~*~
Mercy’s eyes had gone that scary black color that accompanied the buzzing of power equipment. “She had a basement full of kids?”
Tango nodded and pulled a hard drag on his smoke, willing the tremors in his hands to fade. This couldn’t be healthy, could it? Going back to that place, breathing in its scents and remembering its textures. But this was how therapy worked: the talking, the revisiting. The conquering.
“I didn’t understand any of it for a long time. She put me in one of the cells and I…” His throat ached, and he took another drag. “I thought I musta done something wrong. Kid logic, you know? I thought Mama…Mom,” he corrected, clearing his throat. He hadn’t seen her during that period when “Mama” became “Mom” in boys’ mouths, and so he slipped sometimes, on the rare occasions when he talked about her. “I thought she musta sent me away,” he said, shrugging. “That it was something I did.”
It helped immensely that Mercy nodded, staring at him. Whitney, he knew, would have chewed her lips, and fought tears, and told him how valuable he was. He couldn’t have taken that right now; he would have crumbled.
Mercy said, “Kids always think it’s their fault.”
Tango reached for his coffee, asking silently with his eyes.
“I know I did. And I was twenty, so go figure.”
He nodded, sat back, took a soothing sip. How odd, he thought, that the only things getting him through his new heroin-free life were cigs and coffee.
And Whitney.
“I can keep going,” he said.
Mercy nodded. “Okay.”
~*~
There were ten of them, including Kev. He was put in a cell with a bunk bed, a pallet of blankets on the floor, and boys named Lee and Simon. Simon and Lee were dark-haired, olive-skinned boys, not related, they told him. Lee had giant brown eyes the color of hard caramel candy, and Simon’s arm was bandaged, because he’d called Miss Carla a slut, he informed Kev without reaction.
They crowded in close around him, curious, their gazes like those of interested foxes: wanting to know more, but wary, a little, of someone from the outside.
“Where are you from?”
“Where did she catch you?”
“How did she catch you?”
“How old are you?”
“Was anyone upstairs?”
“Are you gonna cry?”
He wanted to, he really did.
“You can have the top bunk,” Lee offered, plunking down on the bottom one. “Simon likes it on the floor.”
“More room,” Simon said. “My legs hurt all the time.”
They seemed so…so…normal. It didn’t seem possible.
“What do you guys do here?” he asked, stomach squirming with unhappiness.
“Whadya mean?” Simon asked.
“Here.” He flapped his arms, at a loss for the very grownup words he needed to describe this place. “What do you do?”
Lee considered, head tilting to the side; the overhead lights glinted off his eyes, turned them to caramel glass. “We do whatever Miss Carla tells us to do.”
~*~
The first night was, in many ways, the worst. The new smells and sounds filtering through the dark. The utter insanity of it all, the idea that two days ago his mama had tucked him into Ninja Turtles sheets, and now he was in a bunk, in a cell, in a basement, and had no idea when or if he’d be let out.
Lee or Simon snored; the other one whimpered in his sleep, fidgeting like a dog with nightmares. From the other cells he heard sleepy gasps and small shouts. Night terrors ran rampant through the damp concrete prison.
Kev rolled onto his side and curled into a ball, little hands clasped tight between his knees, eyes staring into the darkness. He hated himself. Why hadn’t he ducked away from Miss Carla’s hand? Why hadn’t he hit her? Kicked her? Fled? Fought? He’d just walked, pliant as a rag doll, and let himself get locked up behind these bars, with these strangers, away from home, and Mama, and Robert, and school, and his little green army men…
Did the boys here have toys? He didn’t think so. He thought he might start crying if he asked.
Somewhere beyond the basement, the outdoor night sounds crept in to him: crickets, cicadas, the hoot of an owl, dogs barking. The same as back home in Georgia. The only thing that was the same.
Eleven
Alec wore glasses at work, when he was bringing Ian perfect cups of tea and delivering mail and messages. He pushed them up his nose with a knuckle and blushed a little, as Ian stared at him. But he kept reading, smooth, twenty-four-year-old cheeks suffused with a gentle pink, like the petals of fresh roses.
“…and then Mr. Thompson wanted to confirm your lunch meeting this afternoon. You said one-thirty?”
“I did.”
Alec nodded and used the stylus to make a note on his iPad. “Right. Well. That should be all for now.” He tucked the stylus away and looked up with adorable shyness, swallowing, throat pressing against the starched collar of his shirt.
Ian immediately thought of the rosewater, imagined one of Alec’s manicured fingers dipping into the bottle and then slicking it there in the hollow of his throat.
Delicious.
“Well done, Alec. That will be all for now.”
“Very good, sir.” He turned smartly to return to the outer office, giving Ian a splendid view of the way his hipster skinny dress pants hugged his ass.
Alec was new, in Ian’s employ for only three months. Ian had clocked him during the interview, the quiet, studious slant to his brows, the soft, sweet voice, the innate sensitivity. He’d been a little bit enraptured. A crush, he’d allowed himself. Yes, he could have crushes on sweet, beautiful boys. Vulnerable had always been his type.
But Kev’s rejection had done something to him. Had snapped carefully-strung wires. He tried, always, to keep work professional, his personal life a total secret. Don’t muddy the waters, he’d always said. But after Kev, he’d been howling inside. This terrible, dark vacuum, a blackness that ate itself…ate him…until he was all juiced nerves and restless craving. The sort of craving that left him longing for needles and razorblades.
He’d turned to Alec instead. And in soothing the craving, he’d discovered something unexpected, something he’d missed in his earlier preoccupation: Alec was wonderful.
Which of course meant he deserved better.
But Ian wasn’t Kev. He could admit that he was a selfish bastard, that he wanted pleasurable things for himself.
His phone rang. His personal phone. The ID display told him it was Aidan Teague.
“Hello, beautiful,” he answered, just to fuck with the man.
He earned an exasperated sound in response, which made him grin. “You’re a sonovabitch,” Aidan said.
“Yes, my mother was, in fact, a raving bitch. No argument there.”
Aidan sighed. “Can you be serious for five seconds, Dr. Evil?”
“Of course.”
“Have you talked to Kev recently?”
Hearing his name sent shivers skittering down the back of Ian’s neck. He shuddered hard inside his Armani suit. “Not since the last time you saw me.”
“Really?” Aidan sounded surprised.
“Really.”
“Oh…okay. Well. I wanted to let you know that he’s in therapy.”
Ian said, “Excellent.” But it was a shock to hear. Kev consented to have someone open up his poor head and look inside? It didn’t seem possible. They’d opened up to each other, once upon a time, that had been the beginning of their bond, the enduring thread, that drew them together again and again. They were magnetized by disaster. But to talk to a professional? That sounded unlikely.
“Yeah, it’s good,” Aidan said. “And I think it’s helping. I hope it is, anyway. He’s not any worse, that’s for sure.”
“That’s…” Ian swallowed. Hard. “That’s wonderful.”
“And.” Aidan’s voice became nervous. “I’ve been thinking.”
&nbs
p; “Heavens, don’t strain anything.”
“Ha. No. Seriously. I’ve been thinking…I know you…shit, I know you care about Kev.” Now he was nervous and awkward to boot. “But I think you remind him of bad shit. You know?”
Ian sighed. “You’re asking me to stay away from him until he’s back on his feet properly, aren’t you?”
“I am, yeah.”
He should have been expecting as much. He and Kev together were a flammable cocktail. There was love, and tenderness, and remembrance; but the past echoed tragically in their bloodstream. The lows were as low as the highs were high.
But he hated Aidan for voicing it.
And yet…he had to give the man some credit. Aidan Teague belonged to a brotherhood of men who followed very strict, very old, very intolerant rules. The fact that Aidan kept him informed, and allowed for Kev’s proclivities…there was goodness there. Of a sort.
Ian’s head felt suddenly heavy, and he reclined in his chair. “Don’t worry, darling. I won’t pester him. Not until he wants me to.”
A beat of silence, one fraught with biker tension. Then: “Thanks, man. That’s good of you.”
“Think nothing of it,” Ian said, and hung up on him.
He sat very still in his ergonomic chair a moment, watching birds flit in the bare tree branches outside his window, breathing in the cold, faint fragrance of the unlit aromatherapy candle on his desk.
He leaned over and punched the intercom button on his phone.
Alec’s voice said, “Yes, sir?”
“Pencil me an extra hour after lunch,” he said. “And plan on accompanying me.”
He swore he could hear Alec blushing. “Y-yes, sir.”
~*~
“So Tango’s still with his aunt?”
Aidan let out a womanish scream of surprise and whirled away from the bike on the rack, wrench clenched in his hand like a weapon.
Behind him, Michael stood with his hands in his pockets, undisturbed.
“Jesus!” Aidan exhaled in a rush, ashamed to admit he’d been so startled that his heartbeat was now fluttering behind his ears. “You can’t just sneak up on people, damn!”
“I told him he should wear a little bell,” Mercy called from the other side of the garage. “Like a kitty cat.”
Michael stared at Aidan, non-responsive to the joke. Not apologizing. “He’s with his aunt?” he repeated.
There was a crawling sensation down the back of Aidan’s neck. He scowled at the guy. “Yeah. He is. What do you care?”
Without blinking, Michael said, “Holly saw him at Leroy’s yesterday.”
A knot of dread, hard and big as a melon, formed in his gut. He might have gasped a little, before he could catch himself. Then he gave Michael his hardest, most threatening glare – which was like a sunny smile compared to Michael’s resting bitch face. “Holly didn’t see him,” he said, firmly. “She saw someone else, who looked like him, but she didn’t see Kev. Understand?”
Michael’s head kicked back. His mouth twitched. “What’s he into? The smack again?”
A correct guess, but only a fraction of the bigger issue. “No.” Aidan leaned in close, got in his face. “He’s fucking not. Now back off about it.”
With impeccable timing, Mercy loomed up behind Michael, making the man look small, which was no easy feat. “Drop it, Michael,” he said quietly. “The boss man’s in the loop. Just let it go.”
Michael stepped back and swapped a look between the two of them, eyes narrowed. Finally, he shrugged. “Not my business anyway. Just thought someone should know.”
“Go back to work,” Aidan told him. It was the first time he’d told an officer to do anything. And, shockingly, it worked.
Michael wandered on silent cat feet back out into the winter sunshine, and turned in the direction of the auto garage.
When he was gone, Aidan released a deep breath and sagged back against the bike lift. “Shit. He’s not the first one to get curious, and he isn’t gonna be the last.”
“No,” Mercy agreed, expression grim. “Kid’s gotta be more careful when he goes out.”
“I’ll talk to Whitney. See if she can do some of the shopping for him. I can do some of it. Something.” He glanced over at his brother-in-law. “Talking to him. You think it’s helping?”
“I do.” Mercy nodded. “But we’ve just scratched the surface, you know? There’s lots of ghosts left.”
Twelve
Session 3
Miss Carla didn’t live alone. She had four men who brought the boys their meals, who ushered them to the pitiful corner of the basement where they could use the toilet, wash themselves in a big laundry sink, and brush their teeth in front of a mirror. The tooth brushing was mandatory. “Pretty teeth,” Miss Carla insisted. “My boys have to have pretty teeth.”
The worst of the men was named Max. He was tall, and almost too wide to fit through the door. His black t-shirt stretched tight over layers of fat and muscle, and he had a thick roll on the back of his neck that hung out over his collar. Lee said he looked like a “movie gangster,” but Kev didn’t know what that meant, only that he had dark, slicked-back hair and mud-colored eyes that turned black and mean if any of them dared to talk back to him. Which wasn’t often.
There were no windows in the basement, so days and nights were judged by the droning of the light bulbs overhead. On for day, and off for night. It had been eighteen days since his arrival when Max came to collect Kev.
He’d become fast friends with his bunk mates, and though they lacked toys of any sort, Lee and Simon had books that they took turns flipping through, all of them lined up and squashed together on Simon’s pallet, Lee turning the pages, all of them murmuring in awe and appreciation. Their favorite was a book of full-color photos of ballet dancers. Most were women, but some were men, and all of them were suspended in impossible, graceful poses, limbs lifted above their heads, bodies balanced at impossible angles.
“We’re learning to dance like this,” Simon confided. “We have class.”
The idea struck Kev as preposterous. Why would anyone who kept them locked in a basement send them to dance class?
Lee stood up to demonstrate, his posture becoming tall, shoulders thrown back, feet light and together at the heels on the floor. “First position.” He held his arms lightly at his sides, tensed and ready for action, but fluid, too. A picture of delicacy, and of strength.
Kev wrinkled his nose. “You look like a girl.”
“Boys do ballet too,” Simon insisted, flipping to one of the photos of just such a thing in the book. “It isn’t just for girls.”
Kev didn’t agree, but he wasn’t going to argue with his new friends.
The sound of the door opening up at the top of the stairs was only a whisper, a shushing of air and a faint groan of the hinges, but it hit the basement like gunfire. Everyone went silent, still, breath held, waiting.
A heavy set of boots descended, and then Max appeared in front of their cell, a set of keys jangling in his hand.
Lee snapped the book shut. “Class?” he asked, equal parts hopeful and frightened.
“Bring your new friend,” Max growled.
The neighboring cell was emptied – Jimmy, Eric, Carson – and the six of them were marched up the narrow stairs, Max behind them, another of the black-clad guards waiting for them at the top. Kev would forever remember the bite of the sharp edge of each step against the sole of his worn-out Converse All-Stars. The way their footfalls echoed his pulse, the fast drumming of his heart in his ears.
They were led out of the kitchen and down a hall, and into a room that he thought must be one of those ugly carbuncles jutting out of the house that he’d seen from the outside. A long rectangle of a room, the windows high and narrow, barred, light slipping in at an angle that struck a fire against the long wall of mirrors. Wooden floors, the smell of sweat, and BO, cubbies opposite the mirror, pair after pair after pair of scuffed white slippers hanging from little hooks. He’d s
een slippers like that – on the ballet dancers in the book.
Beneath the hooks were plastic laundry hampers with folded clothes in them. The other boys walked toward them, already reaching for the hems of their shirts and the fastenings of their grubby jeans.
Kev’s heartbeat sped up another notch. “What are you doing?” he asked, voice a quick hiss that echoed in the empty room.
“We have to change,” Simon explained. With a face like he thought Kev was stupid, he reached into one of the baskets and came out clutching a handful of fabric. “Here.” He walked over and handed it to Kev. “Put this on. And then shoes.”
“But…” He didn’t want to. So badly that his stomach cramped, and he wondered if he’d be sick. They were just clothes, and shoes, but he so, so, so didn’t want to.
“Hurry,” Lee said from the hooks, now standing in his underwear, pale and gangly as a newborn foal. “She’ll be mad if she sees.”
As Max and the other man in black watched from the doorway, Kev shucked his clothes and pulled on a leotard and tights. And the soft white slippers, black on the bottom with dirt.
~*~
Miss Carla wore a long, floating skirt, and tights, and a clinging black shirt. It would have been a nice outfit, if it hadn’t made her look so thin, and harsh, and if the edges of the shirt hadn’t been so frayed, nor the shirt such a washed-out pretend-black. She entered the room wearing too much makeup, her mouth a crooked pink slash in her painted face, hair drawn up so tight on top of her head it pulled at the skin around her eyes. She carried a long black cane, thin as a whip, and she tapped it absently against the side of her calf as she walked down the line they’d formed in the center of the room. “We have to stand like this,” Lee had said, and given Kev’s shoulder a little encouraging squeeze. “For inspection.”
She was indeed inspecting them. The same way Mama always turned over a week-old loaf of bread, frowning at it, searching for mold. Miss Carla tidied a lock of Simon’s dark hair. Poked Eric lightly in the stomach with her cane and told him to “straighten.” Tilted her head this way and that as she considered Lee. “Half-rations for dinner,” she told him, and Lee’s Caramel eyes fluttered down to the floor, his shoulders hitching.
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 12