by Andrea Speed
When Holden appeared again, it was with a folded blanket and a pillow he put on the arm of the couch. “Get some sleep, you look like hell.”
“Let’s see you look perky after getting your stomach pumped.” He then noticed what Holden was wearing and added, “Well, maybe you could.”
“Hey, he’s into bad boys,” Holden said, not so much defensively as in simple explanation. He was wearing a white T-shirt so tight that Roan could clearly see he was wearing a nipple ring on the right side. His jeans were almost as skintight and ripped in strategic places, while he put on a black leather jacket with lots of extraneous chains, zippers, and chrome accents than was ever necessary. He jingled when he walked. “Slightly stereotypical, Hollywood-style clean bad boys.”
“Again, couldn’t you do something better for money?”
He shrugged. “Prob’ly. But I’m getting twenty-five hundred for one hour’s work. Where else am I gonna make that kinda money?”
Roan stared at him in disbelief. “He’s paying you two thousand dollars?”
“And I’m getting room service on top of that.” He grinned with a strange sort of savage pride. “He’s probably so drunk he’ll pass out before I have to fuck him, so it’ll be the easiest money I’ve made since Doug.”
“I’m not even gonna ask.”
Holden went to the door, but before he opened it, he said, “He’s a congressman, whose wife has the scariest hair helmet this side of the 700 Club.”
“I knew it. You should really expose these hypocrites.”
“Well, no one likes a tattletale. Besides, if it wasn’t for these self-loathing freaks, I’d have to get an honest job, and who wants to see that? Not me, sweetheart.” He waved at him from the door. “Ciao, baby.”
Could he have picked a stranger sidekick if he tried? No, probably not. Roan figured he’d have to work pretty damn hard and would definitely have to visit every sideshow he came across.
He was so exhausted he slept hard and, thankfully, dreamlessly. He never even heard when Holden came back, but when Roan cut through his bedroom to use the bathroom, he saw Holden was asleep on his bed, almost completely lost in a pile of comforters.
In his bathroom, Roan looked into the medicine chest out of habit and found two amber prescription bottles. Both were for other people, but they were fake labels: the bottle for Peter Wang was supposedly for Xanax, but he looked inside and saw little blue pills—aka Viagra. The bottle for Amanda Dear was supposedly for tetracycline, but contained pills of unclear intent. Either way, it didn’t smell at all like something from the antibiotic family. (And he knew that smell quite well, because all antibiotics stung his nose.) He was tempted to ask Holden about this, but that would have meant admitting he’d opened the bottles and looked inside, which was just too creepy and needy, basic junkie behavior.
He was going to head out to his car and then remembered Holden had driven him here. Fuck. He called a cab, and while waiting for it checked his messages.
He had several from Dee, almost all starting, “You motherfucker,” which didn’t encourage him to listen longer. He fast-forwarded through most of them. Chris had also called, just to see if he had anything new to report. Rainbow had called early in the morning, to say that there had been a “fracas” on church grounds last night, and David Harvey was now missing. No one knew what had happened to him. Rumors had it he (Roan) was to blame for all the violence last night, but for some reason no one wanted to pursue it with the police. “I don’t like that, Roan,” she said, sounding nervous. “If you did it, I don’t like it either, but them not pressing charges? Something’s going on there. It can’t be good for you.”
Her concern was touching. Did he have anything to worry about? Perhaps. It was hard to tell what a loony church would do next. But he hoped they had got the message that if they went after anything near and dear to him, they would pay, swiftly and bloodily.
Wow—that didn’t sound at all insane.
The last message was from one of the nicer nurses at the hospital, named Akembi. She let him know that Dylan was now conscious and asking for him. According to the time code on the message, she had called a little over an hour ago.
As soon as the cab arrived, he had it take him to the hospital. Never mind that he hadn’t showered or changed his clothes or eaten or even shaved off this beard he now had—he owed it to Dylan to see him. Also, selfishly, he had to make sure he was okay.
It was busy at the hospital when he arrived, but in a way that was good, as he was able to cut through the crowd and not gain the notice of anyone by the admissions desk.
When Roan ducked into Dylan’s room, he was sitting propped up in bed, talking to an intern in blue scrubs (thankfully not the intern Roan had collapsed in front of). Dylan looked tired and bruised, his face still swollen and one eye blackened to the point that his eyelid was barely open on the right side. Still, there was a brightness in his eyes upon seeing Roan. The intern, a petite Indian woman with a rather severe bob, told Dylan she’d come back later and gave Roan a polite nod as she left the room. Roan hugged Dylan—carefully—and kissed him on the unbruised side of his face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
Dylan wrapped an arm around his waist and gave him a weak but affectionate squeeze. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is. They attacked you because of me.”
“You didn’t kill them, did you?”
He wasn’t kidding. Dylan’s tone of voice was deadly serious. He was glad he didn’t have to lie to him. “No, I didn’t. The cops got them first.”
Dylan let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank god. The first thing I thought was you were gonna kill them.”
“You know me too well.”
Dylan kissed his cheek affectionately. “I know. It scares me too.” He ran his hand over his beard and scowled. “I can’t have been out that long.”
“It’s a long story.” Roan rested his head on Dylan’s chest, not only so he could hear his heartbeat, but also so he didn’t have to look Dylan in the eye. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were mad at me.”
“Why the hell would I be mad at you? You didn’t make them hurt me. You have to expect the occasional psycho when you’re dating Batman.”
He groaned into his chest. “Please, don’t you start.”
“What, they can call you that down at the station, but I can’t?” Roan could hear the smile in his voice.
“You do, and there might be some Robin jokes headed your way.”
“Oh, please don’t. I don’t like tights. Also, that’s a bit creepy.”
“What, the Dark Knight and his little Boy Wonder?”
Dylan mock shuddered. “Eww. How did they ever get away with that?”
“I have no idea.” Dylan stroked his hair, and Roan just enjoyed it for a moment. Suddenly the lingering aches of last night didn’t seem so bad. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I have the worst hangover of my life. But I’m not sure if I got it before or after the truck hit me.”
Roan kissed him softly, on the throat and up his neck, his skin tasting like salt, stopping at a gentle kiss on the lips. As much as it pained him to look down into Dylan’s bruised face, he did, carefully stroking his hair back from his forehead, avoiding the stitches. “If I say I’m sorry again, will you hit me?”
“That’s not very Buddhist.” Dylan paused briefly. “Yes.” He gave him a pained smile, his fingertips stroking the back of Roan’s neck, a ghostly feeling that raised goose bumps along his spine. His fingers were cold, whatever that meant. “Just get me out of here, and consider yourself forgiven.”
There was too much concern in Dylan’s one good eye. Roan knew, with a sinking feeling, what that was about. So now it was his turn to suck it up and be brave. As soon as he was sure he could do it, he looked down at Dylan and said, “I’m going to lay off the pills, okay? I can’t promise that I’ll stop cold, ’cause I’m still going to need them come transition time, but I promise that I’ll stop t
aking them for no reason other than to get numb.”
Dylan stroked his hair, his look somewhat doubting, but he nodded faintly. “I guess that’s all I can ask right now. Will you let me help you? Will you open up to me?”
He nodded, not sure if that was a promise he could actually keep. But he would try, so maybe that was worth something. “I’ll try. You know I’m no good at this shit.”
“Hey, you’re Batman. You’re great at everything.”
He scowled at him while Dylan grinned, revealing old blood on his teeth. Before he could say anything, a doctor came in and chased Roan out, which was fair enough. He talked to another doctor about releasing Dylan, but they wanted to keep him overnight. They were waiting for some test results to come back, and besides, they were always cautious about head injuries, and he had been unconscious for a long time.
Roan was wondering how to break the news to Dylan that he had to suffer through another night here when his phone hummed in his pocket. He thought it might be Dee calling to cuss him out, but a check of the number display revealed it to be Murphy. He supposed it was her turn to have a go at him, so he answered. “Hey, Dropkick.”
“Hey Angus,” she replied just as casually. “You get up to some shit last night at the church?”
“I’m taking the Fifth.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sighed wearily. “Well, beyond that, I thought you’d want to know about Roland Chesney.”
“What about him?” But even as he asked, he thought he knew. If he was a bust, she’d have told him without preamble.
“I think we found something.”
18
Imitation of Life
ROAN sank down into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that it seemed you could only find in hospitals or DMVs and asked, “Found what exactly?”
“I did some digging, just for the hell of it, and it turned out Roland Chesney’s uncle, Michael Chesney, owned a big piece of land out around the Sun Valley build. Roland lived there for a few years, supposedly taking care of the place while his uncle died of cancer. The place went to Mike’s daughter after his death and Roland found himself kicked out, but the place has been abandoned ever since.”
“That’s coincidental. It’s just a confirmation of Rocco’s story.”
“Here’s the interesting bit. A year ago, a dog in the area apparently unearthed a Human arm bone. They never discovered where the dog dug it up, but the sheriff of the town really didn’t like it. He was sure there was a body out there that they were somehow missing. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Does my opinion matter here? You talk to the sheriff?”
“Yeah, I did. He talked to Mike Chesney’s daughter about looking around the place, and she told him he could burn it down if he wanted. She doesn’t give a fuck what they do with it. She can’t sell it because it’s downwind from Sun Valley.”
He lolled back in the chair, his throat still raw from last night’s stomach pumping, the weariness settling on him like a heavy, wet blanket. “That’s not exactly finding something. I thought you were talking about a dead body or something.”
“We’re workin’ on it. Jesus, Mr. Impatient.” After huffing an irritated sigh, she added, “I’m getting a feeling about this, Roan. I think you’ve stumbled upon something.”
His stomach growled, reminding him he still felt empty. He wasn’t going to scoff at her intuition, because it was something that good detectives developed along the way, and Murphy was a good detective. “I usually only stumble on things lately.”
“Hey, no self-pitying bullshit right now. I’m in no mood for it. I’m feelin’ too good.”
He was glad for her, so he thought he ought to go as soon as possible before he got her down. “Keep me updated, okay?”
“Sure. How’s Dylan?”
“Conscious and talking. I think he’s gonna be okay.”
“I’m glad. You keep him safe now, yeah? There’s been a resurgence in gay bashing for no apparent reason. Get him a Taser and teach him how to use it.”
“He’s a Buddhist. He’s opposed to violence.”
“Tell him the bad guys aren’t. Gotta go. Don’t kill anyone unless you hafta.”
“I won’t, Mother,” he replied, stressing the last word sarcastically. He heard her laughing as she hung up.
He slumped down in the uncomfortable chair and closed his eyes for a moment, as they were hot and itchy for no obvious reason. He must have fallen asleep, though, as he woke up to find Dee leaning over him, looking down at him with an equal mix of curiosity and sternness. “You haven’t returned a single one of my phone calls,” he pointed out.
Luckily, Dee was on duty and was now inclined to be kind to him. He took Roan to the café across the street from the hospital—he was on a break—and bought him lunch. He didn’t lecture him, just told him if he ever did anything as stupid as overdose again, he’d get some muscle queens he knew to wrap him in a straightjacket and throw him in an aggressively Christian rehab center, where he would undoubtedly kill and eat at least half the staff and end up in prison. That was a devious plan, and Roan respected him for it. Having a steady boyfriend was doing Dee a world of good.
Even though Dee warned him his digestive system might revolt so soon after having his stomach pumped, Roan was ravenous and ended up eating two bacon cheeseburgers (fuck the calories and cholesterol. Transition burned lots of calories, and he’d probably lost two pounds since yesterday—his pants actually felt looser) and a plate of chili-cheese fries, which led Dee to proclaim him a “closet straight,” since no self-respecting gay man would actually eat chili-cheese fries. Roan accused him of trafficking in stereotypes because Roan would eat chili fries, and in fact had actually eaten poutine up in Canada. (Roan wasn’t sure he would eat it again, but at least he had tried it.)
To be fair, the chili fries were gross, but he was so hungry he didn’t care.
As soon as Dee left to go back to work, Roan returned some phone calls. Fiona had called to check in on him and Dylan, and he let her know they’d both survived. She offered to find the culprits and give them the bullwhipping of a lifetime—again, she reminded him she could take the skin off a grape with her whips. And she had a selection of them—god, he was starting to feel like the John Waters of the detective set, surrounding himself with this cadre of the strangest people you could ever meet. But was that so bad? He actually liked John.… But he had been truthful when he said the cops had gotten Dylan’s assailants. After getting one at the scene, he caved pretty quickly and named his partner, showing that Dave Harvey hadn’t found volunteers known for their smarts or loyalty. What a shock.
He left a message for Holden, thanking him for last night. He wanted to ask again what he had done to Dave, but he knew he’d never get a straight answer, and besides, he was probably better off not knowing. If he knew, he was an accessory after the fact. Roan had done enough bad things that he didn’t need to add one more thing to them.
Because he had asked him to, Roan dropped by Dylan’s apartment to water his plants. He had two bonsai trees, a juniper and a cypress, both in glazed ceramic pots with gravel and sand bases like little Zen gardens, and a passion fruit vine that he had started from a seed packet but was now about ten feet tall and sprawled all over an impromptu trellis. It was in the living room beside the window, where he had replaced the blinds with curtains because the passion fruit kept sending out tendrils and tangling itself in the blind slats. While there, De’Andra, the bald lesbian from downstairs who still looked at Roan like he might explode at any second, came upstairs to ask how Dylan was doing. He invited her in, but she just stood in the doorway, giving him a look that suggested she knew damn well that Dylan was way too good for his pasty ass.
Roan saw that the picture Dylan had painted of him with his half-Human, half-lion face was still in the living room on an easel, covered with a drop cloth. Roan asked De’Andra if she knew the people
running the gallery show Dylan was doing—it was a hunch—and she said yes, which was no shock at all. He said that Dylan had wanted to add a painting, but since he was now in the hospital, he couldn’t. Could she make sure it got in? Of course she could, so Roan handed her the lion painting, still concealed by the drop cloth, and thanked her for doing this for him. Roan wondered if she would be retroactively mad at him for making her an accessory, assuming Dylan ever told her that he’d never put the painting in his show.
After watering his plants, Roan sat down on the couch and just absorbed the silence and the scent of Dylan—and paint, paint thinner, charcoal—that permeated the place. Roan vowed to treat him better and learn to allow himself to feel like a real person again. It just terrified him. Physical pain he could take—he’d better be able to by now. But emotional pain… there was no building up a tolerance to that.
God, he was such a pussy. And not the cat kind either.
He called Chris to let him know he had made some progress, although he was careful not to mention the police investigation into Roland Chesney. There was no sense in getting his hopes up when it could turn out to be nothing. He’d had enough heartbreak in his life.
Because Roan found he didn’t notice the urge for pills if he was doing something, he decided to go home and catch up on everything he was neglecting: laundry, paperwork, facing all his pain pills and not taking them. After everything he had been through in his life, Roan was sure he was strong enough to face that.
Considering how things had been going, he wasn’t too surprised to find an unmarked police car parked out in front of his house. He also wasn’t surprised to see Gordo get out of it as Roan parked in the driveway. Seb was in the car and waved at him but didn’t get out. He just put in his earbuds and started bobbing his head to music only he could hear.
As soon as Roan was out of the car, he only needed to point to Seb to get an answer from Gordo. Gordo rolled his eyes and said, “His daughter got him an iPod for his birthday, and he’s determined to prove he’s not an old fogy. The problem is, all he listens to is R.E.M.”