Another Man's Treasure

by J. A. Rock

  Patrick clenched his jaw. Color rose in his cheeks.

  “It’s nature,” Ilia said. “The strong fuck over the weak. The alpha dog fucks whatever he wants. You think those animals on National Geographic go and have a fucking cry about it? Of course they don’t. They lick their wounds and learn to roll over quicker next time.”

  “I’m not a dog!”

  Ilia sighed. “Look, he’s not that bad if you know how to handle him. If you know what he wants.”

  “Not...not that bad?” Patrick shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks.

  Ilia advanced on him. Threw him a sympathetic smile that he felt no deeper than his skin. He wasn't like Patrick. Wasn’t the victim here. “I know you’re gay, Patrick. I saw the way you looked at me, felt the way you touched me. So what’s Nick doing, really, that’s so terrible?” He put his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, feeling him shake. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”

  “I think you’re fucking crazy.”

  Ilia laughed. “Maybe I am.” He leaned in and nuzzled Patrick’s throat. Felt the rapid, frantic beat of his pulse. “Let it happen, Patrick, and I promise I’ll look out for you as much as I can.”

  In that moment, Ilia meant it.

  Patrick made a strangled noise and pushed him away roughly. “It doesn’t matter what you look like! It doesn’t matter if I’m gay!” He grabbed the sheets again. “I’d rather die than stay here!”

  He shoved past Ilia, and Ilia felt fear stab him.

  No.

  If Patrick escaped, then the police would come here. And Ilia would be free too.

  But Nick would be angry. So angry.

  And if Patrick fell and died, there would be consequences.

  Fear turned to panic. If Patrick escaped or if Patrick died, then Ilia would become Nick’s victim. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t bear that. He wanted to be cold, to be strong. He wanted not to care. But could he—could he stop Patrick? Could he hurt him, if he had to?

  Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

  He was floundering.

  If Nick were here... Nick would know what to do. Nick would tell him, and Ilia would obey.

  Yeah little red painted soldier,

  Don’t let the blind mislead the blind.

  Stumbling, drawing his fingertips along the wall, Ilia headed back into the living room. Almost wept with relief when he saw Patrick kneeling on the balcony, bowed over, his face hidden in the bundled sheets.

  Long way down. Such a long way.

  Ilia stepped onto the balcony and lowered himself onto his knees behind him. The wind whipped through his hair and tugged teasingly on his dangling earrings. Ilia slid his arms around Patrick’s waist, feeling his shaking sobs.

  “I’ll look after you,” he said. He touched his forehead to Patrick’s back. “I promise.”

  Patrick cried harder.

  “I promise,” Ilia said. “I promise. I promise.”

  He repeated the words until they had lost all meaning.

  II

  Mikhail had told Ilia a story about Nick once. It was an evening Mikhail had arrived at the sanctuary looking tired, unhappy, and Ilia asked him what was wrong.

  “Nikolay.”

  Ilia fought not to let his irritation show. As much as he wanted to be sympathetic to Mikhail’s difficulties with his brother, he hated when Nick stole Mikhail’s attention away from him. “What happened?” Ilia asked, trying to sound as though he genuinely cared.

  “Nick tells me he wants more responsibilities.”

  “Does he have any now?” From Ilia’s limited understanding, Nick had long wanted in on the business, but Mikhail had deliberately kept him out.

  Nick tilted his head. “Mm. Some. He is my muscle, on occasion.”

  “Muscle? He’s smaller than you are.” Ilia made room for Mikhail on the sofa and nuzzled up to him.

  “Yes, but fierce!” Mikhail laughed. “People think I am frightening—they do not know Nick. He is not so—what is the word? Restrained?”

  “Was he one of those kids who set cats on fire and stuck other kids’ heads in toilets?”

  “No!” For a second, Ilia thought Mikhail was offended. But Mikhail continued, almost giddy. “He did not set cats on fire. He was not so much a bully, but listen, this is a good story: When I was eight and he was six, we were at the mall with our mother. We were getting along for once, Nikolay and I! Our mother was walking ahead of us. Suddenly Nick pulled me into a store, and we climbed into one of the—the clothing racks? The circular ones?”

  “Yeah.” Ilia grinned, trying to imagine eight-year-old Mikhail hiding in a clothing rack.

  “We made a gap through the clothes so we could see out the storefront. After a moment, our mother walked by, looking for us. The next time we saw her, she was calling our names. Oh, she looked so scared, Ilie.

  “I started to climb out, thinking we’d had our fun. But Nick grabbed my arm. He said, ‘No.’ He was watching our mother, looking very serious.” Mikhail imitated Nick’s look. Ilia smiled tentatively, though Mikhail’s expression chilled him. Must be the look Mikhail got when he killed someone. When he forced someone to talk. “I was bigger than him, stronger. I told him I wasn’t going to stay. He said if I didn’t, he would tell our mother what I’d done to the building site near our house.”

  Ilia raised his eyebrows. “What did you do to the building site?”

  Mikhail shrugged. “They’d had some very expensive furniture delivered. But the doors were not on the house yet, so I went inside one night and I scratched it all up with my mother’s house keys.”

  “Mikhail!” Ilia slapped Mikhail’s side gently. “You were bad.”

  Mikhail’s laugh was deep, resonant. “I know. Always, I was bad. But Nikolay was worse. We watched our mother walk back and forth past the store. We watched her stop people to ask if they’d seen us. We watched her cry. I was so afraid Nick would tell on me, that I did what he said. He could be very influential, Ilie. Six years old! And that was his idea of a game. Except that he was not laughing.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Finally, Nick said we could go to her. She was relieved to see us, yes, but she kept crying, even when she could see that we were there, that we were okay. And ohhhh.” Mikhail paused. “Oh, we got in trouble with our father later.”

  “Your brother sounds like a creep.” Ilia kissed Mikhail again.

  “You see, if I let him in on the business, I know he will not be squeamish. But he will be careless.”

  Ilia sat up. “So don’t let him in.” Ilia put his hands on Mikhail’s thigh and propped himself so he could kiss Mikhail’s cheek. “You’re the boss.” He nipped Mikhail’s jaw, and Mikhail yielded, leaning back against the cushions as Ilia leaned forward, sucking in his stomach to make his ribs show. “I don’t like thinking about what you do out there. I don’t like thinking about your brother.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mikhail said. “He is on my mind.”

  “Can I take him off your mind?” Ilia asked, bowing like a dog at play on top of Mikhail.

  Mikhail smiled, stroking the curve of Ilia’s back. “I wish you would.”

  III

  “This is dead,” Nick pointed at the Brugmansia. “You let your present from Mikhail die.”

  It wasn’t dead. Wilting, but not dead. Yet. Ilia shrugged.

  “I’ll throw it away,” Nick said.

  “No!” Ilia immediately cursed himself. Weak. Stupid. Just a fucking plant.

  Nick looked at him. “Don’t be a bitch about it.”

  Don’t be a bitch.

  Ilia noticed Patrick staring at him.

  He didn’t want to look weak in front of Patrick. He wanted to show Nick he was getting stronger. Finding his bite. But he couldn’t let Nick throw the plant away.

  It was ours. He gave it to me, and I learned to take care of it. It was deadly and beautiful, like us. Like our world.

  “You said I could keep it.” Ilia spoke steadily. “You said we could
keep it. For him.”

  Nick didn’t respond, but he left the plant where it was.

  IV

  Ilia stepped into the bedroom. He hadn’t been invited, but he wanted to see.

  Patrick lay facing the door, Nick curled around him. Patrick’s eyes were blank, and every few seconds a shudder passed through his body. He didn’t so much as glance in Ilia’s direction. His mouth was swollen, and one eye socket bruised. He had gotten into bed with Nick, but not willingly.

  Nick’s head came up from behind Patrick’s shoulder, and he looked at Ilia. “Care to join us?”

  Ilia didn’t know if he was allowed to refuse. He couldn’t stop staring at Patrick. He thought about Mikhail, who had obeyed Nick as an eight year old, hiding in that clothing rack. Mikhail, the most powerful man Ilia had ever known, had feared Nick’s consequences.

  Patrick wasn’t afraid to fight. Made Ilia look pathetic. Ilia hated him. Wanted to hate him.

  Patrick’s cheeks were wet. Ilia reached again for anger. Crybaby. Princess. But he couldn’t make the words stick.

  “He is so tense,” Nick said, jostling Patrick. Patrick flinched and took a small breath. “Ironic, considering his job. I have not even done anything with him. I only wanted to make him more comfortable.”

  “I need to talk to you about the plan.” Ilia wasn’t sure where the words came from. He just knew he couldn’t handle the sight of Nick’s arms around Patrick’s shivering frame anymore. Couldn’t handle that dead look in Patrick’s eyes as Nick held him.

  “The plan?” Nick shifted so he could see Ilia better.

  “To kill Captain Porter,” Ilia said. Felt strange to refer to his father that way.

  Nick pushed his hair up off his forehead and scratched his scalp. “Ilia. So eager. But can’t it wait?”

  Ilia shook his head.

  “All right.” Nick pushed the covers off. Leaned down to give Patrick a rough kiss above the ear. “Stay here and relax. Ilia and I must talk business.” He climbed out of bed and went with Ilia to the living room.

  V

  “What changed your mind?” Nick asked. They were side by side on the couch.

  Nothing. Can’t do it. Won’t do it. Ilia felt the echo of fear in his whole body. Heart and pulse hectic, slamming, strangers to rhythm.

  “Ilia?”

  “I...I want to. For Mikhail.”

  “Yes.” Nick nodded, his expression so earnestly serious that Ilia wondered if he was mocking him. “You know you must. You must help me kill the man who murdered my brother.”

  “I know.” Time. Need to buy time.

  Nick took a swig from a paper cup of stale water on the coffee table. Ran two fingers up Ilia’s thigh. “I am thinking we do it much the same way he killed Mikhail. At night, when his wife is sleeping beside him. We will leave her alive, so she can see. Just as you had to see Mikhail.”

  I didn’t see. I was out of the room. Never had to see. Never got to say goodbye.

  “You will have to fire the bullet, Ilie. You understand? I will help with the planning, but you must do this. Show yourself your own strength. Show me your loyalty.”

  Ilia looked at him. Didn’t care if Nick saw the hatred in his expression.

  You stupid fuck. You think I’ve broken so easily? A few weeks of starving me, raping me—Patrick’s word, not Ilia’s—and I’ll kill my own father just because you tell me to?

  Not a victim, never a victim. But not Nick’s fucking ally either. Not his tame wolf.

  But it isn’t breaking, to do what he’s asking. To be loyal to your true family.

  Mikhail.

  Mikhail would never have asked Ilia to do anything like this. Would he?

  What if Nick had been killed by Ilia’s father’s bullet? Would Mikhail have considered it his duty to kill Louis Porter?

  Show yourself your own strength.

  A chance to make his father pay. Not just for Mikhail, but for everything.

  Kill the man who made you feel weak and small your whole life. Who made you a victim. He’s the reason you’re this man’s whore now. He’s the reason.

  No. No, Ilia wasn’t Nick’s whore. Patrick was.

  Both. His whores. His.

  Maybe Mikhail’s whore too. Maybe I was too stupid to see.

  Mikhail had loved him. Cherished him. My light. My sweet boy.

  “To hear him talk, that was not the case,” Nick had said.

  A horrible vision of Mikhail and Nick having drinks together, Nick laughing as Mikhail detailed what he’d done the night before with Ilia.

  Mikhail wouldn’t have. We loved each other. And Nick was a fuck-up. Mikhail hated him.

  “My sweet boy.” The words sounded mocking now.

  Not your “sweet boy.” I’m nobody’s fucking sweet boy.

  Mikhail had offered to invite Patrick into their bed. Ilia had been so caught up in his own shame and lust that he hadn’t considered why. He’d assumed it was because Mikhail had wanted to please him. But maybe that hadn’t been it. Maybe Mikhail had been bored with Ilia. Maybe he’d wanted Patrick.

  “Ilia?” Nick said. “You do not like this plan?”

  Something hideous, hysterical, snaked out of him. Wound tight around his body and squeezed. It doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters. The world is just lie after lie after lie. There is no light. No goodness. Just dreams that rip so fucking easily.

  He opened his mouth. Thought about God, about Mikhail. What if he was being watched?

  I don’t care about the plan. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.

  What if Mikhail was watching him right now, ashamed and disappointed that Ilia wasn’t fighting back?

  I don’t care.

  He closed his eyes.

  I don’t want to think anymore. Just let me be whatever I’m supposed to be. Whatever he wants me to be.

  But that wasn’t how Ilia did things. Even when he was a teenager, no matter how hard his father had tried to force him into the Louis Porter ideal of manhood, Ilia had fought twice as hard to be himself.

  Don’t even know who that fucking is anymore.

  He could start with what he did know. The real Ilia Porter wasn’t a killer. The real Ilia didn’t belong to Nick Kadyrov.

  The thing squeezing him eased up. He drew a breath. Then another.

  Even if he could never be whole again, could never be sweet or good—and maybe he’d never been those things—he couldn’t let himself become evil.

  Whatever ugly thing he’d turned into, he could never fucking pull the trigger on his own father.

  Ilia glanced up at Nick, who was watching him carefully.

  He could pretend he would, though. To buy time.

  “Ilia?” Nick prompted.

  Ilia blanked his expression. Nodded. “When?”

  VI

  Nick was gone, and Patrick was on the balcony, screaming as Ilia had the first day Nick had left him alone.

  Ilia was sweating, skin fever-tight, a sharp pain behind his eyes.

  “Can you fire a gun?” Nick had asked earlier.

  “Yes.”

  “This weekend, we will go somewhere, and you will show me.”

  Ilia didn’t dare hope Nick meant clay targets at the rifle range.

  He’s going to make me shoot somebody.

  Patrick screamed again. He was screaming “fire,” like they told you to do in the safety programs at school, because people apparently responded to “fire” more quickly than they responded to “help.”

  “Would you shut up?” Ilia snapped at the balcony doors.

  SofuckingscaredOnlyvictimsarescaredStopthinkingStopthinkingJustdo.

  Patrick’s cries for help were getting thinner and hoarser as his voice gave out.

  Ought to be out there with him. Need to try to get away.

  But then the voice in his head babbled on, senseless with fear, and Ilia couldn’t move.

  Ilia wasn’t sure how much time passed. Shadows around his vision and sharp bursts of pain. T
he Brugmansia was drooping, and he didn’t fucking care if it died. The hell if he was going to water it.

  Patrick went silent, and Ilia shut his eyes, relieved.

  Quiet. That’s all I want. Quiet.

  Suddenly Patrick started shouting with renewed vigor. “Hello! Hey! You see me up here? Hello? Help!” Patrick turned toward the balcony doors, gesturing at Ilia. “There’s someone down there!”

  Can’t help us. Can’t save us. Stupid fucking kid.

  “Ilia! Come on!”

  Through the haze of pain, Ilia got to his feet and made his way to the balcony. There was a man down on the sidewalk, looking up at them. Ilia froze.

  “Hello!” Patrick yelled, waving frantically. “We need help! We need the police!”

  The man was hunched, staggering. Probably homeless. He waved back, but more like he was swatting a fly away than answering them.

  “Help!” Patrick yelled.

  “Help!” the man echoed, his voice small and far away.

  “No, we need h—” Patrick’s voice gave out, but he tried again. “We need help; can you call the police? We’re being held captive!” Patrick barely managed more than a squeak on the last few words. He pushed Ilia toward the rails, slapped his shoulder. “Tell him,” he rasped. “Tell him.”

  Ilia didn’t speak.

  “Help!” the man yelled back. “Help!” He shuffled forward.

  “He’s fucking crazy,” Ilia told Patrick.

  “Please!” Patrick begged.

  “Hey!” Ilia called finally. The man didn’t answer. “Hey, we need help!” Ilia gripped the rail. Slumped. That first day he had yelled from the balcony, he’d put everything in it, convinced someone would hear him. But now he knew better. Yelling made his head hurt worse. He half wanted Nick to come back. Wanted the distraction.

  “Keep going,” Patrick urged.

  “He’s gone,” Ilia muttered.

  “You didn’t try!” Patrick snapped. “You didn’t fucking try.”

  He stormed into the apartment and returned to the balcony door carrying one of the chairs. Started to throw it over the rail.