by Andrea Speed
But the nightmarish noise made by his juddering phone woke him up, and he blindly groped for the device. Thanks to the dent and the fact that his side table was metal, a vibrating phone sounded like a bunch of angry wolverines fighting in an oversized aluminum can. A garbage can maybe? He really needed to work on his analogies. Or were they metaphors? Shit, he always mixed those things up.
Finally he silenced the nightmarish rattling of the phone and squinted at the screen. It took a moment for him to adjust to the glare of the light, and he saw it was Den calling him at three in the goddamn morning. Scott immediately wondered if he was in the hospital again, or maybe he’d gotten his fool ass arrested. Would he call him if he did?
“What?” he grunted into the phone.
“Let me in, huh?” Holden replied.
It took Scott a moment to understand what he was saying. “What, are you outside my house?”
“Yeah, and one of you assholes actually remembered to lock the gate this time.”
That was kind of amazing because they forgot more often than they ever remembered. Not that it mattered. Since the haters figured out Roan didn’t live here anymore, and there was a huge guy who lived here who would be happy to fight them all—with a big shit-eating grin on his face—no one bothered them. It didn’t matter if the gate was locked or not. “Didn’t I give you a key?”
“Yeah.” Holden paused briefly. “I left it at home. C’mon, man, I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
“Yeah, fine, just a second.” He hung up and got out of bed, stretching as he made his way to the bathroom and had a piss. Belatedly, he thought to grab a pair of sweatpants and put them on, as he usually slept commando when he was at home.
Why the hell was Den here? It wasn’t like he couldn’t drop over uninvited. He totally could, but he never did. Den was such a curious guy. Scott knew there was no solving the puzzle of him, and Den wouldn’t have it any other way, but there was something in Scott that wanted to keep trying to figure it out. Yes, he would never give him the kind of relationship he wanted; yes, he was mixed up in some shady/dangerous stuff that almost got him beaten to death; yes, he was bad for him. But Scott still felt that pull and realized how terrible it was, his monumental crush on bad boys. Maybe if he had kept to the three-way idea with Jessie and Gareth, he might have some distance on it, but after Holden was hurt, there was no way he was going through with the idea. At least he shut it down before Jessie could talk to Gareth about it. That would have been an awkward invitation to rescind.
It was cold outside, much colder than he thought, and as he compulsively shuddered, he reached back in to grab a coat blindly off the stand by the door. It turned out to be one of Grey’s, so it was a coat that looked like it was in the process of swallowing him whole, but hell, there was no one out here but him, Den, and the neighbor’s judgmental cat. And Scott felt the cat already disliked him because he wasn’t Roan, so Scott had given up on it.
It occurred to him he should have put on shoes as he walked down the cold cement driveway, only to find Holden loitering at the bars of the gate. He had gone full Goth, it seemed—black everything, including his hair, which was weird since the last time Scott had seen him it was brown—and he was honestly almost invisible. It didn’t help that his face was still discolored by bruises, adding to the shadowy effect.
“Sorry to wake you,” Den said as Scott unlocked the gate. “But didn’t you tell me you got up around this time on training days?”
Scott nodded and stepped back as Holden pushed open the gate. “Yeah, but today’s not a training day. I do make Grey give it a rest sometimes.”
“I’m surprised he goes along with it.”
“He does, if only to keep from breaking me.” Also, training all out all the time actually wasn’t good. You could injure yourself or, worse yet, push yourself to exhaustion so when game time actually came, you were dragging ass. As with most things, there was a happy medium you were supposed to hit, but for some reason it was super hard.
They didn’t converse any further, not until they were safely inside the warm house. Scott shuddered as he slipped off Grey’s jacket and hung it back up. “Want some tea?” Scott asked.
Holden stared at him like he’d just suggested haggis served by a clown. “It’s three in the morning.”
“And I’m having some fucking tea. So are you.”
“Bossy boots,” Holden said, but he sounded amused. Scott walked to the kitchen, leaving Holden to turn on the butt lamp in the living room and collapse on the sofa. “How is a house where two male hockey players live so clean?”
“We’re not complete savages. We know how to clean up after ourselves.” Scott paused as he filled the electric kettle with water. “Also, we have a cleaning service come in once a month so nothing gets out of hand.”
“I knew it.”
“Well, we do our best. We ain’t great.” Scott plugged in the kettle and switched it on while he busied himself finding the tea and pulling mugs out of the dishwasher. It gave him time to think about why Holden was here.
Holden was not a drop-by-and-hang-out sort of dude, and certainly not at these hours. But then again, he had just gotten out of a hospital stay where he almost died, so that could leave a person reeling for a bit. (Unless you were Roan, who probably greeted death at this point with a hearty “Nice try, asshole.”) But his whole Goth ninja outfit seemed to suggest he’d been out vigilante-ing, which Scott would have hoped he’d put on hold for a bit since it, you know, almost got him killed. But Scott knew that wasn’t the type of person Den was. He was intense and frightening. He threw himself into things in a way that could only be described as wholehearted. Holden lived like he knew his time was limited and he intended to do as much as humanly possible in that span. Which was probably a good way to live your life if you weren’t a vigilante. If you were a vigilante, it was tempting fate.
Scott wanted to believe Holden would be too sensible to go out so soon, but he also knew Holden. Roan had a macho thing going on, but he was pretty upfront and honest about it. Holden’s macho thing was far more insidious. He liked to pretend he didn’t have one, but he did, and it was basically that Den lived in total fear of any genuine emotion. It was like he was afraid if he allowed himself to feel anything, he’d shatter into a million pieces. Maybe that was true. If so, Scott wondered what horrible thing had happened to him to make him that afraid of feeling anything. He could ask, but he knew Den wouldn’t tell.
“Want something to eat?” Scott asked.
Den frowned at him. “You don’t need to play host. It’s three in the fucking morning.”
“Yeah I do. I’m starving.” Even though they had to watch their diets and all that, Scott grabbed one of the biscuits he’d picked up from a bakery, because, goddammit, he was going to have his carbs.
By the time he got the tea bags sorted, the water was done, and he poured their cups while finishing up the biscuit. Scott had been hoping this whole time that Den would say something, maybe tell him why he was here, but he didn’t make a goddamn noise.
Scott carried the mugs out to the sofa and gave Holden his before flopping down beside him on the couch. He was so good he didn’t spill any of the tea. “So you’re really not gonna tell me why you’re here?”
Den gave him serious side eye as he put his cup on the end table. “What, a guy can’t bug his ex at three in the morning?”
Scott sipped his tea and glared over the rim. He felt mighty proper for a guy freeballing it in sweatpants.
Den rolled his eyes and said, “Fine. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t feel like sitting in an all-night diner, absorbing grease and alcohol fumes through my pores.”
“Surely there’s a Jack in the Box open as well.”
“Is this what you’re gonna do? Give me shade all night?”
“What did you expect? You woke me up at three in the fucking morning.”
Den sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I explained that already. I�
�ll leave if you want.”
“If I wanted you to leave, I’d never have let you in,” Scott replied. He also knew what Den was talking around: he was lonely. He came here because he didn’t want to be alone. He just couldn’t admit it. And he thought he skated with some macho assholes. “How’s the face?”
“That’s the bizarre thing. I think it hurts more than everything else.”
Scott nodded and reached for the small tin on the end table closest to him. It had the illustration of a happy leprechaun on it, and as soon as you popped the lid, you could smell the weed. Scott had a couple of pipes, but he appreciated the old tactile feel of rolled joints. Besides, hand rolled seemed more personal, didn’t it? Like the difference between premade and homemade cookies. Grey said he’d smoked too much of it to think like that. He fished out a joint with his fingertips. “Facial injuries can be like that. My first black eye and my first facial stitches hurt like fuck. Although my first broken rib was a special kind of hell.”
“Have you considered not playing a violent contact sport?”
“What, and get a real job? Never.” Scott lit the joint from a lighter conveniently hidden beside the tin and took a long drag before handing it off to Den. He didn’t ask him if he wanted it. Of course he did. Pot would make the pain melt away. It was what it was good for. Well, that and giving you an appetite after a bad bout of food poisoning.
Den grunted in understanding and took the joint. His toke was a bit shallower but still long. Neither of them spoke while they let the pungent smoke seep into their lungs and bloodstream. Scott knew it was working when he started to feel warmer.
Holden gave him back the joint and exhaled as Scott let the smoke curl out of his mouth. He knew getting stoned was his version of painkiller or alcohol addiction, but wasn’t this better? Nobody died from a pot overdose. You could probably eat yourself to death, though.
They both had a couple more hits before Scott stubbed it out in a glass ashtray he’d picked up at a Goodwill. It had a ceramic bear on it for God knew what reason and was really tacky, so of course he had to get it. About 80 percent of their decorating aesthetic was tacky as shit. He supposed he should feel bad for letting the LGBTQA side down, but were bis or asexuals known for their taste? He didn’t think so.
They sat in silence, enjoying their small but growing buzz, until Scott was sure it was safe to ask, “You were out hunting tonight, weren’t you?”
Holden snorted. “Hunting implies they’re helpless.”
“Fine, sorry. But you were just in the hospital and almost died. Forgive me for thinking you should take it easier.”
“I had some anger to work out. I had to do something. Besides, I’m pretty sure the guy was fleeing the States for a while.”
“Is the guy still alive?”
Holden shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What the hell kind of answer is that?”
“An honest one.”
Scott couldn’t say much to that because he was correct. Holden was at his most honest when he let his guard down, and nothing got his guard down faster than pot. “Was it one of the guys behind your beating?”
“No, this was a separate beating. But I think it felt extra good kicking his ass.”
Scott thought about asking a million things but discarded them and ultimately decided he didn’t want to know. He did, but it probably was best for him if he didn’t. It was cowardly, sure, but this was part of the reason he broke up with Den—he couldn’t handle his own conflicted feelings about what Den did. He did terrible things, and yet Scott kind of understood it. But then again, it was kind of a little… psycho. Except that wasn’t fair. He knew Den wasn’t one of those. He just had some messed-up ideas about justice and revenge, probably complicated by whatever it was that kept him thinking real emotions would break him. Scott needed to remind himself he couldn’t help him, as much as he wanted to, because Den didn’t want help. Not yet; maybe not ever. “How do you think I’m gonna feel when I wake one day and find out you’re dead?”
Den shrugged. “It’s gonna happen one day, whether I do this or not.”
“Don’t be that way with me. You know what I mean.”
Den smirked at him, but in a halfhearted way, like the effort of doing it was too extreme. “I’m pretty sure you broke up with me. So why give a shit anymore?”
“I can’t turn emotions on and off, okay? Yeah, I broke up with you, but I still love you, you stupid shithead. You’re not that dumb. You know that.”
Den raised his eyebrows. “Have you ever said you loved me before?”
That was actually a good question. He wasn’t sure he had, although he assumed he knew it. Why did he assume he knew it? Goddammit. The major drawback of pot was it made his memory like swiss cheese. Or maybe that was the concussions. Both? “Look, that’s not the point. The point is, I don’t want you to die sooner than you’re supposed to ’cause you were out doing street vengeance or whatever you call it.”
“Well, I don’t call it that.” Holden looked vaguely offended at the thought. “I appreciate the sentiment, hon, but I was born to die young. Might as well make something of my life before it’s over.”
“And Roan was the punk? That’s as nihilistic as shit and not true.”
Den rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you’re trying to be nice, Scott, but I know what I am and what I’m about. I don’t want to live to a ripe old age, with a house in the suburbs and a husband or three. I want to burn out like the beautiful flamer I am. Anything else would be boring, and I don’t do boring. Not unless I’m paid for it.”
Scott gulped down half of his peppermint tea, since he felt like he was getting cotton mouth already. “I never know what to take seriously as a cry for help and what to chalk up to you being deflective and outrageous.”
“I’m always serious. Especially when I’m not.”
“See, what the fuck kind of shit is that? That sounds like a subpar Oscar Wilde epigram.”
Den scowled at him. “What the fuck’s an epigram? And how do you know that word?”
“I told you. I read a lot on flights.” And now, come to think of it, was epigram the word he wanted to use? Dammit. He wasn’t sure. “Are we arguing? Is this a fight?”
“Nah. I think we’re both too stoned to fight. The modern variation on too drunk to fuck.”
Scott tried to smile, but he wasn’t sure he managed. This weed was a lot heavier than he thought. “Except better ’cause I’m pretty sure I could fuck.”
“You’re in your twenties. Barring disaster, of course you can.” Den put a hand on Scott’s thigh, patting it. “Thanks for spending all that time with me in the hospital. You didn’t have to.”
Scott scoffed. “Of course I had to. I wasn’t leaving you alone in a place like that.”
Den shrugged. “Like I could tell while unconscious. I could have been used as an end table. I wouldn’t have known the difference.”
Scott grimaced, mostly hiding a laugh. “Man. You don’t blunt the edges of anything, do you?”
He shook his head before having a drink of his tea. Den frowned at it but still drank about half the cup before putting it down. “I’m so used to bullshit, there comes a time when I’m just done with it, you know? It isn’t the first time I’ve almost died. When I was a kid, I used to go along with all the shit about heaven and all that, but I was so glad when I could stop pretending to believe it. There’s no heaven, no hell—just us being shitty to each other until we drop dead.”
Super bleak, yes, and yet, probably because he was stoned, Scott started laughing. The more he tried to stop himself, the more he couldn’t do it. Den glared at him, but that only made him laugh harder. Scott curled into himself, hands on his face, elbows on his stomach, trying to press the laughter back in. It wasn’t working.
“Holy shit, how strong is your weed?” Holden asked, sounding genuinely alarmed.
Scott tried to tell him it wasn’t the weed, it was how nihilistic he was—it struck him as bleakly hilarious
. Which probably meant he’d had too much pot, sure, but still, it was kind of funny.
Scott was forced to breathe through his nose, measuring breaths like he was having a panic attack, and focus on truly tragic things that couldn’t be seen as hilarious in any respect. Eventually his giggling fit subsided enough for him to talk. “You sound exactly like a comic-book vigilante, you know? Or Batman. Are you Batman?” Scott lost it again, laughing until he had tears coming out of his eyes.
“Frankly, I’m offended,” Den said. He stood up like he was going to storm out, but then he started laughing and collapsed back on the sofa. Maybe the pot was too strong.
He and Den ended up leaning on each other, laughing until they were out of breath, and Scott was vaguely aware his old broken rib kind of twinged, but he was too stoned to really feel any pain. He just knew it was there.
Scott honestly didn’t know how they’d gone from being a laughing ruin to kissing, but that’s exactly what happened. One moment they were a helpless heap, and then he and Den were kissing and wrestling off each other’s clothes. It was weird, and yet, he didn’t mind at all. Den tasted like mint tea and pot and maybe a little like blood or iron. Something manly and dangerous, like the smell of gunpowder.
He would regret this sooner rather than later. Scott knew that, but right now, he didn’t care.
24—Molecules
MAYBE IT was a little corny, but Chai suggested to Dee in a text they should meet up and have coffee before he went to work. Dee agreed, and Chai got to the coffee place twenty minutes early.
He thought to check on Holden, but he didn’t respond to his text, and Chai decided he should let him sleep in. On a random impulse, Chai checked his mail and was surprised to find he had some. And not just ads addressed to Occupant either. E had sent him a couple of flyers for upcoming events. One was for Bussard Ramjet, his boyfriend’s band, playing a place called the Union Club, while E’s alter ego, DJ Glittertrash, would be spinning at Panic later in the week. E had scrawled on it “Please come, and bring a friend!” Chai was still smiling over this when Dee sat down in the chair across from him. “What you got there?”