Nurture

by Sarah Masters

  Greg did so. Carl’s cock thickened further, and he smoothed his hands over Greg’s ass cheeks, closing his eyes to convince himself it was Paul he caressed, Paul he would fuck. Touching his cock to get lube on his thumb, he opened his eyes then circled Greg’s asshole, pushing his thumb inside to ready the man for the fuck of his life. Greg gave a low whimper, spurring Carl on to loosening that ass quickly. Carl’s cock ached, and a steady pulse beat at the base of his balls. He couldn’t wait. The excitement of his day had been too much, and he needed the release. After removing his thumb, he butted his cock to Greg’s asshole, pushing inside harder than he should have but uncaring of any pain he caused. Greg grunted, and Carl ignored him, gripping Greg’s waist and thrusting in to the hilt.

  “Ah, fuck! Careful, man!” Greg said through gritted teeth.

  Fuck you.

  Carl eased in and out, slowly at first, and not because of any consideration for Greg either. No, he went slow because he liked it that way, liked the anticipation of speeding up then fucking hard and fast. The moment came when he couldn’t hold back any longer, and he pumped that ass with an unforgiving rhythm, pleased to hear Greg’s moans.

  “Yeah, I’m making you feel good, baby,” Carl ground out, his cock vein pulsating. “Ah, yeah, I love you, Paul. Fucking love you!”

  Cum spurted from him, the heady rush of his orgasm spacing him out, sending him into a swirl of bliss he could’ve drowned in. He scrunched his eyes closed, another ejaculation coming out so fast his cock hole hurt, and he reveled in it. Fucking reveled in pumping Paul’s ass. Showing Paul who that tight little hole of his belonged to. He slowed, glorying in the aftershocks and cock twitches, then gave a short, sharp thrust to expel the last of his cum. He opened his eyes and pulled out. Shoved his condom-covered cock in his pants. Zipped up, rage overtaking the pleasure he’d so recently experienced.

  “You didn’t like that?” Carl asked. “You didn’t like me calling you Paul?”

  Greg hunched up the bed, a ball of flesh at the headboard, the look he flung over his shoulder one of bewilderment tinged with hatred. “It was weird, man. Fucking weird.”

  “Weird? Weird?” Carl snatched up his flick knife, red rage thundering through him. “I’ll give you fucking weird!”

  Grabbing a fistful of Greg’s hair, he yanked his head back, exposing his neck. He clicked the knife open out of its sheath then pressed the blade against skin and the pulsing vein in Greg’s throat. He sliced, wanting this guy to die quickly, the bastard undeserving of Carl wasting Paul’s name on him. He let go of his hair, ignoring the gurgles and Greg’s bucking body, and got off the bed, anger still roiling through him.

  Lube and condom wrapper back in his pocket, he sneered and left the room, past caring if his fingerprints were on that belt. Storming down the hallway, he raged as he slammed out of the apartment, poking at the elevator button with a shirt-covered finger. The contradiction wasn’t lost on him. Leaving his fingerprints at the scene but not in the elevator? He should be worried about his mental state, but he recognized he was too far gone to analyze it properly right now.

  It was time to go home. Time to save Paul. Time to be a hero. That was what mattered.

  Chapter Ten

  “Connelly?” It didn’t feel right to call him Jim, and certainly not Chewie. Not out loud. I didn’t know him well enough—hadn’t earned that right. And he was so much older than me—I should have called him Mr. Detective, maybe. But that realization came too late.

  He was frustratingly closed-mouthed. All I wanted was a name. Who was here to get me?

  Fucking hell, don’t let it be Carl.

  The thought stopped me in my tracks. “Detective Connelly?” I wanted to demand, but the name came out a feeble question.

  He walked on ahead of me without a word. I might not have even been there.

  “You people always keep this place so damn cold?” I muttered. I wrapped my arms around my waist, not sure exactly what I was trying to protect myself from. Silence, maybe, the chill, myriad other things I didn’t want to think about.

  At least that made him stop, too. “Is it cold?” he asked, disinterested as he turned away again and resumed walking. He opened the door at the end of the same hallway Vic had led me down what felt like a week ago. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  I wondered what he did notice. But there was no use standing there like an idiot. I had to go, had to take the chance at getting the hell out of here, whoever had come for me. If it was Carl, I’d…do…something.

  With a sigh, I made my feet move, one after the other, down the hallway that stretched like something out of nightmare I would never reach the end of.

  It was no warmer in the squad room. The place resembled a deserted battlefield. We passed through the maze of disorganized desks, strewn with unfinished paperwork, in silence. The few cops there watched my progress with almost the same hostility they’d greeted me with earlier. I supposed they didn’t like their bird in hand being released when they hadn’t managed to flush the bushes for the real killer.

  I shivered again. Odd. Why could I only remember the good times spent with Carl, suddenly? The Carl I’d first met had been gentler, comfortingly possessive. Not a man who brutally murdered for no good reason. Why hadn’t I noticed the change? Or maybe there hadn’t been one. Maybe I was just that blind.

  “Wait here.” Connelly pointed to the chair beside his desk.

  I sat, shoving my hands into my jeans pockets. Not that it was any help in warming them. I couldn’t stop the shivering.

  Connelly returned a minute or so later with papers which he shoved across the desk in front of me, along with a pen.

  “What?” I said.

  “Sign.” He watched me, steady, unblinking.

  “What is it?”

  “Release papers. I’d advise you to read anything you have to sign.” He leaned forward slightly. “The one bit of evidence we had, that they were willing to convict on, has just been thrown into enough doubt that they can’t hold you.”

  “What do you mean?” No one had ever told me what that one piece of evidence was.

  “They found a credit card—your credit card—at one of the crime scenes.”

  “That’s impossible! I wasn’t there…” But then, I didn’t have to be. The only other person who might have had access to my credit cards had been there.

  “What?” He leaned a little closer. “You remember something?”

  “Yeah.” I swallowed hard as a chill seeped beyond a surface shiver deep into my bones. “Carl took my wallet when he l-left me…you know. When Bri came to take me back to his, I noticed my wallet was gone. I just thought…”

  “Thought what?”

  “He did that sometimes. Carl. He took my keys and my wallet when he left. So I couldn’t go anywhere.” And fuck. How pathetic did that sound?

  But Connelly just nodded, face impassive, as though he’d heard it all before. Likely, he had.

  “What happened to change their minds?” I asked.

  Connelly sighed. “While you were freezing your ass off in a cell full of—” He stopped, curled his lip and started over. “While you were in custody, someone checked into a hotel three towns over, using your credit card. That puts at least one of your cards into someone else’s hands. Couple it with your story, and with Leland’s story that you were at their place—he calls himself Lil, though, right?—and there’s nothing to hold you on. Some of my…colleagues aren’t happy about that.”

  I slumped back in my chair. “So he left.” Carl might have inadvertently cleared me, but he wasn’t, as Vic thought, coming back for me. I should not have felt loss at that. I pushed Carl and my confused feelings for him aside. I didn’t want him back. I didn’t want him. “What happens to him if…?”

  “If he did it? If they prove it?” Connelly drew his eyebrows down. “You care?”

  I shrugged. Did I?

  He leaned farther forward in his chair. “That Leland guy was right. You really do love this
maniac.”

  “Lil, he doesn’t go by Leland anymore.” I don’t know why I felt compelled to point that out. Avoidance maybe.

  Connelly just sat back in his chair. It creaked under his shifting weight, the sound loud in the quiet room. “I’m sure at some point there will be more questions for you to answer. Try not to forget anything else.”

  Thank whatever twisted god was ruling my life he hadn’t pressed for some coherent accounting of how I felt about Carl. I didn’t know myself, and it didn’t help that even the bruises weren’t enough to keep me focused on the bad times. And everything else had begun to bleed into more recent thoughts of Vic, his strong arms and incredible eyes. That was some fucked-up momentum that allowed me to turn from one to the other so fast.

  “So.”

  That hard voice hammering the one word against the back of my neck shocked me out of my thoughts. There was no mistaking the hostility. This same cop, Simpson, who had challenged Vic had spent hours countering all of Connelly’s questions and scoffing at my answers. Belittling me. I didn’t bother to acknowledge him.

  He leaned a fist on the papers in front of me, bending so his stale coffee breath wafted into my face. “They’re lettin’ you out.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I mumbled, hating how my voice fell and that I cringed away from him.

  “So you said.”

  “Leave it, Simpson.”

  “So how does it happen you get yourself tied to the bed in the first place, huh?” The asshole was relentless.

  “I said leave it!” Connelly yanked the Simpson away from his desk.

  “Serves him right. Keeping that kind of company,” Simpson said.

  “I didn’t know—”

  “What kind of man he is?” Simpson pulled out of Connelly’s grasp and hovered over me again. “How could you not? You sleep with something that tainted, it affects you. Don’t try to tell me different.” He glared me down, ignoring Connelly, the other cops, some commotion off toward the front of the office, and waited.

  What he was waiting for, I couldn’t say.

  “You can’t just walk in here!”

  I don’t know who shouted that. It was enough to break the stalemate, though. Simpson glanced up. Connelly’s lips twitched. The clack-clack of hard-soled shoes on the floor turned heads.

  “Come on, sug.” Lil. Blessed Lil picked that moment to come striding between the desks, height augmented by a pair of very bitchy heels. His purple faux-fur and the pale pink zebra stripes across his skirt were a loud fuck you to the gaping cops still left on duty. The rest of the room sank into shades of gray and drab around him.

  “Took you bloody long enough, Jimbo.” Lil glared at Connelly, lifted his chin then looked down his nose at both cops as he brushed past them to lay a possessive hand on my arm. “Let him sign whatever he has to sign. I’m taking him home.” His expression was hard, and, although his eyes flashed, the thin set of his lips, the tight ridge of his shoulders showed me he was upset.

  I think everyone else took it for anger. I knew different. Still, he was there. For me.

  Connelly pushed the papers and pen closer to me, then poked a finger at the dotted lines I was expected to sign. I quickly read through the document, and Connelly nodded to Lil when I was done.

  Lil draped the ugly faux-fur over my quaking shoulders. “We’re done here, honey.” He didn’t move his glare from Simpson’s face as he guided me toward the front door of the building.

  Not until we were past the little man and almost to the door did I speak. “Lil, where’s Bri? Vic said—”

  Lil tightened his lips. “Not here. Vic’s in the car waiting.”

  “But is he okay? Did Carl… Oh, shit, Lil, what happened?”

  I could tell by the way the color touched his cheeks only in high, bright spots that it was taking everything he had to keep his emotions in check. I hadn’t seen him this close to losing it in a very long time. And he didn’t answer me. Because he blamed me? I’d brought Carl into their lives. Lil had been adamant on keeping him out of their home. Had he gone there looking for me? Did he even know where I was? Did he care?

  We didn’t talk any more on the way down the front steps or across the lot to the car. He kept a hand on me, though, and it was unexpectedly comforting.

  “Here we go.” Lil latched on to the car door handle, and I blinked.

  I’d lost a few minutes of time. It seemed I had been sitting at Connelly’s desk then we were at the door, out, and now Lil was handing me into the passenger seat of the car.

  “Belt up, sugar.”

  I reached for the buckle and winced. So much of me hurt I’d forgotten about my chafed wrists. They’d stiffened up in the cold, and I inadvertently rubbed the damaged, and now poorly bandaged, skin against my jeans.

  “Ow! Shit, that hurt,” I said.

  “All right.” Lil’s voice was so soft in my ear as he reached over me to buckle my belt.

  I didn’t instinctively flinch this time. The belt clicked into place before he managed to touch it, though, and I glanced over.

  Vic sat stiffly behind the wheel, watching me. Vic had done up my buckle, and now he leaned forward a bit and thanked Lil. “You’ll meet us at mine, yeah?”

  Lil nodded, even as his jaw set and his eyes flashed. I recognized the look of secretive, stubborn will I’d seen so often in him.

  “Lil, follow me.” Vic’s voice turned stern. “Brian’s safe where he is, and I want you safe too.”

  “I should be with him.” All that stubborn defiance bled away, and Lil looked suddenly so forlorn.

  What had I done? How had I got him mixed up in this shit just when he was back on track—healthy, happy?

  “There’s nothing you can do for him by going there alone except put yourself at risk,” Vic said. “You know how he feels about this. He has protection.”

  Lil tightened his lips again, to a puckered white wrinkly crease. He gave a curt nod and pulled back, closing the door with a decided thump.

  The car was silent for a long minute while Vic waited for Lil to get into his own vehicle then pull around to wait for Vic to lead the way.

  “Vic?”

  “Never would have made you for a purple leopard-print man.”

  “I was cold,” I mumbled and scrunched deeper into the synthetic fur. The lights from Lil’s car swung round to illuminate the interior. I got a good look at Vic’s face. He appeared tired—his big brown eyes held worry as he gazed at me. “Warm now,” I assured him.

  Lil had taken care of me, and it finally sank in what a good thing Brian had.

  “Good.” He gave a satisfied nod and turned the key in the ignition.

  “He is,” I said abruptly. “Brian’s a lucky man to have him.”

  Vic nodded. “They’re lucky to have each other. Brian went through a lot to stay by his side.”

  “A lot of flak from me, you mean.”

  Vic smiled grimly. “From everyone who cared about him, I would imagine. Brian just has that kind of heart, to take it all and still stand by his man.”

  “What did Carl do to him, Vic?” At least he was talking about him in the present tense, so my original fears were probably unfounded. “Did he hurt him?”

  Vic’s assent was careful, stiff, as though the admission would somehow break him.

  “Is he okay?” I pressed.

  He replied with pursed lips and a curt nod. He wouldn’t open his mouth after that, though, concentrating on the drive, on weaving in and out of the waning rush-hour traffic. Behind us Lil followed dutifully, and a few minutes later, both cars pulled into a small lot outside a four-apartment brick building. Vic got out then led us up the front steps into the hallway and to the number four door at the back, top of the building.

  Inside, the place reflected just the same image of Vic I’d come to expect. Spare, strong, simple. Everything of the best quality, but on a cop’s salary, not much of it. A leather sofa and a glass coffee table fronted a large-screen TV hanging on th
e brick wall. To the left was a dark wood table and two high-backed chairs. There was a tidy arrangement of three lilies in a clear glass vase on the table, which took me by surprise, but somehow seemed fitting. In the kitchen, on the right, the concrete counter held an espresso maker and a small microwave. Down the short hall, the door to what I assumed was his bedroom was closed.

  It was a stark contrast to my own messy, ad-hoc place, and reflected completely different taste to Lil’s flamboyant decorating strategies. It felt like the home of a man who craved sanctuary. I wondered if he often let anyone up here. I rather expected he didn’t.

  “Make yourselves at home.” He tossed his keys into a dish on a shelf by the door and set his cell beside it. He took Lil’s coat from me then removed his own.

  I don’t know why the sight of his gun and holster was a shock. The contrast against his white T-shirt sent a shiver down my spine, though, and I found myself moving a few feet in the opposite direction. He slipped it off. Hung the holster in the hall closet next to the coats. Tucked the gun away in a drawer, which he locked.

  “You have a first-aid kit?” Lil asked, his soft voice startling me more than it should have. “Some jerk cuffed an innocent man and exacerbated his injuries.”

  “Lil.” I automatically stepped up to defend Vic. “He was doing his job.”

  “It’s okay, Paul.” Vic sounded so tired.

  I suddenly wondered just exactly what he’d had to go through in the hours I’d been holed up in that cell. “No, it isn’t.” My heart pounded, sending heat and jitters through my body. “None of this is okay. Lil.”

  “You going to step up and take responsibility for this mess?” Lil moved close, towering over me.

  I couldn’t tell what he was thinking or how much of it was directed at me. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault—”

  “Like hell.” His big hand descended onto my shoulder, and I flinched. Something—anger? Disgust?—flickered in his eyes, his lips tightened, but his hand remained gentle. “Carl is a fucked-up shit. You aren’t responsible for anything he does.”

  “I brought him into your life.”