by Jo Adler
“Who the fuck are you?”
I’m so startled that I nearly fall on my ass when I turn to look up.
“I, uh…dropped something,” I say, offering the first thing that comes to mind. “I was looking for—”
“Shut the fuck up!” the guy says. “You weren’t looking for shit.”
When he suddenly takes a swing at me, I stumble backward, fall against the bumper of the car parked in front of the truck and slam down to the street.
“Little fucker,” he hisses. “You’re the punk that—” He stops short. “You shouldn’t be here, asshole.”
I scramble back toward the curb, frantic to get to my feet, desperate to get enough leverage to escape. But he’s on top of me before I can get up. He grabs the collar of my shirt, tugging it with such force that it rips and the side of my face smashes into the bumper.
“What the fuck are you doing?” calls the other guy. “Let’s get out of here.”
White hot pain explodes beneath my right eye. I try to get up again, but the guy charges forward, pivots toward the sidewalk and slides one of his legs behind my knees.
“I mean now!” the second man shouts as I hit the ground. “Let’s go!”
The man towering over me turns just enough so I catch a glimpse of his face, but he’s a wearing a surgical mask over his nose and mouth. For a split second, my frantic brain tries to comprehend why a doctor would attack me for no reason. But then I find enough clarity to realize that he’s wearing the mask as a disguise and whatever is happening at Adam’s house definitely involves something nefarious.
“Keep your mouth shut, Nicky,” he hisses.
He knows my name? How the fuck does he know my name?
As I try to process the startling revelation, the man standing over me pulls back his right hand, cocks it beside his shoulder and sends it toward me in a blur of pink and black and silver. I hadn’t notice the ring before, but I definitely feel it bite into my cheek as the punch skims along just beneath my left eye.
“You’ll get more like that if we find out you talked,” he rasps before stepping over me and turning toward the right.
What the fuck just happened?
Although I’m dazed and trembling, I find enough strength to pull myself onto the sidewalk so I can get a look at the guy. As he moves between the splintered pools of light from the other houses, I squint at the back of his jacket, trying to make out the crimson shape. It’s either a skull or a flower. Or maybe both.
For a second, while my mind staggers from the chaos and terror, it fills with haphazard thoughts: call Dede, just breathe, phone in pocket, who was that, need help, breathe, get the police, keep breathing, stay calm, just breathe.
And then two more words arrive as a pair after I finally get a good look at the back of the man’s coat.
Red roses.
Three.
Red.
Roses.
I keep my gaze locked on the trio of flowers as the guy strides away. When it suddenly seems like he’s moving in slow motion, I try to get up. But the sidewalk spins toward me and a horn sounds nearby and something cold is on my face and the concrete shimmers like glass and the roses are red and everything goes black.
36
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
I’m standing beside the bed when Nick’s eyes flutter open. It’s an hour after I found him sitting at the bottom of my front steps, shivering and bleeding and confused. He’d dozed off while I was getting the first aid kit, so I’d maintained a silent vigil to see if he’d awaken on his own or if I would need to gently nudge him so I could tend to the minor cuts and abrasions on his elbows and face.
“Hey there, handsome,” I say quietly. “How are you?”
His mouth lifts into a shy smile. “I’m not sure. Pretty much lost at the moment.”
When I first spotted him after turning the corner earlier, I was instantly furious. Since I’m more or less an easy walk from a handful of bars and restaurants, my stoop often hosts drunken revelers who get stranded midway between the last beer and the first light of day.
I figured Nick was another intoxicated stranger, but as soon as I saw his face and the red abrasions and the glazed eyes, I went to work. I carefully helped him to his feet and guided him up the stairs. I kept one arm around his waist while I unlocked and opened the door. We inched forward into the entryway and then the living room, where I lowered him onto the sofa as he groaned against the pain. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he’d mumbled. “Somebody hurt me.” We sat and talked for a few minutes before I gingerly helped him stand and led him upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms. He’d mumbled something about me trying to get a look at him naked, but I’d dismissed that joke with a stern reminder that I’d already seen him undressed twice before.
“Do you remember what happened?” I ask.
His mouth squirms. “Yeah, some of it. There was a guy, and he…no, wait. There were two of them. And the taller one had roses.”
“Roses?”
Nick nods. “On his jacket.”
Fuck. My hunch was right.
“What kind of jacket?” I ask.
“They took things,” Nick says, skimming past my question. “Did you tell them to?”
I’d noticed the missing paintings and framed prints when we’d first entered the house, but knew that was something I could deal with later. There was no sign of forced entry, so my gut told me instantly that it wasn’t a random break-in.
“Let’s not worry about that right now,” I tell Nick, sitting beside him on the bed. “You need to get some rest, sexy boy. But first, I want to finish cleaning up those cuts, okay?”
“Cleaning what?” he asks, sounding fuzzy again.
“Someone clocked your left cheek,” I answer. “There’s a small cut, and I want to get some antibiotic ointment on it.”
He raises one arm and goes for the first aid kit on the bedside table, but I catch his hand in midair. “Whoa, hold on. I’ll take care of everything. You just need to keep still.”
I douse a cotton ball with alcohol and begin gently swabbing the scrapes on his cheek.
“Why did he hit me?” Nick asks in a hoarse whisper.
“I’d like to know the same thing,” I tell him. “I ran out to buy some wine from a shop around the corner. You were sprawled on the front steps when I—”
He recoils from the sting of the disinfectant. “Fuck, that really hurts. Are the scratches deep?”
“Not terribly,” I reassure him, patting his chest. “Either the guy was a bad shot or you turned away before he landed the punch.”
Nick shrugs. “Don’t really remember. It’s all kind of…” He pauses to swallow. “Sorry about that. My throat is kind of dry.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you apologize too much?”
“Oh, um…” A frail smile brightens his face. “Possibly. I guess that I tend to say sorry a lot.”
I touch the tip of his nose with one finger. “Bingo. We need to work on that.”
He narrows his gaze. “We?”
“You and me,” I say. “I was like that myself when I was a few years younger than you are now. It’s easy to diminish your worth when life deals you some bad luck when you’re a kid.”
He smiles again, bigger and brighter. “My friend Dede says stuff like that all the time.”
“Ah, the renowned pizza maven,” I say. “I actually spoke to her a few minutes ago.”
“You did?”
“After I got you settled in here,” I tell him, “I figured we should let her know that you’re not missing in action. She was pretty freaked out at first, but I assured her that I would keep you safe until you’re steady enough to head home.”
“What about deliveries?” he asks, biting his lower lip. “I just left her high and dry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Dede told me that business has been slow and one of the other employees would be able to deliver any orders that come in.”
He makes a
face. “God, I hope she’s not talking about Rita. Her sense of direction is nonexistent. She gets lost even with GPS on her phone.”
I can’t help but laugh at the wisecrack and his comical expression. As he begins a story about Rita’s penchant for losing her way in the Village, I study Nick’s face and the gleam in his baby blues. Despite the upsetting incident in front of my house, he’s bouncing back nicely. His voice sounds stronger and calmer than it did earlier. I’m so distracted by his handsome features that it takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s calling my name and jabbing one finger into my thigh.
“Are you?” he’s saying when I blink away the daydream.
“Am I what?” I ask.
He offers a sheepish grin. “Glad to see me?”
I take a breath. “Well, I’m really sorry about the circumstances,” I tell him, “but seeing you again is the best thing that’s happened since the last time I saw you.”
37
▬ ☼ ▬
NICK
Everything hurts when I open my eyes, especially my jaw, elbows and tailbone. Sunlight pours into the room through gauzy drapes, and I hear music coming from somewhere else in the house. I woke up during the middle of the night, completely confused until I saw a picture of Adam on the bedside table. In the photograph, he’s standing in front of the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of wine in one hand and a baguette in the other.
He looks much younger, maybe somewhere around my age, and his arms are free of ink. I stare at the image again before getting out of bed, trying to imagine what he was like all those years ago. Since Adam hasn’t told me much about his younger days, I make up a story that involves a far less grand life and busy days getting his fledgling architecture and design business off the ground. I picture him living in a studio apartment filled with secondhand furniture and inexpensive posters on the walls.
I close my eyes and conjure another memory from our night together at Dirty Secrets. I remember his tongue sliding down my back as he pressed me into the bed. Then I think about the sound of his hand as he spanked my ass, hitting hard enough to sting but without going beyond my limit.
As I contemplate Adam and his life and his incredibly hot body, I suddenly remember Oliver. He probably thinks that I’m dead.
I spot my phone on the desk near the window. It’s sitting on top of my clothes, which are folded and stacked in a neat pile. I throw back the blankets, slowly ease out of the bed and then walk across the room. A pair of navy sweatpants and a Harvard T-shirt are also on the desk with a note: Towels and toiletries in the bathroom. Let me know if you need anything. Adam.
For a moment or two, I stare at the message and think about the surreal twists of fate that brought me to this moment. Less than two weeks ago at Dirty Secrets Social Club, I met a man who personifies all of the qualities that I’d hope to find in a daddy. Adam is incredibly kind, sexy as fuck, impossibly handsome and more thoughtful than anyone I’ve ever dated. Hell, he’s more considerate than anyone I’ve ever known. He’s also creative and spirited and witty.
After repeating the list a few times quickly in my head, I put down the note. Then I slip into the sweatpants and T-shirt before walking over to a mirror hanging above a side table. I want to check my appearance and call Oliver before I go downstairs to find Adam.
I flinch when I see my reflection. One cheek is covered with scratches and a sizeable Band-Air. The other is marred by bright red abrasions and a smattering of bruises that turned purple and blue overnight. My hair is a mad scramble of tufts going a million different directions, so I go into the bathroom and use some water to tame the wild thicket as well as I can.
“Not your best look,” I say to the drowsy man in the mirror. “But it’ll do for now.”
I go back into the bedroom, pickup my phone and dial Oliver without checking messages. He answers with a yelp. “Holy shit, Nick! I’ve been fucking sick worrying about you! When you didn’t return my calls last night, I checked with Dede. Luckily, your knight in skin-tight armor had already called her with a heads up about your brush with death.”
I clear my throat. “Um, it wasn’t exactly a brush with—”
“Somebody assaulted you!” he shouts. “I think we need to file a report with the police. It could be a hate crime, okay? And I’m one-hundred percent fucking serious, Nicky. You need to listen to me right now. I’m the one that dated the cop, not you.”
“I’m okay, Oliver. Adam took care of the cuts last night.”
“Did he call the police for you?” he asks. “Or should we do that when you get back to the apartment?”
“I don’t actually know if he did or not,” I say. “But I’ll ask him as soon as I see him.”
Oliver gasps. “What do you mean? Isn’t he right there with you?”
“No, he’s not right here with me.” I laugh at the tone of Oliver’s voice. “Why do you sound shocked?”
“Well, you know,” he begins. “You and Adam got off to such a hot and heavy start that I figured you’d be right back at it now that the marriage is on again.”
“What are you talking about?” I feel the bandage tug on my skin. “I came by last night just to see if he was home. I wasn’t even going to talk to him. And I certainly had no idea somebody was going to totally jump me.”
“Uh-huh,” he murmurs. “I’m sure all of that is true. Because you would never stage anything this dramatic to get a hot daddy’s attention.”
“What?” I don’t mean to scream, but it’s out of my mouth like a shot. “You think that I staged last night?”
“Calm down, already!” he says. “Don’t you remember Candace whatshername? The girl that Kenny Stewart dated for about five minutes during senior year?”
I definitely remember the stunt that Candace pulled, but I’m not interested in rehashing it with Oliver. Especially after he accused me of fabricating one of the most terrifying things that’s ever happened in my life.
“Look,” I say. “How about we talk after I get back there later? I want to take a shower and thank Adam for rescuing me last night.”
There’s no reply, so I ask Oliver if he’s still on the line.
“Maybe,” he says quietly.
“What is it now?”
“You sound mad, babe.”
“Well, so would you if somebody just basically blamed you for faking a mugging.”
He sighs. “They took your wallet?”
“No, but it was essentially that kind of thing.”
“Well, thank God they didn’t take your cash,” he says. “We’re still low on vermouth, and I need to—”
“What you need to do is get a fucking job,” I say briskly. “And stop whining about Jean-Michel. And maybe do something about getting an intervention for that spray tan crap that you use all the time.”
The first waves of guilt for the outburst are already cresting when I hear Oliver’s voice.
“First of all,” he says, “it’s not spray tan; it’s streak-free tanning mousse. And second, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I’ve been awake all night, worrying about you and feeling like a complete shit for dumping all my problems on your shoulders when you have enough of your own to deal with.”
Apologies from Oliver are as rare as red diamonds, so I keep quiet for a few seconds to appreciate the miracle of his remorse.
“Did you hang up?” he asks eventually.
“No, I was just relishing that apology.”
“Oh, okay.” I hear ice cubes clink against a glass on his end of the line. “I completely get that, babe.”
“Are you having cocktails already?” I ask gingerly. “It’s not even nine.”
Oliver snorts. “I am having a cocktail,” he snorts. “But it’s a Shirley Temple, so you don’t need to get your knickers in a twist.”
38
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
Nick looks anxious and hesitant and utterly adorable when he walks into the kitchen as I’m finishing a phone call with a client in Bosto
n. She’s hired me to redesign a dozen properties over the years, and she was checking in to let me know that she’s thinking about moving again after six months in her new Back Bay townhouse.
“Morning, handsome,” I say as he drifts into the room. “How do you feel?”
He shrugs. “Not too bad actually. I had some really weird dreams, but slept pretty much through the night.”
“Coffee?” I tap the carafe on the table. “Or we have juice and smoothies in the refrigerator.”
He smiles and sits across from me. “I’m okay for now.”
“That was pretty scary last night,” I admit. “When I found you on the steps, you were pretty dizzy and out of it.”
“Par for the course,” he jokes. “I’m just glad it wasn’t any worse.”
I feel a shudder in my heart, trying not to picture anything beyond the cuts and bruises. “I’ll second that emotion. I’m glad that you’re essentially still in one piece.”
He frowns briefly. “I keep having flashbacks of the guy standing over me. It makes my whole body go tense.”
“That’s to be expected,” I say, remembering an incident that happened to a friend in the past. “You should think about maybe finding someone to talk to once the dust settles.”
He hesitates, rubbing his chin. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe your friend Dede,” I suggest. “Or a professional if the feelings persist.”
“What about you?” A smile lifts his lips. “I mean, you were in the area when it happened, and you took care of the cuts and scrapes.”
I clear my throat. “Well, helping you talk about it is definitely something that I can do.” I pause long enough to consider the curious sense that something is changing between us. “If, that is, you’d want me to.”