Black John

by Amy Lane

  They finalized the funeral arrangements in the next hour and a half. Zion fed him—there was some sort of chicken parmesan thing cooking on the stove. It was… well, pretty awful, but when Zion was running the leftovers to the back porch for the dogs, Brant snuck inside the refrigerator and came back with hummus, ham, and crackers.

  With the practiced movements of a man who had done this plenty of times before, he assembled some tiny sliders and shoved a couple of them into John’s hand.

  “Ee-em, whi’,” he mumbled, crumbs spitting out with every breath. John followed his orders, shoving both tiny sandwiches in his mouth just as they heard Zion’s heavy tread approaching the kitchen.

  “Brant, honey, if you’re making cracker sandwiches, could you make me some? You know that recipe was for shit, right?”

  Brant started to laugh before he’d completely swallowed the rest of his sandwich, and when Zion got in, John was smacking him on the back so he could cough out the crumbs stuck in his throat.

  Zion saw the two of them, Brant looking up guiltily, John pounding his back, and laughed helplessly, hooting with glee. Brant glared at him in outrage as he coughed up half a cracker into the sink.

  He looked to John for support, but John was giggling. Laughing uncontrollably. Laughing until tears burned his aching eyeballs and his stomach hurt. The laughter went on and on until the puzzled dogs barked at the sliding glass door, asking to come in. Zion made his way back to the porch, and John and Brant caught their breath.

  “God, we missed you,” Brant said honestly. “I mean, after the funeral and all, is it going to be another ten years?”

  “No,” John said. “It may be a little while—I’ve got….” I’ve got boys to make mine, a business to run like I mean it, growing up to do. “I’ve got some amends to make, and Sacramento is my home now. But Dex has a family now—he can’t be coming out to Florida for the fall and spring shoots. I’ll make it a point to come out here and visit.”

  Brant grinned, suddenly the lascivious teenager John had known. “Well, we sure do miss him making movies now—Kane too.” He shook his head and raised his eyebrows, and John laughed like a kid. “That was some damned fine porn.”

  John’s grin felt free and unfettered. “I sure did think so when I was shooting it.” He sobered. “I understand Ethan is thinking about getting out too.”

  “Ouch!” Brant clapped his hand across his stomach like he’d taken a hit. “Ouch—right in the feels. I knew those boys.”

  “Or you know how they fucked,” John said dryly.

  Brant’s smile only grew wider. “Yup. That’s the fantasy, right? A Johnnies boy, yours until the jizz cools.”

  John refused to feel dirty about it, but then, Brant didn’t mean it in a dirty way. “Yeah, well, you and Zion had the right of it. There’s a time for porn and a time for growing up and watching porn.” For the first time in a week, he thought about Dex and Dex’s plan. “And a time for helping guys past that point in their lives, you know? If they want it.” He said it quietly and almost to himself, but Brant heard.

  “That’s a really good idea. You going to do that?”

  John shrugged. “It’s something Dex had in mind. He’s… well, he’s the reason Johnnies is still Johnnies, actually. He’s got an idea he’s looking into. I told him he’s got my full support. When I go back, I think I’m going to be a little more hands-on than that.”

  Brant nodded sagely, then grinned, all wickedness. “But you’re not gonna stop—”

  “Making porn,” John said, laughing. “No. No.” Everything he’d said to Galen still held true. It could be beautiful when it was done right. That was his job. Doing it right. “Still doing that!”

  “Excellent.”

  John left after that, with lots of hugs and promises to let them know when the funeral would be exactly. It was pretty simple, really—they’d meet at the ferry, putter out to the appropriate depth, and release the ashes. They’d probably play some music, say some words, but it all amounted to the same thing.

  Tory was dead. Brant, Zion, and John—they’d all moved on. Tory never had, and now he never would.

  The rain was letting up as John jumped into the convertible, and he drove at a decent speed back to Daytona. It was late—ten o’clock—but he managed to catch a Mickey D’s open, so he could actually eat. God, no wonder Brant still looked thin and young—Zion couldn’t cook for shit.

  But he had this general feeling that the storm had passed, that the sun would be out soon, that it would all be okay.

  He didn’t realize that he may have survived the storm, but that darkness had fallen, and it was a long way ’til morning.

  “GALEN?” HE called, opening the door, the McDonald’s bag wrinkling in his hand. He’d brought some chicken wraps, feeling bad because he’d been gone for hours. He was shedding his coat and putting the paper bags on the table when the smell smacked him in the face.

  “Galen?”

  Vomit. He smelled vomit. He charged into the room, noting that the lamp was on and one of the pill bottles had spilled.

  As John turned, dreamlike, to take in the vomit on the pillow in a puddle under Galen’s cheek, his chin, his chest, Galen took a breath, sucking in the mess on the pillow, and started to seize.

  Oh God oh God oh God oh God.

  John didn’t remember ever praying. Was that where he’d gone wrong with Tory? He’d assumed that he and Tory could handle it—they could handle anything, right? They were young, invincible, powerful. They could conquer the known universe with their mighty wangs. Right?

  John didn’t believe that anymore.

  He rode in the ambulance, watching from the corner as they pumped charcoal into Galen’s stomach, forcing the pills out. There were only three, which was good, right? It was an accidental overdose, right?

  “Was your friend cutting back, sir?” the stocky young paramedic asked him, her face set in stone. “Had he been trying to go without?”

  Well, yes, right? “He was thinking about rehab,” John said numbly, feeling like he was betraying a confidence, but… but… but… Galen was unconscious!

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh God. Oh hell yes, John prayed.

  He’d taken Galen’s wallet out of his slacks when he’d hung them up—it was the only reason he had any of his information, but by God, he had it. And he spent the next hour at the hospital explaining why he had it, explaining what he was doing there, saying, “Yes, he’s my boyfriend, but it hasn’t been for long,” and getting rolled eyes and indifferent snorts in reply.

  He’d been asked if he was using, and then he’d had to explain rehab, and show his chip, and offer to give a blood test and then scream at the nurse who said, disdainfully, “That’s really not our place, sir!”

  “Well what is your fucking place? Because he’s in here because of me. He was trying to wean off of it for me, trying to use less and less, and then, when he needed someone to remind him of that, I was gone. So what do I have to do to prove that I’m here for him? What’s it going to fucking take before you take me seriously? I want to see my fucking boyfriend, goddammit, and I want to see him now!”

  The nurse backed up, dark brown eyes glittering in shock in her mocha-colored face, and he sank into the chair behind him. Damn you, John, she’s about twenty years old and you just made her cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he said wearily, propping his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry. It’s just… just… you don’t have to be a saint to want to be treated like a human being, do you know that? Yes, I know he’s an addict. So the hell what? You don’t write him off because of it. You don’t write me off because I care for him. We’re people, that’s all. Miserable, stupid, fucked-up people, and all we have in this world to hold on to is each other. Can you understand that?”

  He wasn’t looking at her by now—hell, he barely remembered he was speaking to her—but he felt her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go see when you can talk to him,” she said softly.

&n
bsp; “Wait.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed, relieved when she didn’t flinch away.

  “What can I do for you?” She turned then, and for the first time all night, the question sounded sincere.

  “Rehab center. Someplace nice. In fact, someplace top rate, where they sell a really vast array of gum. The celebrity-level rehab facility in Daytona. Could you get me the number for that place? I’d like to reserve a room.”

  By the time they let him in to see Galen, he had the place lined up and a number to give Galen’s admitting doctor.

  Goddammit. He’d fought for Tory and lost—but then, Tory had been lost, probably before he and John took their first hit. Tory hadn’t wanted to be saved. Tory had wanted to drag people down with him.

  Galen could be saved.

  John knew Galen could be saved.

  I was drowning, and you couldn’t even throw me a rope!

  Right, Dex. You were right. But here I am. I’m not just gonna throw him a rope, babycakes, I’m gonna jump in after him and pull him to shore.

  He’d been forced to look at those photos, forced to watch as Tory ripped himself out of this world and into the next.

  Galen wasn’t going to get that option. John wasn’t powerless. He wasn’t a kid. He wasn’t at the mercy of his father, or Tory, or cocaine.

  And Galen was precious to him and worth saving. Goddammit, John was going to make this right.

  Thin and pale—yes, Galen had looked that way in the past two weeks, since John had met him. But now he looked emaciated and green. It was like a step backward.

  “You asshole,” John muttered as he walked in.

  Galen arched a surprised eyebrow. “That was a mistake,” he said, his voice wrecked by the tube they’d stuffed down his throat but his lip firmly curled. “I had no intention of doing that.”

  “You think we don’t know?” John snapped. “Three pills. You overdosed on three lousy pills. Stupid fucker. That’s what you get for trying to do it yourself.”

  He threw himself down in the chair next to the bed and stroked the back of Galen’s hand softly. He couldn’t look at those pale green eyes—certainly not in that pale green face.

  “Yes, well, I certainly won’t make that mistake again,” Galen said, self-disgust in every syllable.

  “No,” John said, meeting his eyes. “No, you won’t. Because they’re taking you to rehab after this. You’re going to stay here for observation, and in the morning, we’re all going to rehab!”

  “Oh. My. God,” Galen said viciously. “Look who’s got a life direction all of a sudden—”

  “You’re goddamned right I do!” John shouted, tears wobbling in his voice. “I come all the way out here to bury somebody, and you’re stupid enough to pull this shit on me? Are you brain damaged? What the fuck’s wrong with you!”

  “Oh, now—” Galen reached for his hand, and John jerked away.

  “Don’t give me that shit,” he snarled, stalking two steps away from the bed and then back. “In fact, don’t give me any shit. I’ll be there through detox—I’ve done it before, I can do it again. I’ll be there through the rest of it. They may make me go home during the week, but I’ll be there on the weekends. You don’t get to do this alone. I know how to be there for somebody, dammit, and I can do this for—”

  “What if I don’t want you there?” Galen rasped.

  John broke off from his rant to glare at him. “Tough shit. Besides, you do too, you big baby—you want me there. I’m great company when you feel like hell—trust me!”

  “Well then go keep the other junkies company. I don’t want you there.” Galen tried to cross his arms, but the IV cable got in the way. “Yes, yes, you’re man enough to stay with me in rehab—do you think I ever doubted this?”

  “I don’t give a shit if you did!” John shot back, but inwardly he was warmed. John had doubts, but apparently Galen had faith in him. Wasn’t that amazing? Faith in him. John Carey. Man of too many faults to list.

  “Well, I didn’t—but I don’t want you there, even if you’re Captain Detox himself!”

  “Yeah? Why not?” John asked, scowling at him. “And it better be a good reason or I’m blowing you the fuck off.”

  Galen’s angry pout softened, and the look he turned to John was three times as wounded as the little nurse John had scared half to death.

  “Do you really think I want you to see me like that?” he asked pitifully. “I finally find a man who’s willing to look past the scars, and you know what I do for him? I choke on my own vomit—that’s romantic. And now he gets to see me shit myself while I detox. God, John, can’t you just… just….”

  And they came. The tears heated John’s face and eyes, and he was so utterly sick of them, but they came anyway.

  “No,” he said, reaching through the bars of the bed to claim Galen’s hand. “No. I can’t just… just. You helped me find the best part of myself again. I’m not giving that up because you got squeamish, you selfish bastard.”

  Galen’s laugh cracked a little, and hot little drops hit the back of John’s hand when Galen raised their laced fingers to his mouth to kiss. “Well,” he said, sounding unutterably weary, “if you’re going to be that way about it.”

  “God, you’re easy,” John told him, voice still broken. “I could have fought for hours.”

  “I’m tired,” Galen said, dropping their hands and falling back against the bed. “And that is nothing more than the truth. I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  “I’m afraid all you’ve got is me.”

  “More than enough.” Galen’s eyes were closing, and John didn’t blame him. It had been a hell of a day. With a yawn, John dropped the side to the bed so he could rest his head on the mattress.

  When the nurse came in to tell him the ambulance had arrived to take Galen to rehab, she had to wake them both up. They were still holding hands, lying side by side.

  As always, Galen was snoring softly.

  Sweaty Mammals

  JOHN REALLY could have used a hit of cocaine over the next few days. Not for the euphoric properties or the way it killed his sex drive or his taste buds or the finer points of his personality, no.

  He was just really fucking exhausted and could have used the pick-me-up, and coffee wasn’t cutting it.

  Well, c’est la vie. John didn’t do coke no more, and Starbucks was his friend, and that right there was all there was to it.

  That and three days in detox, waiting to see if Galen was going to relive John’s top forty worst moments of his life.

  Yeah. There was that.

  John didn’t stay the whole time, but he went for a couple of hours a day. He brought music, classic rock, and played it low and held Galen’s hand—or not, depending on his mood. They watched television or talked, and the whole time….

  The whole time, John was carefully aware of what was going on inside Galen’s body. Aware that his respiration was slightly elevated as he fought withdrawal, aware that he was itchy and uncomfortable in his own skin. Aware that he was sweating and squirmy and that the sedative in the IV was set at just barely enough to keep him from going flat out of his fucking mind.

  John remembered that feeling.

  It was like having to take a dump for three days while being eternally thirsty, without ever being able to drink enough water. It was like having an itch you couldn’t scratch all over your body, and shivering with heat and sweating with cold the whole time.

  And that was the easy way. That was with medically assisted detox.

  God, it was enough to make John furious with Tory all over again. He did this cold turkey, without help, with heart palpitations and body fluids and screaming and hallucinations and…

  And all that, and he couldn’t make it stick?

  Galen bore it patiently, but at the end, he cried—quietly, lying on his side, clenching his eyes shut and clinging to John’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m weak shit, I know it.”

  “You�
��re amazing,” John murmured, smoothing his hair back. Oh yeah—he remembered the uncontrollable weeping portion of the program. That was his favorite part, right after the urge to vomit. “Not once have you threatened to rip my dick out through my nose. You deserve a medal.”

  Galen sputtered laughter. “You’re right, you know.”

  “That’s a first. What am I right about?”

  Galen took a big shuddery breath. “You’re really good to have around when I feel like shit.”

  John’s smile practically touched his ears. “That is damned near the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say to me.”

  “What’s the sweetest?” Galen asked, suddenly sober.

  John thought about it for so long that he looked up to make sure Galen was still awake.

  “What?”

  “I… I don’t know,” John said quietly. “I think it was when you said you didn’t doubt I could do this. I don’t know if anyone else has ever shown that much faith in me.”

  Galen’s tired, quiet smile glowed like a sunrise. “I could show you such faith,” he said, almost transported by the thought. “I could believe in you until all your pain faded to memories. I could believe in you as we lived side by side. I could be your lawyer and defend your right to make beautiful porn until we’re too old to get it up. My faith could be absolutely boundless, if only….”

  His voice broke on a sob, and John kissed the back of his hand.

  “If only you survive the next minute,” he whispered. The radio was playing “Freebird”—God love classic rock—and John turned it up a little. “Here, baby. You listen to the end of the song, and you’ll get through it. You’ll get through the next moment, and the next, and the next.”

  Galen’s eyes remained closed, but he nodded, and they made it through “Freebird,” through “Carry on My Wayward Son,” and through “Somebody to Love.” They made it through “Let My Love Open the Door” and “A Horse with No Name,” and when they finished Rush’s “Tom Sawyer,” John looked at him, eyes closed, and counted his breaths.