Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story

by Ariadne Beckett

  John sucked in his breath.

  His blood is on your hands if he dies.

  Didn’t he know it. He would be haunted by it for life, Theo or no Theo.

  Please, Nick, be okay. Hang in there, buddy. Please.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It Just Is

  JOHN

  The officer yanked open a heavy steel door into....John supposed it could be called a cell, if a windowless, dystopian cement hell qualified. It was the smallest he’d seen in his life, barely larger than a bathroom stall. The gag-inducing iron-and-chlorine scent of fresh blood hit him in seconds.

  It couldn't possibly be legal to confine someone in here. The walls and floor were bare concrete decorated with graffiti, much of which looked like it was written in dried blood. The sole furnishing was a rusted-out drain in the center of the floor.

  “Get in,” snapped the officer.

  “How ‘bout we get him the hell out,” snapped John in return, eying what surely couldn’t be Nick Aster.

  An inmate in red scrubs lay limp on the floor in handcuffs and leg irons, blood pooling around his body. Strands of his hair were plastered to the floor with drying blood. It looked like the set of a horror movie.

  Nick was handsome enough to have been a male supermodel, if he hadn’t chosen a career of crime. His lively, perfectly sculpted face came with a brilliant smile and arresting blue eyes that twinkled with humor and intelligence, and it was topped with a dashing designer haircut. Nick was hands down the most fashionable man John had ever met.

  Those qualities always had clashed with “former maximum security prisoner who was currently wearing an ankle monitor.”

  They really, really clashed with the gut-wrenching sight of a brutally beaten man shackled on the floor of a cell.

  “Fuck you, Fed. Get in.”

  John stared down the officer, fury drawing his fists closed and curling his toes. “You nearly get my partner killed, and your response to that is to try an' lock up an FBI agent? You are aware I represent the agency that'll be investigating you for what happened to him?"

  “What, you want me to serve you and this piece of shit wine or somethin? He started a brawl that just sent three of my co-workers to the ER. One of my best friends may be dying right now ‘cause of him. Gimme an attitude, you just might find yourself accidentally booked on kiddie porn charges. I am not in the fucking mood.”

  John stepped into the cell to avoid punching the guy. Nick's immediate welfare trumped any personal squabble with a random asshole. The door clanged shut behind him with a departing kick.

  John was left looking down at the bloody, seemingly unconscious body of Nick Aster at his feet. He knelt down on the cement floor and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Nick?”

  Nick opened his eyes, trying not to cry in relief. “John. Come to pick me up from school?”

  “Whadda people call these places? Gladiator academies?” asked John wryly.

  Nick’s eyes were red and watery. His puffy, swollen face was glazed with blood. Blood smeared his clothing, his arms, and the floor of the cell like modern art gone very wrong.

  “Why you cuffed?” asked John.

  “I didn’t make friends on the staff,” said Nick.

  “Obviously,” said John. “Scootch around so I can unlock you.”

  It was a tight space, and Nick rolled sideways to give him better access. What the hell sort of CO left an inmate in a cell restrained? The sort who’d beat the crap out of an inmate and stuff him in a concrete closet, maybe.

  Nick winced when John put the key in the first of the too-tight handcuffs, and he proceeded much more carefully. He turned the key and peeled the ratcheted bow away from the skin, gritting his teeth at the sight of deep open wounds.

  This was bad. Nick’s arms were pale, the dark crimson and smeared rust of blood staining his skin.

  Nick made no sound but his muscles quivered in pain, and he gasped, his breath frozen in quiet agony.

  John reached up and touched him on the shoulder until it passed, and clenched his jaw in concentration as he eased the second half of the bloody cuff away from the skin.

  Nick dropped his arms to his sides with the kind of relief that said he’d had them locked behind his back for a long time.

  When he felt like Nick could handle it, John unlocked the second cuff and watched Nick’s face while he eased it away from raw flesh, correcting his movements any time he saw pain. This time he managed not to leave his friend quivering.

  “Surprised you stayed in these,” said John, half joking, half not. “I haven’t met a pair of cuffs yet you couldn’t get off in twenty seconds flat.”

  “Hurts to move.”

  John’s chest tightened; his heart was literally and physically hurting. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he gave Nick a soft pat on the back of the head and continued, unlocking the belly chain.

  The leg irons were less bloody and causing Nick less pain than the handcuffs had, but it was plain to see his playful, non-violent partner had been through hell in these restraints.

  Nick gave John a worried look. “Phone I used to call you - I’m lying on it. They find that on me....”

  John followed Nick’s eyes and slipped the phone out from under his stomach. It was slick and sticky with blood.

  “You need to destroy it,” said Nick, still anxious. “No questions.”

  “Okay.” John touched the back of Nick’s hand. “I see a lotta blood. You cut or stabbed? Lacerations?”

  “No,” said Nick.

  “Hit on the head with anything but fists?”

  “No.”

  “Spinal injuries? Can you feel your legs and move your toes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Broken bones? Ribs?”

  “Ribs - okay. Nose - wrist - might be broken. Not sure I still got all my teeth.”

  “Internal organs?”

  “Punched to hell and back. Dunno,” said Nick.

  Okay. John drew a deep breath. There was too much blood. Not enough to be life-threatening, but way too much for this to just be a beating. If there weren't any lacerations to account for it....

  He rubbed Nick on the shoulder.

  Oh, Nick. Please tell me you weren't raped.

  This wasn't the time to ask. It was the time to hold him and comfort him, to let him know he was cared about and accepted and loved no matter what was to come.

  He pulled out his phone and texted Curry.

  It’s bad. Need medical and crime scene.

  John sat down with his back against the wall, legs outstretched, and reached for Nick. His bloody and battered best friend dragged himself up and hugged him, accepting the invitation to crawl onto John’s lap and collapse in his arms.

  They held each other, and Nick hid his face against John's chest, trembling. After a minute he let his head sink back against John's arm, looking up at him in pure shock.

  John couldn’t think of a single damn thing to say, so he just kept looking back into Nick’s eyes. The eyes of a criminal he’d come to love and trust, who trusted and adored him. The eyes of a man tough and fearless, who was vulnerable to worry and condemnation.

  “This doesn’t feel real,” said Nick. He held John’s gaze for a long time, not with any particular expression other than dazed. It seemed like he was trying to ground himself in reality. “And it feels so real that - I’m just shut down. I can feel myself shaking right now, and I don’t know why, I’m not scared.”

  “You’re in shock,” said John, keeping his voice calm and gentle. His left fist was clenched so tightly his fingernails were biting into his palm, and he ground down harder to keep the anger out of sight and sound. Nick, dazed in the wake of a violent attack, could easily misinterpret it as being aimed at him.

  “It’s physical, not psychological,” said John. “You’re in survival mode right now, the emotion comes later.”

  Nick gave him a wry smile. “I spend one lousy afternoon in this place and
I’m in a horror story.”

  John patted him on the arm and raised his eyebrows. “You were attacked with hockey masks and chainsaws?”

  “Alien slime and giant ants.” There was no levity in Nick’s tone, and he clung to John’s shirt with one hand.

  “How you feeling?” asked John for lack of anything else to say or do.

  “Cold. Sick.”

  “In much pain?” asked John.

  “Feel like I should be in more,” said Nick. “Shock, you know?”

  “Yeah. Well, with any luck at all we’ll have you in a doctor’s office and drugged silly before the worst of it catches up to you,” said John.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” said Nick. “I’m beat up and need to crawl into a dark corner for a little while, that’s all.”

  There were tears in his friend’s eyes. Despite the aching sadness in Nick’s expression, John didn’t think he was crying. Just suffering, remembering too much pain present and past. Enduring it physically in the present.

  John wiped the tears away gently with his thumb. Nick whimpered, not a scared sound but a cry of distress, of an awful memory.

  “Nick?”

  Nick blinked and blinked, trying to rid himself of the tears that were now emotional as well. He gave up and turned his head a few millimeters, a silent permission to do it again. John wiped away the tears almost as a caress, but Nick let out another involuntary distress cry and recoiled.

  “Nick?”

  John frowned. Nick’s eyes and face were red like he’d been crying uncontrollably. Nick did cry, but it tended to be in the form of silent tears you’d miss if you weren’t looking right at him.

  “They pepper spray you?” asked John.

  Nick gave a short nod and looked away. “They were dragging me by my hair and wrists. I - got hurt when I yelped, and when I tried to get my legs under me, so I just gave up and let them drag me. They told me to stop resisting, sprayed me, forced my eyes open, and did it again. They - actually rubbed the stuff in. I still - can't see right.”

  Something very odd, and very painful, happened in John’s heart. He closed his own eyes and held Nick, trying to wrap him with caring and protection and grief.

  He’d been pepper sprayed himself, going through Quantico. It stuck out to this day as one of the more horribly painful experiences of his life, especially when combined with the fear of feeling like he couldn’t breathe, and no way to extinguish the fire searing his face and eyes and mouth and lungs.

  And that had been with his permission, in a safe environment with his classmates holding him steady and the instructors reassuring him and helping wash the stuff away. It’d been voluntary training, not torture. He couldn’t imagine going through it helpless, restrained, beaten, and at the hands of people trying to make the experience as painful and violating as possible.

  John had tears in his own eyes, of empathy and grief. He brushed a spare strand of hair away from Nick’s face. There were open cuts and bruises all over that face, as if pepper spray needed to be any more painful than it already was on closed skin.

  “Will you excuse me for a minute while I go kill a few guys?” asked John, unable to smile or inject levity into his voice.

  “No,” said Nick. “Coming with you.” There was genuine anger in his voice, which came out a low, gravely growl.

  “Were they trying to kill you?” asked John.

  Nick’s jaw tightened. “No, just torture me. Killing would be wrong, you understand.”

  “Do you know about the hit?” asked John.

  “Uh?”

  “Theo called after you did, freaking the hell out. Some moron put a hit out on you.”

  Nick was silent for a moment. “Well, that ‘splains a bit.”

  NICK

  Nick held on to John for dear life, gripping a handful of his shirt like it was a life raft. He was cold and sick and filled with dread. He was suddenly and for no reason afraid he was dying.

  “John - if you leave, I’m gonna die in here.”

  “I’m not leaving.” John’s voice was a balm on a very raw wound.

  “Please don’t leave me.” I don't want to die alone.

  “I won’t,” John promised.

  Tears stung Nick’s eyes again. There had been bad days in Sing Sing, occasionally very bad ones. But never this blatant and seemingly universal brutality.

  “I’m scared,” said Nick. “I’m - scared that this place exists in my world. I think - people die in here.”

  Wasn’t it just minutes ago that he’d told John he wasn’t scared, and wasn’t in much pain?

  His face throbbed, and it seemed like every part of him was burning, stinging, or aching. He could taste his own blood where his teeth had cut open his lips, one eye was blocked by a reddish haze of blood, breathing hurt, and he felt like one of his wrists might be broken.

  He’d been beaten up before, and was used to telling himself the pain would end and he was really in one piece. But never this badly. This was scary, wondering if his eyes were damaged, if his cheek or jaw or wrist or ribs were broken, if anything was more than bruised in the aching pool of fire that was the soft parts of his torso, if his balls still worked.

  The pain, he could suffer through if he knew it would end. Humans had been beating other humans since the dawn of time. People survived it, easily. If he was badly hurt, that was what the hospital was for. He would be in pain for a couple weeks, and then gradually he’d realize moving no longer made him want to whimper.

  “I’m sorry you’re in pain, Nick,” said the soft, steady voice he trusted most in the world. He tried reaching for John, and realized he was already clinging to him.

  “S’okay.”

  “Please don’t be scared. I’d protect you with my life. Daniel an’ the cavalry’ll be here soon. We’ll get you outta here an’ pump you full of meds, that’ll help. You’ll heal and all of this’ll become just a bad memory. It’ll be over before long, just try an’ remember that, okay?”

  “Kay.”

  “What can I do?” asked John. “Right now, what can I do?”

  Nick didn’t like the silence after that question. The silence hurt more. The silence let him focus on how his stomach was so tight with pain he didn’t even want to breathe.

  “Talk to me. Don’t stop talking, please - just talk to me, or I forget you’re there and it all hurts.”

  “Okay,” said John. “Anything else I can do?”

  Nick’s grip tightened on his shirt. “What you’re doing. Be here - so I’m not afraid to pass out if that happens. I think I might.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said John. “I promise. You’re safe.”

  “K.”

  He rubbed Nick’s shoulder. “I would die before I left you alone right now. I’m not sure I’m ever gonna be able to let you out of my sight again.”

  Nick had to smile a little, in spirit if nothing else. Wasn’t like John was already obsessed with knowing where he was every minute or anything. Guy was going to be insufferable.

  And that was just fine.

  To truly need help, and be able to call someone he trusted implicitly to come, and care.... that was worth everything.

  “Thank you,” Nick whispered.

  “I’m so sorry, buddy. And I’m sorry I was flippant on the phone with you. I thought being in jail meant you were safe.”

  “S’okay.”

  “You’re gonna be all right,” John assured him in the gentle voice that made him melt inside. “You got yourself through this, got me here. You just relax and let me take care of you for a bit, okay?”

  Nick nodded, overcome with a wash of gratitude. He was so lucky to have this. To have John to call on, to hold him. To trust. He was so used to doing things on his own that it seemed almost magical to make a single phone call and know with absolute certainty that a brilliant, competent, ethical and caring person would move heaven and earth to rescue him.

  Him.

  Nick Aster, felon, forger, con artist
.

  “Thank you. Thank you for coming. I don’t know - what I did to earn your friendship, or having you care about me, but it’s - the world," said Nick, trying not to get choked up.

  “I think friendship’s - like love," said John, hugging him a little tighter. "It’s not something you have to earn. It just - is.”

  JOHN

  Nick’s eyes were glazed, and he kept trying to hold his gaze on John. “Hey - it’s really nice. To trust someone right now. It’s - makes - everything’s gonna be okay.”