent to him.
Fuck. My. Life.
He gathered up the duffle bag and headed to Brian’s house.
*
* * *
Sammi sat on the couch watching television and chewing the torn cuticle on his thumb. Mitchell would be here soon and Sammi dreaded finding out what had happened. Brian had disappeared into his office after lunch, leaving Sammi to occupy his time in whatever way he’d wanted.
At the penthouse, he hadn’t had much free time. Donovan had insisted he work out every day. There was a work-out room, complete with weights, treadmill, and one of those contraptions that worked your entire body. Moretti would put him through his routine like a drill sergeant until the sweat poured off Sammi.
Then he’d shower, change and go to his room. It was large, but bare. No television, no computer, no video games. Donovan controlled all of that. Sammi was rewarded when Donovan felt he’d done well, like pleasing a client. As if he were some dog doing a trick, Donovan would hold out a treat for Sammi to jump at, usually a video to watch.
And like a good dog, Sammi jumped.
The alternative was the closet. And Sammi would do whatever it took not to be put in the closet.
He stretched out on the couch, trailing his hand over his belly as he thought of Mitchell. Mitchell had offered him everything, with no strings attached, no treats to beg for, no punishments if he said no. Even Brian hadn’t demanded anything of him, but left him to his own, treating him like an adult, not a child or a pet that had to be managed.
Freedom was so much better. He didn’t care what he had to do—he was never going back to Donovan. If things got much worse, Sammi had no idea how long Mitchell would let him stay. Soul mate or not, Sammi feared Mitchell would leave him. Everyone who had ever mattered to Sammi had walked away from him without a glance back over their shoulders.
If there was one thing Sammi knew, it was that he didn’t deserve a man like Mitchell and, at some point, the rug would be pulled out from under his feet and Sammi would be left alone again.
He sat up. Maybe he should leave before that happened. More importantly, he should leave before Donovan caught up with him and made Mitchell pay for hiding him.
Getting lost would be easy in a big city like Houston. It wasn’t like he’d never lived on the streets. He knew a few places.
Sammi went to his room and gathered what Brian had bought him. He stripped a pillowcase from the bed and stuffed everything inside. Then he tied on the bandana.
He paused. Should he leave a note? Fuck, what would he say to Mitchell?
It’s been fun?
Thanks for everything?
It’s better this way?
Forgive me?
No note could hold what was in his heart.
Sammi tossed the pillowcase over his shoulder and went to the door. Peeking out, he listened, then slipped to the front of the hall. Brian was still in his study and it would be hours before Mitchell came home.
Sammi pulled the door softly closed and trotted down the steps. Striding as if he had a purpose, he made his way toward Montrose, every step taking him farther and farther from the man he loved and needed more than anything he’d ever known.
* * * *
Mitchell knocked on Brian’s front door. All he wanted was to sit down, put his feet up, and have a shot of Brian’s whiskey.
Brian opened up. “Hey, you’re home early.”
Mitchell dragged himself through the entry and to the couch. He fell onto it, he threw his feet up on the arm, and laid his head back on a pillow.
“This has been the worse fucking day of my life.” Mitchell let out a low groan.
“Whoa! What happened?” Brian sat on the coffee table next to him.
“Where’s Sammi?” He wanted to hold Sammi in his arms, feel his lips press against his, to make Mitchell believe it had all been worth it.
“Around, I guess.” Brian went to the back room. “Sammi?”
Mitchell closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The pounding was still going strong, as if two jackhammers were busting concrete against the sides of his head.
Brian came back into the room. “He’s not here. And all the stuff I bought him is gone, along with one pillowcase.”
“What?” Mitchell raised his head and stared at Brian. “Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know, but he ruined a matching set of sheets.” Brian’s attempt at humor was met with a frown from Mitchell. “We had lunch, then I went to my office to get some work done. I left him out here watching TV.”
“Shit.” Mitchell swung his legs down and sat up. “After everything I’ve been through for him, I can’t believe he took off.” The air seemed to go from his lungs and he had to suck in a deep breath. His face twisted as he struggled to keep from falling apart like he had at his ruined apartment.
“It’s okay, man. Tell me what happened.” Brian sat down at the other end of the sofa. “From the beginning. And this time, no bullshit. Don’t leave anything out.”
Mitchell rubbed his hand over his face, sat back, and told Brian everything. About how he’d met Sammi, about their incredible connection, the break-in, Donovan, being fired, everything. When he ran out of steam and words, Mitchell closed his eyes and sighed.
Brian was silent for a long time. Mitchell waited for him to blast him about being a fool, about trusting strangers, about breaking his own rules, but it never came. What came next shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.
“First, we’ll get your credit cards re-activated and re-issued. You’ll be able to pick them up at the bank tomorrow. I have some money I can lend you until payday. You can worry about finding a job next week.” He stood and got the phone. Then he returned, sat on the couch, and held out his hand. “Hand over your wallet.”
Mitchell passed it to him and listened as Brian dialed the number on the back, and explained what had happened. He passed the phone to Mitchell and he talked to the representative. By the time he hung up, she had guaranteed a new card would be waiting for him at the bank in the morning.
“God, I love you. Marry me.” Mitchell grinned at Brian.
“Not my type.” The big man shook his head.
“I could dye my hair.”
“Can you grow three inches and gain about twenty percent more muscle mass?”
“Maybe not.”
“Besides, what about Sammi? You know, he knew something was wrong today. He told me he could feel that you were upset.”
Mitchell blinked at his best friend. “So you believe me? About the connection?”
“Yes. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” Brian quoted.
“Thanks. Just makes me love you more.” Mitchell smiled. “Can I have your baby?”
Brian grimaced. “Uh, ew. Just ew.”
Mitchell laughed.
“Now, we need to figure out what happened to Sammi. He left this morning, you know. He was gone when I came back from shopping. Said he went for a walk, but I’m not sure I believe him.”
“It’s possible, but the way he’s been too frightened to go out, I doubt it. He’s been terrified Donovan would find him.”
“This guy Donovan. Any last name? Or is that his last name?”
“I’m not sure.” Mitchell ran his hands through his hair.
“You don’t know much about Sammi, do you?”
“No.” Mitchell held out his hand, palm out facing Brian. “No lectures, Dad.”
“Let me put in a call to some of my buddies on the force. See if they know anything about him.”
“Why would they?”
“Just a hunch. When I finish, let’s go over to your place, fix the front door and I’ll help you clean up.” Brian gave him a grin and disappeared into his office, leaving Mitchell alone.
What would he have done without Brian? Friends like him came along maybe once in a lifetime. He’d been a rock of support when Steve had died, even listened when Mitchell had called at two o’clock in the morning to cry. Brian had never made him feel like a whimpering, overly dramatic fag, but a man who’d lost the love of his life.
Now, Brian was
there for Mitchell again.
If Sammi was supposed to be his soul mate, where the hell was he and why had he taken off? Mitchell closed his eyes and opened himself, like he did when they made love.
Nothing. He was alone and a part of his soul had been ripped away. Mitchell felt empty, as if he’d been hollowed out with a spoon, his insides ragged and torn. The place in his heart that held Sammi was still there, but it ached.
Mitchell stood and went to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed, pulled Sammi’s pillow to his face and inhaled. Sammi’s scent permeated it and filled his nostrils.
Sammi.
Chapter Nine
Sammi walked into the laundromat and sat. A few people were doing their laundry, sitting around watching the television, or reading newspapers or old magazines. He dropped his bag between his feet.
On the street again with no money. He knew what he could do to earn some cash, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he didn’t want to go to a bar and pick someone up. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want anyone touching his body except Mitchell and he didn’t want to touch anyone but Mitchell.
Across the street were several restaurants. Sammi stared at them through the glass window and chewed his thumb as an idea formed in his mind.
After picking up his pillowcase, he stood, walked out of the door and crossed the street. He went down an alley to the back door. It had been propped open with some boxes.
A man worked in the kitchen, moving boxes around. Sammi stuck his head in the door and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m looking for work. I can wash dishes or bus tables. Got anything?”
The man stopped and shook his head. “We’re full up. Try next door.”
Sammi nodded, went back down the alley to the street, around the front of the next restaurant and down the side. The door was shut, so he knocked. No answer. He knocked again and waited. Just as he was about to leave, the door opened and a head stuck out and spoke to him. “Deliveries between two and four, buddy.”