But then there was Kev.
There was no rescue, no rehab, no savior strong enough to help these other boys – they were already dead. The glassy compliance in their eyes evidenced killed souls. They were permanently stained, just like Ian. But then Kev. Sweet, shaking, innocent, alive Kev. He still had a soul, hidden in the dark spaces between his ribs, and Ian loved it like freedom, craved it like air. Kev could be saved, and goddamn it, Ian was going to be the one to save him.
At night, as the sweat cooled their bodies and they huddled beneath the thin blankets on the futon, Ian traced the lines of Kev’s delicate face with his eyes and fantasized about their escape. Lately, fantasy had begun to feel a lot like planning.
In his mind, he worked successfully through a dozen elaborate escapes, Kev tucked beneath his arm, clinging to him with relief, and awe, and…
Okay. So Kev was definitely the damsel in distress in those scenarios.
Which he basically was anyway.
Ian was going to do this. He was. He spent months psyching himself up. He’d lived in the real world – before being snatched – longer than Kev. He would be able to find them clothes, and food, and shelter.
He nicked a cellphone from a client’s pocket one night, hiding it down the front of his shorts until he was finally in the showers and able to pull it out. He used the phone’s GPS to figure out where the club was on the map, and then later the apartment, when he was back home. He looked up nearby gas stations, homeless shelters, fast food stops, the Goodwill. They were in Knoxville, Tennessee. Fucking Tennessee. All the way from Mayfair to Hicktown – someone should make a novel of his life.
Soon, he told himself. He would pull the trigger very soon.
And then Kev was sent to that rich asshole for the night. Ian had been to him before, when he’d still looked more like a little boy. Sick fucker.
And now…now…
Kev was gone.
Without him.
~*~
Kev wasn’t aware of falling asleep, only of coming awake, teeth chattering, cold down to his bones, shaking uncontrollably. His skin crawled; he imagined it rippling in little waves down his arms and legs and chest, covered in ants, in welts. His muscles ached and his lugs caught as he dragged in a deep breath and opened his eyes.
He was on a bed.
Oh God, a bed, were there cuffs? His client? Was he…?
He screamed and heaved himself upright.
“Jesus!” someone swore, and Kev had to get the hell out of this place.
Except his traitorous body wouldn’t cooperate. It shriveled and caved in on itself as the room tilted and blurred.
“Whoa, son,” the same someone said, and a man stepped up to the side of the bed, hands held out in a take it easy gesture. “You’re okay. Calm down, alright?”
Kev blinked furiously, trying to clear his eyes. He wasn’t strong enough to stand, or even sit up all the way, hands thrown out for balance against the mattress.
“Hey, dude,” another voice said, and it was the voice of the boy from before – Aidan. “Dad,” Aidan said, “back up, you’re freaking him out.”
The man snorted. “Heroin’s freaking him out.”
Heroin. His injection? God, there was so much he didn’t know about the world.
But he knew he needed to get up and leave.
To his horror, the bed dipped beneath the man’s weight as he sat down next to Kev. Up close, he had a handsome, aggressive face, dark eyes, his relation to Aidan obvious. In his rattled state, it took Kev a few seconds, heart pounding in his throat, ears ringing, to realize the man wasn’t looking at him the way all the clients looked at him. There were no traces of lascivious intent in the man’s gaze, no sneering smile of anticipation.
“Look, kid, you’re detoxing, so I’m not gonna spare your virgin ears or anything,” the man said. “I’ve seen some weird shit in my time, and trust me, you fall in that category.”
“Smooth, Dad,” Aidan said from the desk chair across the room. “You should be a guidance counselor.”
“Can it. Okay.” He turned back to Kev. “Where did you come from? You didn’t just drop outta the sky beside the school. Who was holding you?”
Kev closed his eyes and pulled his knees up to his chest, dropped his forehead onto them. Too late he realized someone had put clothes on him: a pair of plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt. He smelled a hint of soap beneath the tang of his own poisoned sweat, and thought someone must have washed his face. Maybe more than that. He shivered.
“You a call boy?” the man asked. “Or just a regular junkie?”
“Dad!”
“I can’t help him if he doesn’t tell me what’s going on,” the man said. “How ‘bout a simpler question. What’s your name?”
“K-kev,” he stammered into his knees. The pajama pants brushed against his face, soft and worn, smelling of clean linen.
These people…they were real people, weren’t they? People like Mama, who he only remembered in rare snatches.
“Alright, Kev. Let’s try this again. Are you a junkie?”
“What’s that?”
“Shit. Where did you get the smack? Did you buy it? Steal it off your old man?”
Kev lifted his head, chin perched on the very top of one knee, and drew in a trembling breath. He felt like he was in a self-contained earthquake. His voice trembled from the shaking. “They just…they just give it to us. Our shots.”
The man’s composure slipped a fraction, something sparking in his eyes before he covered it up again, wiping a hand down his jaw. “Shit,” he said.
“Shit,” Aidan echoed.
Soft footsteps sounded beyond the open door, muffled by the carpet, and then Maggie poked her head around the doorjamb. “You’re awake?” she asked Kev, eyes coming right to him.
He nodded.
“Feel like shit, though, huh?”
Another nod.
“I brought you something to eat.” She stepped into the room balancing a tray of food and set it down on the end of the bed. Chicken noodle soup, a sleeve of crackers, bottled water and Gatorade. “See if you can get some of this down, sweetie.”
The man got up from the bed, making Kev feel marginally better. “Can I talk to you?” he asked Maggie, dark brows raised meaningfully.
She nodded and they slipped out of the room, voices low murmurs.
Kev stared at the tray.
Aidan said, “I’ve never shot up, but some of the guys have. They’re totally wrecked after.”
“Yeah,” Kev said.
“The soup’s homemade. Mags is a really good cook.”
Kev’s hand was shaking so badly it took three tries to pick up the spoon. He dragged the tray closer with clumsy movements, and managed to lift a bit of broth to his lips after a struggle.
Aidan was right; Mags was a good cook.
Aidan climbed off the chair and came to sit on the chest at the foot of the bed while Kev continued to sip broth. “Look, my dad’s a total asshole, but he’s not a bad guy.” He made a face. “Okay, so maybe half the city would disagree with that. He’s just, well…” Another face. “What I’m trying to say is, whatever you’re running from, whatever kind of shit you’re in, we can help. Nothing goes down in this town without the club knowing about it. And wherever you’ve been, that counts as something we want to know about.”
“The club?”
Aidan smiled and looked proud. “The Lean Dogs. That’s us.” He ducked his head. “Well, it’ll be me someday. Real soon. My dad’s VP now, and I’m gonna patch in soon as I’ve got my own bike.”
Aidan got up and went back to the desk, returned with a framed photo that he held out for Kev’s inspection, holding it himself so Kev didn’t have to go through the arduous process of setting down his spoon and reaching.
In the photo, scruffy men in jeans and lots of leather were lined up in front of a low gray building. Behind them, he caught a glimpse of a white sign with a black dog on it, and black lettering.
~*~
Kev managed to choke down half the bowl of soup and a handful of crackers, Aidan chatting happy and oblivious in the background, talking about what kind of bike he wanted when he turned sixteen, about how he assumed he’d follow in his father’s footsteps and become an officer in the club. His father’s name was Ghost, which didn’t seem all that strange to Kev, seeing as how he danced as Loverboy. He wondered vaguely if Ghost was a dancer name too, but he doubted it. The man didn’t have that look about him.
He was sipping Gatorade when the nausea hit, and Aidan lifted up a plastic wastebasket just in time.
Whoever these people were, these Lean Dogs, Kev had no choice but to trust them. And truly, no matter what they intend to do with him, it couldn’t be much worse than a regular work day at the club. Right?
The first day passed in fits of stolen sleep, sweating, shaking, nibbling at bits of food, and lurching to the bathroom. He was sick, so sick, his body raw and damaged in the wake of the poison he’d been given every day for he forgot how long. Detoxing, Ghost called it.
The sickness moved through his GI tract late into the night. He fell asleep on the bathroom floor, half-curled around the toilet.
Sometime the next day, when bright sunlight filled the bedroom, he managed to keep down a granola bar and really take stock of his surroundings. He was in a bedroom – Aidan’s bedroom, he knew – and he’d been lying on a comfortable double bed with white sheets and blue blankets. A desk occupied the wall opposite him, topped with a bulletin board full of magazine cut-outs of pretty girls and sleek motorcycles. To the left was a mirrored dresser. A few punk rock black leather belts were draped over the closet door handle. And to his right was a window. No bars. Soft white drapes. A view of a green yard full of flowers and trees, and a street beyond, slow neighborhood traffic sliding past.
A real boy’s room, lived in by a real boy, who had parents, and went to school, and talked about what he wanted to do. He was allowed to want things.
The door was ajar, and eased open softly as Maggie peeked in. “Doing okay, sweetie?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice. Every time she said something kind to him, his throat tightened and his eyes burned, because he just didn’t understand her. What was she getting from this? How did treating him as if he were her own child benefit her? Everything a person did, they did because they wanted something.
She stepped into the room, a box of Entenmann’s chocolate doughnuts in one hand, tall glass of milk in the other. “I brought a treat,” she said. “I know when my boys feel like crap, this is their favorite guilty pleasure.” She sat on the end of the bed, flipped the box open and set it down near Kev’s feet. “I offer to get them fresh bakery doughnuts, but the uncultured cavemen like the boxed kind,” she said with a laugh. “Go figure.”
Kev stared at the waxy chocolate circles with total fixation. He hadn’t had anything sweet to eat since the day he met Miss Carla. Sweets would make him chubby; sweets would detract from his Loverboy grace; sweets were forbidden.
“Go on, honey,” Maggie said. “Have as many as you want. Your stomach still upset?”
“No, I…” He licked his lips. He couldn’t even remember what chocolate tasted like; the faint scent coming from the box teased along his tongue, made his mouth water. “I can’t have sugar,” he admitted, face heating with shame.
“You diabetic?”
“I…I’m not allowed.”
She pressed her lips together, hazel eyes going wide, soft…and a little murderous in the corners, a quiet inward aggression. Her hand was kind, though, as she reached to touch his ankle. “Kev. Sweetie. Eat all the doughnuts you want. There’s no one here to tell you what’s allowed.” Her fingers squeezed, and for some reason, he believed her.
Slowly, as if there was a snake in the box, he leaned forward and picked up a doughnut between thumb and forefinger. The texture was as waxy as it appeared, and when he brought it up to his face, breathed in deep the scent, his stomach growled.
He started to say something, some last protest, and Maggie gave him a stern look.
He opened his mouth and took a bite.
And almost fainted.
She smiled. “Pretty good stuff, huh?”
He nodded and kept eating.
“Whoa, don’t go too fast, you don’t want to bring it back up.”
He nodded again; that was smart. He slowed down, measured, careful bites, the flaking layer of chocolate and spongy yellow center. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Okay,” she said, “you keep eating – eat all you want, baby – and I’m going to talk a little bit. I have some questions, and all you have to do is nod or shake your head, okay?”
He nodded and reached for the next doughnut.
“Ghost says you didn’t inject yourself with the heroin,” she said.
He shook his head.
“Was it a friend?”
Another head shake.
“Your mom or dad?”
No.
“So someone bad, then.”
He nodded.
“Do you live with your family?”
No.
“You don’t want to tell me where you came from, do you?”
No.
“Because you’re afraid you’ll get in trouble? Because you’re not allowed to say?”
A hesitant nod.
She took a deep breath. “Kev, have you heard of a place called The Cuckoo’s Nest?”
A lump of doughnut got stuck in his throat.
She patted his foot. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”
~*~
An explosive sound echoed through the dressing room. Eyeliner pencils were dropped, boys gasped. Big John barged in, scowling. “Get your shit, you buncha queers. We’re leaving in five.”
“What?” several voices chorused.
Several boys scrambled to comply without question, the little ones, scared shitless at all times.
Ian set down his brush slowly, his freshly-rouged face pale and perfect in the mirror before him. He turned away from his flawless reflection, and pushed through frantic boys to get to Big John.
“What’s going on?”
“Get your shit,” Big John said, dismissively.
“What’s happening?” Ian pressed, and grabbed the man’s sleeve.
The back of Big John’s hand impacted his cheek with a loud smack. Ian bit his tongue and tasted blood.
“What part of shut up don’t you fucking understand?” Big John asked. But he was distracted; none of his usual pointed looks and threats of personal violence. Through his glaze of pain-tears, Ian saw unmistakable fear caught in the fleshy width of Big John’s face.
A raid, then.
“Move it, ladies!” Big John bellowed to the room at large.
Everyone hustled to comply, dragging robes and hoodies and track pants on over their shorts, cramming expensive makeup compacts into duffels. The dressing room fluttered with quiet sounds of panic and hurry.
Ian went back to his station, holding his face in one hand, unhurried. When he looked in the mirror, he saw that his mascara and kohl were dribbling down his cheeks, little black rivers, and he smiled at himself.
A raid. Thank Jesus, a raid.
~*~
“Hey. Hey, Kev, wake up.” Someone shook his shoulder, and his eyes flipped open. In the dark bedroom, he could just make out another pair of eyes, their sheen from the ambient light filtering in at the window.
Ian, he thought at first. But these eyes were brown. It was Aidan, kneeling beside the bed.
“Come on,” he said. “Dad wants to talk to you.”
Heavy and disoriented, Kev pushed up onto an elbow, the room spinning around him, a whirl of shadows. His mouth felt full of cotton. “Is it morning?”
“Like four a.m. Sorry, dude, he says it’s important.”
Kev nodded and climbed out of bed. He could keep food down now, and the terrible shakin
g had eased, but he was still unsteady and weak. He didn’t argue when Aidan handed him a borrowed robe to wear over his borrowed pajamas, just belted it on and followed the boy down the hall to the kitchen.
The house between the two rooms lay black with shadow, the night an even darker shade beyond the windows. That deep point between night and morning, when the world seemed to be underwater. The kitchen seemed too bright, the overhead light cold and unforgiving. Kev squinted when he stepped into the room.
Ghost sat at the table, nursing an amber drink in a low glass, wearing a black hoodie and the leather vest-thing with all the patches that Aidan had called a “cut,” identifying his status as a Lean Dog.
Kev froze in the threshold, because in that moment, a smudge of soot on his forehead, face hard and lined, Aidan’s father was the most frightening man he’d ever seen.
Ghost’s voice was almost gentle, though, when he said, “Take a seat. Both of you – you might as well hear this,” he added to Aidan.
They both slumped down into chairs, and from this angle, the overhead light seemed conical and threatening. At first, anyway. But Ghost’s strained, tired expression wasn’t something he was sending to them intentionally. He wasn’t angry with them, but with something – someone – else.
“The boys and I,” he started, “paid a little visit to Carla Burgess over at The Cuckoo’s Nest.”
That was as far as he got before Kev’s brain imploded. A hard burst of static in his head, the closing of his throat all that prevented his abortive stomach from leaping out onto the floor. His knees did hit the floor, though, as he slid off his chair and curled around himself, gasping.
“Kev?”
He heard his name, dim through the roaring of blood in his ears.
“Kev.” A set of denim-clad knees appeared in front of his own. He managed to jerk his head back, gulping air, clutching his heaving sides, and saw Aidan kneeling opposite him, his expression worried, brows tucked together over his eyes. “Kev, what’s wrong?”
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 28