by A. F. Henley
Exhaustion, defeat, seemed to hit Justin as soon as the words rolled off the cop's tongue.
"You have the right to remain silent—"
"Show me your warrant!" Ian said quickly. "And I demand an attorney for both of us. And proper care for Cole! You can't manhandle that child like that. I swear to God I will have all your asses up on brutality cha—" His own voice failed him as pain clutched somewhere deep inside his everything. Ian gasped on it. Felt his legs go soft. Felt the rush of his entire being draining into his feet.
"Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law ..."
Had he not been shoved into a chair, Ian had no doubt he would have fallen. "You," the officer that had detained him began to cuff his wrists behind him, arms around the back of the kitchen chair Ian slumped in. "You best be quiet if you know what's good for you. Or you'll be the next one dragged off to a cell and I'm not fucking kidding."
"You have the right to an attorney ..."
Justin was hauled up to his feet, limp and unresponsive, and when he refused to stand he was yanked into the living room and tossed on to the couch.
"Get the kid out of here, bring him down to the car and wait for protective services—"
"Officer—"
"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you ..."
Ian heard Justin's strangled sob as Cole was carried out of the apartment. He heard the officer continue to rattle, "Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?" He even heard the footsteps running up the hallway and stopping at the door.
He looked up and caught Aubrey's nervous eyes. "Brian," she rushed through the door and caught the arm of the officer who'd been reading Justin his rights. "You said Ian would be all right."
"Wait outside, Aubrey," the man replied.
"Brian, you promised!"
"Wait outside, Aubrey!"
Once again Aubrey's eyes sought out his own. Once again their gazes locked. "What have you done, Aub?" Ian choked the words more than he would have liked, his throat constrictive and his body enflamed.
Her expression hardened. "I'm sorry, Ian."
"You said you'd give me a day," Ian tried to snort. He failed. "So much for being my best friend, hmm?"
"It wasn't right, Ian," she flashed an irate glance at the officer who tried to nudge her back towards the door. "I'm sorry but it wasn't right."
"This close," Ian mumbled. "We were this close." He tried to emphasize it with inflection since his hands were still locked tight.
"Get her out of the way, Brian," one cop said to another and the officer Aubrey had been speaking to secured her elbow.
Justin was seized by the arm and forced off the couch, the officer that held him growling, "You walk, good. You don't, I drag you. Also good."
The tremble of relief that went through Ian's body when Justin fumbled for foothold and stood on his own legs was all-encompassing. Ian relaxed his shoulders, pulled a deep breath and nodded at his own officer when he was told to stand. He fought the wave of dizziness and nausea that hit him when he did.
"Okay," Ian thought. "Lawyers. I can do lawyers." He began to make a mental list, nodding unconsciously as he went through names and when Justin lifted expressionless eyes to find his own, Ian tried a timid smile. "It'll be okay, love. I promise. Everything's going to be just—"
"Fuck you," Justin said in a voice as dead as his eyes. "Fuck you and your love. Fuck you and your intrusion in my life. This is your fault. I didn't want you. I didn't need you. And now you've ruined everything."
Justin's arm was tugged forward by the cop. "Enough ..."
"Was it worth it?" Justin continued, ignoring the direction. "You lowlife bastard pig? Was it worth wrecking my whole life just so you could stick your cock in me?" Justin's eyes burrowed through him like a drill. Heads swiveled in Ian's direction. Aubrey lifted her hand to her mouth. A spasm in Ian's chest made his head swim.
"It wasn't like that Just—"
"I fucking hate you," Justin deadpanned. "I fucking hate you more than I've ever hated anyone in my whole life."
Ian felt every syllable like a knife.
"And you and I both know that's saying a lot."
"Justin, I can help ..." Ian whispered as Justin was pulled out the door. The cinch around his chest tightened by yet another fraction.
"Sure you can," Justin laughed coldly over his shoulder. "You can drop dead. That would be helpful."
The cuffs fell free of Ian's wrists and he looked at Aubrey through swimming eyes. His mind was struggling to place thought. Everything felt wrapped in cotton. Everything except the constantly increasing pressure in Ian's core. "Aren't they arresting me?"
"No," she closed the space between them and put a hand on his forearm. "Not yet anyway. Brian ... he's ... helping. I, well he, they're supposed to be—" she stopped speaking and raised a hand to Ian's forehead. "Honey, we should get you water or something."
Ian stumbled under the slight pressure of Aubrey's hand, vertigo dove in to take control of his body and Ian collapsed against the wall. "Jesus, Ian! What are you doing?"
He couldn't even make his eyes work–his tongue was next to impossible. "I think I'm fulfilling Justin's last request ..." he said, the humor lost as Ian began to sink to the floor.
Segue
Again … there … in the corner of … wherever he was … Those eyes: gold glowing with prismatic clarity, like dark stained glass with sunlight behind it. It made the brown that much warmer, like the soul resting behind the eyes was actually shining from the inside out.
"Hey there." Ian stepped over vine and tangle, gnarled roots and unseated rocks, cautiously finding traction as he approached the timid creature.
"Hey, little guy." He knelt carefully, peering through the leaf and the foliage to try to get a better view. There was a shudder, the sound of a shuffle and the set of eyes pulled farther back. A soft whimper answered him.
"You okay?" Ian advanced an inch at a time. "Are you hurt?" Where the scrap of meat that appeared between Ian's fingertips came from he had no idea. But it seemed right there. Ian held it out, enticing the animal forward. "Come on," he urged. "You can have it. It's okay, I won't hurt you."
Once again eyes moved close enough to be caught by dappling sun bits, dancing reflected light back at him, warming him with their radiance. The smallest edge of a soft brown snout nudged towards Ian's offering. "There you go," Ian whispered. "See? It's good. You'll like it."
The small nose quivered, snuffing gently at the treat. Lips parted, perhaps to sneak a taste, and for some odd reason, watching the tiny beast gain interest gave Ian an odd sense of comfort and a butterfly flip in areas that he could honestly say had never been affected by presenting a meal to a furry friend before. It was a sensation that made Ian feel awkward but at the same time intrigued. "Those eyes," his subconscious whispered. "So familiar."
An inch forward by Ian, a trundle closer by the animal, and then its face was in the light completely and Ian had never seen anything more beautiful: the shape, the design, the simplicity and perfection and suddenly recognition was right there, sliding into place with memory and recollection, of just where those eyes belonged and just where that shape was from and Ian's eyes widened and his heart lurched. The creature lunged.
Not for the treat, and why would it, Ian realized in panic. The offering Ian had been trying to present was rotted and stunk. It burned like acid in his hands. With a gasp he dropped it, needing the same moment to stop the little fox from sinking its teeth into Ian's throat. Instead his forearm, his chest, snapping and snarling, getting closer to Ian's face with every growling, foamy dive as Ian tried to force it away from his body without harming it.
His heels slipped on the wet, slick greenery; his palms fell into thick, black muck and he was falling backwards, still twisting his chin away from the teeth that ripped at bits of his skin and drew boiling blood from his veins—
Ian's eyes flew open and his fingers scrabbled to
get hold of the thing that clung to his face. "Hey now, whoops," a high but calm voice said and Ian turned towards it. "Let me help you get that off before we break something, hmm?"
The soft blip of a monitor recorded the accelerated beat of Ian's heart. Soft puffs of oxygen made their way from the clip in his nostrils to his lungs.
"What happened?" Ian tried to ask. His words were all but mute as they croaked through his dry throat.
"Water?" he was asked and Ian nodded at the suggestion. The water tasted stale, warm and in any other circumstance, Ian would have considered it unpalatable. But the relief to his mouth and throat made up for everything else and he drew on the straw that was offered to him like it was the sweetest elixir he'd ever been granted the leave to enjoy. It hit his stomach hard though and he pulled away before he wanted to, just to force it back down his throat. He took a deep breath, looked up at the nurse and repeated his question.
Her smile was indulgent but her eyes kind. "You, my friend, had a heart attack."
"Impossible," Ian told her, fighting to get more conviction behind his breathy speech. "I'm only thirty-six."
Her laugh was sweet, bright and annoying as all fuck. "I'll let you argue that with the doctor, okay?"
*~*~*
"See now?" the technician flashed Ian another wide slash of flawless teeth between well-shaped lips. "That wasn't so bad was it?"
Ian struggled to regulate breath as the induced panic slowly began to recede. "On the contrary," he said. "If I wasn't still strapped down I would probably punch you in the jaw."
The tech laughed brightly and patted Ian's arm. "I sure hope that's still the medication talking. For one thing I'm far too good-looking to get hit in the face. And for another, I've been studying tae kwon do since I was five." He wiggled his eyebrows at Ian teasingly. "I think I can take you."
Ian pulled another deep breath and let his head fall back on the hard, paper-covered vinyl block pretending to be a pillow. "Well I do love a man that can hold his own."
A single plucked eyebrow lifted dramatically up an unlined forehead but the conversation went no further and Ian was grateful for it. Relationships, he'd decided, were best left for the poets and the dreamers.
"You can put your shoes back on and head on in to room four," the tech told him. "Doc Kimble will meet you in there shortly." He grinned at Ian's awkward slide off the bench. "Feel free to enjoy our fine selection of magazines while you wait and help yourself to our complimentary paper cups and water if you care for it."
"Only the best?"
The tech's grin grew. "Only the best."
He found the door with the four on it, a cheap gold metal number screwed on with silver screws and his jaw tightened at the memory of a similar design. "Don't," he told himself aloud; then began to list them in his head. Don't do this to yourself again. Don't encourage the stress to flare up. Don't think about where he might be or what he might be doing. Don't you dare let the what ifs and the what nows creep their chaos back into the structure.
Ian lowered himself into the chair beside the desk and spent the next twenty minutes volleying the still surging adrenaline in his bloodstream with the mind-numbing task of correcting someone else's half-finished Sudoku puzzle. And when the lovely fifty-some doctor came in and began the process of telling him what was wrong and why, he did his best to smile at her words and digest the information. His EKG on arrival had showed signs of disruption to the normal rhythm of his heart. They'd done tests to confirm and identify the protein levels in his blood, which had showed definitively that he'd had a heart attack. His recent angio had confirmed that permanent damage was unlikely, a pacemaker unnecessary, and she was leaning heavily on her belief that his "event" had been a result of stress-induced complications, and most likely genetic predisposition, that had weakened the heart muscle.
"So," she said finally. "Call it back for me, Ian. What's the plan?"
"Cut out the hard liquor," he parroted from their conversation. "Lower the stress and try to offset the gym and the weights with some form of yoga or meditation."
She nodded and circled her hand for him to continue.
"Take the heart meds to maintain, keep the nitroglycerin on hand just in case, and if there's any chest pain or shortness of breath that the nitro can't get a hold on, get to an E.R."
The doctor lifted her hand and began to tick items off on her fingers. "Also excessive sweating, nausea, light-headedness or an unexplainable feeling of confusion." She reached down, scribbled a prescription and a note and then held his gaze with her own. "Six weeks, Ian. I don't care if that company goes into receivership because you're not there to hold their heads up. No work for six weeks. No calls unless they're calling to offer you their well wishes. No emails unless they're sending you happy little cartoon characters chanting 'get well soon.' No stress. Use this time to get your life in order, to make yourself healthy. You were lucky–you got a warning. Not everyone does. And next time, it's not going to be a little knock-you-down and get-back-up punch. Next time it just might do you in altogether."
He wanted to say, "Who cares?" He wanted to tell her it's not like he was going to need the fucking organ anyway. But that was the funny thing about mortality. At the end of the day, the mind wanted to keep going even if the heart was giving up. The instinctual drive of survival was surprisingly stronger than the breaking of the soul. Funny thing that, Ian mused as he fit his arms into his jacket and met the technician back at the desk to set up a follow-up appointment.
"Let me fill out a reminder card for you," the tech said, walking behind the desk and grabbing it from the agitated receptionist. "Busy as all hell in here today."
His smile was warm when he handed the slip of cardboard to Ian. "See you around."
October was washing the afternoon in dusky shades of gray and kicking up dying leaves as Ian pushed his way through the clinic door and walked towards his car. He let his jacket hang open in the wind, ignoring the chilly blast that rushed in and worked its way through thin cotton as if his skin was bare. It had been almost two weeks since his heart attack, four days since he'd been released from the hospital, and everything had changed. Where he'd once felt strong he now felt tired and weak. What had once been a promising career just felt like a slippery slope into an early grave. Where he'd seen new love and fresh beginnings, now there was nothing but empty, lonely nights. Aubrey had called a dozen times, probably more, but Ian had no desire to reach out to her. He was too angry. Too betrayed. The friends he'd had at work had proved to be no more than associates in a time of need. Family was far and few.
In his deliberations, he almost missed the handwriting on the back of the card.
He frowned at the card, flipped it once, again and stared at the … Call Me, David … and the ten numbers that followed. Ian dropped into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. He started the car. And without another thought, he reached for the button that would lower the window, held the card with the number out of it, and let the wind take it.
Interval
"So what are you suggesting?" partner one said to partner two and Vanessa's inquisitive eyes flashed between the two men like every word they spoke was to be stared at, absorbed, and memorized. For some reason that made Ian want to smash his fists into the boardroom table, preferably with one of their skulls underneath it. And why? He'd never felt like that before; had known the two men and their lovely counterpart for years now, and it wasn't as if anything had changed. Yet in the five months since Ian had been back to work, everything about the place was making him sick with disgust.
He realized as he was trying to loosen his jaw and take long, deep breaths that they were still waiting for him to reply. Ian inhaled one more time, closed his eyes for just a second and forced a smile as he released the air slowly. "Actually Davis," Ian eyed the first man before swiveling his gaze to the next, "and Davis, I've given up on suggestions. I'm telling you that this company is a bad investment. They have zero public support, no tangible ass
ets and their ROCE is ridiculously unstable. And that doesn't surprise me in the least considering their overstocked executive levels. They've played themselves into a corner with their suppliers, made impossible promises to their customers, and done nothing to garner their employees' loyalty. They're a time bomb and if you go ahead with this investment I can guarantee you that you will lose your shirts on it."
Vanessa opened her mouth and Ian shut her down with a single lift of his palm. "No. No more. I'm done. We've been in this boardroom for six hours and that has to be the tenth time I've made that statement."
Ian rose from his seat and began to gather his papers. "You're the bosses; you're the people with the power. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you lament the same things over and over again. To be honest," he tapped his chest. "It's just not good for the stress level."
He smiled at the blank faces and walked towards the door. "I'll let it kill you guys instead. Maybe then I'll actually have a shot at that promotion you've been holding over my head."
Ian had to juggle the handful of papers to get a proper grip on the handle. He kicked the door with his toe and slid through, nodding to the small group. "Have a nice day."
The hall was empty. It was after five and the rest of the staff was either gone or going and when he dropped the ledgers on his desk, the thump seemed to echo forever. "Well," Ian said to no one, "Master Oyama would be very proud."
In the six weeks of Ian's forced vacation he had tried yoga. He'd tried meditation. He'd tried DVD's and CD's, libraries and clinics. The only thing he'd found that he could sit through without rolling his eyes had been Tai Chi. He'd balked at first when the master had suggested they speak in private together. He'd spent the last few months ignoring most human contact and the thought of sitting face to face with someone else had been getting increasingly more frightening. Ian got the impression that the request was far more of a polite demand than a friendly suggestion however. At least it had served him well.
"You have to stop holding everything here," Master Oyama had said, pressing both fists against his solar plexus. "You should not be holding in your emotion, Ian. We have these feelings for a reason. It is our body's way of making sure that our mind reacts to things that can harm us. Anger, annoyance, distaste and contempt are ugly parasites. If you let them sit too long inside you they will eat you. But it is not a slow draw, Ian. Like any parasite, if they find hospitable ground they will prosper there. Then they will breed and breed. Two will become twelve. Twelve will become a hundred. And in just a short time these tiny beasts will be a ravaging mass of millions."