“This wasn’t how I wanted this evening to pan out.”
Scotty nodded with a slight smile. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Drake took a sip from his glass. “You don’t have to stay. I mean—” Drake cleared his throat. “—I would understand if you wanted to leave.”
“No, no, I want to know what happened.” Scotty licked his lips, then lifted his eyes to meet Drake’s. “If you want to tell me, I would like to know what happened.”
Drake swirled the liquid in his glass for a moment. He wanted Scotty to stay. He needed him to stay, but he didn’t want to ask him to stay. That made him more liable for any danger that Scotty would be in. But…. “I want to tell you everything.”
The words were out before he could stop them, and to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure if he would have stopped them if he could. He had been on his own for so long, the little man against the giant, that it was a relief to finally have someone to share it with.
“I need to take a shower,” Drake said, “I, uh, I shouldn’t be long, so go ahead and make yourself at home.”
Scotty nodded. “Um, yeah, sure.”
Drake pointed to the fridge. “Go ahead and help yourself to anything in the fridge. I don’t know what I have in there but, ya know, have at it.”
“Okay, thanks.” Scotty pulled out a chair from the table in the kitchen and sat down.
Drake didn’t leave right away. He couldn’t seem to get himself to move. His need to get the feeling of blood off his skin and the longing to not leave Scotty’s sight were warring it out, but in the end, the need to be sanitary won. With a small nod, Drake turned and headed for his bedroom.
Jesus, the hot water felt so good that even with Scotty waiting for him in the kitchen, Drake was reluctant to leave. The almost scalding fluid beating down on his taut muscles released some of his pent-up tension and helped to smooth away the anxiety of seeing Frankie’s body bleeding on the table.
Even though the stain was long gone, it didn’t stop Drake from feeling the dirty remnants of blood on him. He had it on his hands, and there wasn’t enough hot water in the world to clean them. And as much as he didn’t want to drag Scotty into it, didn’t want to dirty his hands with more innocent blood, he couldn’t find the strength to push him away any longer.
After pulling on a pair of his most comfortable sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee, he followed his nose back to the kitchen. He didn’t know what Scotty had found to make, but whatever it was, it smelled delicious. Drake hadn’t been sure if he would be able to eat with all the stress of the day, but the fragrant smell called to him anyway.
Scotty stood at the stove using a spatula to push food around in a frying pan. Drake leaned against the doorframe and watched him work. It was definitely a view he could get used to seeing. Scotty had lost his work shirt altogether and was bare-chested. Drake couldn’t help but admire the way the muscles in Scotty’s back worked under his skin, rippling his body as he moved.
“I didn’t know if you would want to eat, but I found stuff for omelets and figured it was probably a safe bet.”
Drake grinned. Scotty hadn’t even turned around to see if he was there before talking to him. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure I would be able to eat, but it smells delicious.”
Scotty pulled a plate from the counter over and dished some egg on it. He tossed on two pieces of toast he had stacked next to the toaster, turned, and set the plate down on the small dining table. “Bon appétit.”
Drake sat down in front of his served plate and picked up his fork. The food looked like a normal omelet, but it smelled so much more delicious. He cut off a small piece and took the first bite.
Scotty set his plate down at the seat next to Drake and plopped down. He smiled at Drake’s moan of pleasure.
“It’s good?” Scotty asked, forking his own bite.
Drake nodded enthusiastically. “That is probably the best omelet I’ve ever tasted.”
Laughing, Scotty took his own bite and chewed with a critical tilt of his head. “Eh, it’s not bad. It’s hard cooking in someone else’s kitchen.”
“Not bad?” Drake said, incredulous. “I didn’t even know omelets could taste like this! Where in the world did you learn to cook, and why aren’t you a chef?”
Scotty stood suddenly. “I forgot to get us drinks. You want anything?”
Drake gestured with his hand, waving for Scotty to sit back down. “It’s my house. I am supposed to be the one worried about serving us drinks. I’ll get it. I don’t know what I have—probably milk, water, and scotch.”
Scotty sank back into his chair, tsking as Drake got up. Drake ignored his blatant disapproval and opened the fridge. He clicked his tongue at the sparse shelves. “I could make coffee.”
“Water would be fine for me, thanks,” Scotty said.
Drake filled two glasses with water and sat back down. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Hmm?” Scotty said taking a long drink.
“Why aren’t you a chef?”
“I like to cook. It’s something I do as a hobby and as a stress relief.” He leaned back in his chair as he spoke. “I didn’t want to take the fun out of it by making it a job. I watch those shows with the chefs on them acting all crazy in a kitchen, and I didn’t want cooking to be like that for me.”
“Oh yes, those chefs from hell or whatever,” Drake said with a laugh. “I can’t imagine you ever being able to pull that domineering bullshit off.”
Scotty smirked. “Can’t see me taking control, can you?” He waggled his eyebrows.
Drake felt a blush creep up his cheeks at the memory of Scotty from just hours earlier. He cleared his throat. “Not as an overbearing douchebag.”
“Yeah, me either, another reason I didn’t do it.”
Drake used his toast to pick up the last remaining pieces of his eggs. “Well, consider me glad that your path led you to the bartending gig, otherwise I might never have had the opportunity to eat these eggs, and that would have been a crime.”
“So, what about you? What hobbies do you have?” Scotty propped both elbows on the table, leaning forward.
Drake shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Hobbies? Like he had time for hobbies or doing anything just for the fun of it?
“You mean, besides finding remedies to get blood out of clothes?” Drake muttered. He kept his eyes on his plate. He didn’t want to see what Scotty must think of him.
There was a long silence before Scotty spoke. “Peroxide, I have heard, is a great stain remover,” Scotty said softly.
“I will give it a try.”
Drake fidgeted in the long silence that followed. He contemplated getting up and walking out of the room in silence; he thought about telling Scotty everything right then and letting the words flow out of him like a waterfall. But instead, he stayed quiet, eyes downcast. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he startled when Scotty touched a finger to Drake’s chin, pulling Drake’s gaze up to meet his. Scotty didn’t say anything as their eyes met. Drake searched for the alarm and disgust he had expected to find but instead found a calm acceptance. Drake let out a relieved breath at that discovery.
Scotty let his hand drop back to the table. “Besides that, what do you do?”
Clearing his throat, pulling himself out of that intense moment, Drake pushed his plate to the side. “I, uh, I don’t really have any hobbies.”
Scotty raised a questioning brow. “Everyone has to have at least one hobby. What’s something that you do for you, just for you?”
Drake licked his lips uncertainly. The only thing he did for him was on the board in the other room. Other than that…. “Drink?”
“That is not a hobby; that’s a vice.”
“Well, that’s the only thing I can think of.”
“Reading? Writing? Painting? Drawing? Am I hitting on anything here?” Scotty asked.
“I used to read a lot. When I was younger, I was into comic books. I was a big fan of The Amazing Spider-M
an. But that didn’t really stick for long.”
Scotty eyed Drake inquisitively. “How do you get through life without having any hobbies?”
Drake felt his nerves returning quickly. He had been enjoying having the lighthearted conversation but too soon it was already taking a turn down the darker path.
“I guess I do sort of have a hobby, but….” Drake let his voice trail off.
Scotty pursed his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s okay. I mean, it’s why we’re here anyway, right?”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Scotty put his hand on Drake’s arm for emphasis. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
Drake looked down at Scotty’s hand on his arm. Then closing his eyes, he swallowed hard. “No, if this, whatever this is between us, is going to continue, then you need to know what you’re getting into.”
Standing up, Drake took Scotty’s hand in his and pulled him up. They stood facing each other for a couple of silent minutes. Drake was certain that Scotty would be able to hear his racing heart.
Then as if a silent cue was given, they moved out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the room that Drake was certain he would never share with anyone. Even though there were only a few steps down the hall to the room, it felt like it took forever to get there, and when they stopped in front of the closed door, it felt as if they had suddenly materialized there. Drake’s breaths became shallower as they approached the room, and Scotty put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“I never imagined that I would show anyone this part of my life.” Drake stopped in front of the closed door. He licked dry lips. “Once we do this, once you know what’s happening, we can’t go back.”
Drake turned so his back was to the closed door. His wide eyes met Scotty’s in the dim light, and he searched for any sign that Scotty was unwilling to move forward.
“Once I tell you, you’re in the thick of it. Do you understand that?”
Scotty never took his eyes from Drake’s. Even with the danger hanging over their heads, his gaze never wavered. He put a hand to Drake’s cheek, letting his thumb caress Drake’s jawline.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Drake closed his eyes in a moment of grief, while simultaneously leaning into the comfort of Scotty’s hand. Then with a deep breath, a rolling back of his shoulders, he turned around and pushed the door open.
Scotty followed Drake into his bedroom slowly. He moved cautiously, as if he didn’t know what to expect. Drake walked across the room and opened the door to his walk-in closet. Flipping on the light, he glanced in to make sure his clothes were pushed to the side, then turned back to face Scotty, who was watching him uncertainly.
“This,” Drake said, indicating the closet with a swing of his hand, “is my life’s work, my job, my hobby, my reason for living.”
Eyeing the closet warily, Scotty raised a brow. Drake watched him somberly. Looking back and forth between the open closet and Drake, he finally squared his shoulders and walked to the closet. He reached the door and took a last fleeting look at Drake, who stood near the foot of his bed, head down, before entering.
When Scotty disappeared, Drake collapsed onto the bed with a huff, his knees weak. He had never shared this part of himself with anyone, and having a living, breathing person in his most secret of secret places was messing with his lungs. The air felt heavier, as if he were trying to breathe through water. Putting his head down to his knees, he focused on his breathing, breathe in, one, two, three, breathe out, one, two, three.
Time passed. Drake had no idea if it had been three minutes, three seconds, or three hours before Scotty reappeared in the closet entryway. Drake sat tense, expecting the face that confronted him to be one of disgust, shock, and fear, but like always, Scotty surprised him.
Unable to meet Scotty’s eyes, Drake lowered his chin, eyes on his knees. The silence grew around them, and for the first time Drake felt solace in the quiet. He didn’t need to fill the void with rambling words. No, he had just shared the most private part of himself, and finally he felt comfortable enough to face the silence.
The bed next to him dipped as Scotty sat down, his thigh pressed lightly against Drake’s. Warm fingers sought his and squeezed, taking Drake’s breath away. Mustering courage, Drake looked up and met brilliant eyes.
“Tell me.”
Drake let out a breath that hinged on the edge of a sob. Twisting his hand around, he flipped his palm up so they were now palm to palm, fingers entwined. He let the warmth sink into him, comfort him. Then before he could allow himself to think any further, he stood, releasing Scotty’s hand reluctantly, and walked into the closet. He ignored the whiteboard, the notes, and the articles, and pushed his clothes to cover them. The smiling family stared back at him without a care in the world, and he caressed the photo before removing it from the nail on the wall.
Drake returned to Scotty, a hitch in his step. This was the last piece of himself he had left to give, and he couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to share it with more. He sank down on the bed next to Scotty and held the framed photo out like an offering. Scotty took the photo gently, as if afraid that any sudden movement would frighten Drake, and truth be told, Drake wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t have. For years after he had roused from his coma, he’d been plagued with what the doctors diagnosed as PTSD and night terrors. The social workers and the staff of the hospital he’d been whisked away to under a new identity had all tried to tread carefully around him. The slightest noise or painful reminder of that horrible night would send him into a blind panic, usually resulting in an injury, most of the time himself, but every so often, it happened to someone who chanced to be near him.
The only thing that had helped him to get his symptoms under control was finding his purpose. Working tirelessly on a plan to exact his revenge had helped quell the panic and fear inside him. Once the blueprint had been embedded in his mind, he’d started to sleep more peacefully, and shadows at the corners of his eyes didn’t make him jump out of his skin. He had tamed the fear, but he had not eradicated it. Not by a long shot, and he could feel the tingling grip of trepidation take hold of his deepest thoughts and begin its climb.
Scotty turned the photo in his hand, eyeing the happy, smiling faces with a frown. He ran a finger along the father in the photo and looked up at Drake.
“You look like him.”
Drake had expected a lot of words to come out of Scotty’s mouth, but those words, those few words that he never got to hear from anyone, choked him. He’d been prepared to tell his story, but instead his throat closed. Drake shot to his feet. He couldn’t have this conversation sitting down. In fact, he couldn’t have this conversation sober. Why hadn’t he thought about grabbing his scotch before he came in?
Running trembling fingers through his hair, Drake paced. He didn’t need to drink, and he was in control of his environment. His mind flew in a frenzy, and he hadn’t realized that his breathing had quickened until he felt a soothing hand caress up his back. He stilled at the touch, allowing the warmth to spread through him, steady him.
Scotty pressed his body to Drake’s back, easing his trembling. His lips found Drake’s ear, and he murmured soothing sweet words that settled Drake’s chest, giving his lungs room to breathe. After a handful of moments, Scotty coaxed Drake back to the bed and they sat, still touching, Scotty still pressed against him, a soothing tenderness amongst his pain.
Drake took a deep breath in, did his count, let it out.
“That picture was taken when I was nine years old. It was the last vacation I had with my family. Three months after that picture was taken, my father, mother, and sister were killed in a home invasion.”
Scotty put a hand to his mouth but didn’t say anything.
“Four men, dressed in black, broke in through the back door of our townhouse. My dad was with me in my bedroom because I was scared of some monsters under my bed. My sister wa
s asleep in her room, and my mom was in my parents’ room.” Drake counted his breathing before continuing.
“My dad was reading a book to me, something about how monsters aren’t real, when we heard the noises coming from downstairs. He told me to wait in my room, but I was too scared to be alone. So, as he went to check everything out, I followed behind.
“What happened next is so much a blur now that I can’t be sure exactly how it all happened. What I clearly remember is that I saw a shadow move on the stairs, and because I was so worried about monsters, I cried out for my dad. The look he gave me when he turned to see me in the hallway right behind him is engraved in my mind. I will never be able to forget that look.”
Stopping abruptly, Drake ran a hand over his face. “I need a drink. You need a drink? I’m going to get a drink.”
Without waiting for an answer, Drake left Scotty to find his scotch. The air outside the bedroom was cooler, lighter. Stopping next to the door, he leaned against the wall and let his head fall back. He stared blankly up at the ceiling.
How was he going to get through this? How was telling Scotty any of this going to be okay? Right now, Scotty probably thought he was hooking up with a tough-as-nails drug dealer, but what he was actually getting was a screwed-in-the-head, bent-on-revenge, broken man with more baggage than Miss Piggy on a road trip.
Shit. What had he gotten himself into?
Hearing shuffling in the room behind him, Drake pulled himself upright. It was too late now; he couldn’t go back from here. They’d passed the point of no return and were heading straight for Fuck Mountain.
He found a bottle of scotch sitting on the small cabinet he used as a mock bar in his living room. After unscrewing the cap, he took a long swig out of the bottle, before opening the cheap plywood door to pull out a glass. As soon as the burning fluid eased down his throat, his tension began to taper off. Taking another long swig, he pulled another glass out, just in case, and headed back into the room.
Semblance Page 14