by Ezra Blake
Jake says, “I don’t hang out with him anymore, just so you know.”
“What?”
“Lucas, I mean,” Jake murmurs, “I have cameras.”
Elliot shoots him an incredulous glance. “That’s sick.”
“Yeah.”
He dips his head under the spray, careful not to touch any part of Elliot, not even the safe parts like arms and shoulders. He scrapes the water out of his eyes. He scrunches fistfuls of hair until it’s all wet.
“Still,” he says, “if you had to buy pills, I’m glad you got them from one of my guys, even though Lucas is a dick. There’s fent in everything, you know, even pressed pills, because anybody can just buy a pill press on the internet and—”
“Jake.”
“Hm?”
“Shut up.”
He passes Jake a bar of soap.
“Wash my back.”
Jake pinches the bar between two fingers, frowning.
“Wash me, Jake. A little human contact won’t kill you.”
Jake has never enjoyed showering with company—fighting for warmth, claustrophobia, the ever-present risk of slipping. Better to get this over with. The soap is their only point of contact; he drags it down Elliot’s back, doing his best to keep his fingers to himself.
“Just—” Elliot huffs and spins around. He grabs Jake’s wrist. “Like this. Here,” and he yanks Jake closer and presses their chests together, guides Jake’s hand, and the soap, to the small of his back. He scrubs. This doesn’t feel optional.
When Elliot is smeared with creamy lather, he pulls away, smirking like he’s won a particularly intense game of Monopoly. Is that seductive? Is he the butt of a joke?
Without thinking, he scrapes a strip of foam from Elliot’s hip. He stiffens. The smirk vanishes. “I’m here to get clean,” he says.
“Oh.” Jake nods like that makes sense. “Okay.”
Though the water feels like Jesus Christ’s golden shower, he doesn’t let himself enjoy it for long. Too dangerous. When he gets out, Elliot is still basking under the rainfall spray, smirking again. He closes the frosted glass door and watches the rippled shadow for another moment.
Then he snaps out. Ash is still on the floor, maybe sleeping.
“Hey, clothes off. You stink too.”
Ash’s eyes flicker open, but there’s no depth to them. Jake unbuttons his jeans and swipes a washcloth across his armpits, crotch, forehead. This is a mechanical process. Don’t look. Don’t linger. He scoops Ash off the floor and carries him bridal-style through the smothering steam, down two steps, into the master suite.
When they’re dry and dressed, Ivan brings them a pyramid of strawberries, figs, and fat chunks of watermelon on a silver platter. He asks them once more to please stay awake until dinner, if it’s no trouble, and Elliot says of course it’s no trouble, he can’t wait to taste Ivan’s cooking, etc. Jake doesn’t bother explaining that he’s not really awake now.
The moment he leaves, Elliot drops his kiss-ass smile and resumes pacing from window to window, waving his cellphone around like a zoo lion with a social media addiction.
Jake plucks a strawberry from the tray, shoves it in his mouth, and says, “I bet your new friends will drive you to an internet cafe if you ask real nice.”
Elliot glares.
“Just trying to lighten the mood.”
Jake nudges Ash’s bony shoulder, but there’s no camaraderie to be found in his vacant expression. His eyes are slits of darkness. His skin is clammy, hands cold. “Jesus, Ash, just. Here, sit up.” He props Ash’s uncooperative body against the pillows and presses a chunk of fig to his lips. Ash shakes his head.
“Opiates slow digestion,” Elliot says, momentarily lowering his phone. “Let him rest.”
“You should rest. Who are you trying to call?”
“Latzke. I just need to know—”
“You already have the gig, dude.” Jake swings his legs off the bed. “Seriously, relax for a second.”
To his amazement, Elliot sits on the rug and tucks his phone into his pocket. He seems smaller now that Jake’s seen him naked.
“Thank you,” Jake says. “You don’t need to freak out. We’re here. You can’t change that.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“Good. ‘Cause you don’t need to.”
“I just…” Elliot glances to the bay window. Nothing’s visible save the tips of untrimmed branches whispering against the glass. “When I was a kid on the first day of school, I’d show up early and go to all my classrooms, map out all the exits in the building.”
“I always got lost on my first day.” He crushes a strawberry between his molars. “Still passed. Who cares?”
“I care. You can’t coast by on luck, Jake. Nobody’s looking out for you.”
“I mean,” his mouth twists into something uncomfortable, halfway between a smile and grimace. “We’ve got each other.”
Elliot lies back on the rug and groans.
“Seriously, we’re all in the same boat.”
“And if the boat sinks?” He twists his head to the side. “We need a plan, Jake.”
Tell him! Tell him!
“We’ve got a plan,” Jake says. Ash slumps a little further onto his shoulder, and Jake surreptitiously checks his pulse. Still beating. “All this weird shit, none of it’s an accident.”
Elliot rolls over and draws his knees up to his chest.
“I mean it. You know what you said about coincidences? How some of them are just too goddamn convenient? That’s my life, every day, and it’s been happening more and more since all this started. And there are these—I don’t know what they are, entities or angels or demons, but I’ve been having these, like, religious experiences and…” He glances to Elliot.
This is the part where people tune him out, roll their eyes, and have a sudden family emergency—but Elliot’s listening.
“They told me to bring the gun,” he says.
Elliot bites his lip.
“It wasn’t my idea, but it worked, right? It’s like…” He takes a deep breath. “Before I met Ash, I was killing other stuff. It started with feeder mice but I moved up from there. And it’s not like I was crazy, you have to understand. They showed up when—”
Ivan raps on the door. “Dinner will be ready momentarily,” he says. “Are you decent?”
Elliot scrambles to his feet. “Just a minute!”
“Of course. I’ll see you shortly.”
His padding footsteps trail down the hall. Elliot turns to Jake and says, “What were you—”
“Later,” Jake snaps. “I’m hungry.”
He isn’t. He shouldn’t have opened his stupid mouth, and now his appetite has deserted him.
He’s picking apart putrid roadkill, opening a plastic storage bin and turning away from the hot, billowing stench of maceration. He’s wrist deep in his own mistake. Cats are heavier than they look, but that isn’t obvious until they stop moving.
Chapter 28
They spend half an hour waiting around in the parlor, drinking and discussing only the lightest of topics: cooking, German architecture, the history of the house. This is how adults socialize when they have nothing in common. Elliot has observed his peers long enough to understand the game.
Ivan phones Latzke only once, receives no answer, and moves them to the dining room for aperitifs. He’s running out of conversations to carry alone, and soon, the rest of them will have to contribute with or without Latzke. He’ll be here any minute now, Ivan assures them, and the silence draws thin across the table.
“My father’s into wine,” Jake says, apropos of nothing. He sits wide and uses the wrong forks for things, and though he’s downed half a bottle of chardonnay already, Elliot can’t tell if he’s drunk. He never acts sober. He makes jittery, half-aborted hand gestures as he tries to describe a bottle he received as a graduation present.
Ash hasn’t touched his glass, which is good—mixing opiates and alcohol present
s a serious risk of respiratory depression—but he hasn’t said a word, either, and he’s drifting slowly toward his plate.
Ivan leans forward with his hands clasped in his lap, and when Jake stops to breathe, he says, “Was it…Veuve Clicquot, perhaps?”
“That’s the one!”
“Your father has good taste,” he says, and Jake beams as though the compliment was directed at him.
Ivan surveys the table—a habitual flick of his head, a courtesy to ensure his guests are all happy and engaged. Ash is less engaged with every pass, and this time, Ivan catches him. “Excuse me.” A brush of fingertips across his forearm. “Are you alright?”
“It’s jet lag,” Jake says. “He couldn’t sleep on the plane.”
Ash mutters a vague agreement.
“Of course.” Ivan raises his glass. It isn’t a toast, but rather a calculated gesture of camaraderie, understanding, or something of the sort. His every motion is infused with a subtle grandeur which Elliot could never hope to mimic. Most men slouch, shuffle, cough and sniffle; they say whatever comes to mind. Not Ivan. He’s the sort of man who exists mainly in advertisements for cars and cologne.
He says, “This is a strange situation we’ve found ourselves in, isn’t it?” A sip. He blots the corner of his mouth on the silk napkin. “To tell you the truth, boys, we were only prepared to meet one candidate tonight.”
Elliot’s chest clenches. Jake and Ash exchange a pained look.
“Not to worry. There’s plenty of work to go around, of course—I’m merely reluctant to begin the interview without Herr Latzke. Valencia seems to think we’ll be able to mentor all of you, but I’d like to confirm that with Stefan.”
“Mentor us in what?” Jake asks.
“Human Resources,” Ivan says, at the same time Chris says, “Logistics.”
Ivan laughs. “Bits and pieces of each. The organization has dynamic needs, hence the demand for generalists.”
“But you’re a doctor,” Elliot says. “Right? It’s Doctor Skinner?”
“A surgeon, yes. Semi-retired.”
His breath catches in his chest. “Because I’m hoping, I mean—I was in my third year of medical school. I just finished my surgical rotations.”
“Is that so?”
“I did some operations for Latzke. He said he’d hire me as his personal assistant, but he might have meant—”
“So sorry I’m late.”
All eyes turn to the door, where Latzke is struggling to unbutton his peacoat. His platinum hair is wind-swept and his cheeks are pink from cold, exertion, or both. His phone flashes through the thin material of his suit pants.
“No need to apologize,” Ivan says. “You manage a complicated enterprise. Things are bound to go wrong on your first try.”
Latzke takes the empty seat next to Elliot and gives him a small nod of acknowledgement. Ivan must notice, because he chuckles to himself. He clips the sound short before it can become too sincere. “In any case, we were about to begin the interview,” he says.
“Interview?”
“Yes, for the apprenticeship positions. We’d like to determine which of your recruits to accommodate.”
“I see,” Latzke says. His posture is stiff, shoulders thrown back, chin raised. “There has been a misunderstanding. I will mentor Elliot. I would have taken him before orientation if we were not having the schedule concerns.”
“Hm…do you have time for him, I wonder?”
“Yes,” Latzke says.
Ivan nods graciously and rises to retrieve the main course.
When Elliot’s classmates drink, it’s to blow off steam and fuck each other, but these men are playing a different game entirely. It’s far too early to involve himself in politics.
“I’m happy to work with either of you,” he says.
Latzke’s eyes are cold. “You will work with me.”
“I don’t mind,” Christopher says. “I’ve already decided. We want Ash.”
“Want Ash for what?” Jake asks.
“That was my intention,” Latzke says, as though he didn’t hear. “I requested him because—”
Ivan sets a vat of mussels on the hotplate in the center of the table and says, “I’d much rather hear it from him, Stefan.” He lays a hand on Ash’s shoulder, ignoring Latzke’s irritated sigh. “Please, tell us about your skills.”
Their forks click against the china. Ash blinks several times and takes a sip of wine.
“Uh, do you need a chaplain?” Jake asks, twisting his napkin under the table. “He’d be great at that. He basically has the Bible memorized.”
“Perfect,” Ivan says. “A chaplain he shall be. As for Elliot—”
“Not an option.”
“I understand your reluctance, Stefan, but it’s simply good business. Wouldn’t your father be proud to hear that you’ve doubled your prospective return on investment?”
“Christopher has already chosen.”
Ivan shoots him an incredulous glance. “Have you, now?”
“No,” Chris says, ducking his head. “I mean, sort of. Ash has the right…presence.”
“I see,” Ivan says, and he tips his glass toward Ash, who is not present. “But there are two of us. While you mentor him, I could further Elliot’s medical education—and with all due respect, Stefan, how do you expect him to hold his post without continued instruction?”
Elliot follows the conversation with rapt attention, choking down a ridiculous grin. His classmates won’t be headhunted for another ten years, but here he is, the prize in a game of wits and influence. His hard work is paying off sooner than expected.
“Er ist mein,” Latzke says, lips tight. He glances around the table, lingering on Elliot’s face for a split second too long, before turning back to Ivan. “What of their guest? Jacob?”
“I have a degree in accounting,” Jake all but shouts. “I mean. I’m good with money. And like he said, I supplied basically three campuses with study drugs. I had, like, forty or fifty guys working for me and pulled at least…fifteen grand a month?”
Latzke and Ivan make eye contact. Jake looks to Elliot, who adds, “I can vouch for that.”
“We do not need to expand our narcotics operation.”
Ivan grins. “What’s one more, darling? He’s certainly qualified.” Beside him, Christopher stiffens like he’s been flash-frozen.
A dinner like this should be accompanied by soft piano or a string quartet, but the only sounds are the clicking utensils, chair legs scuffing against wood. Chewing. Once Elliot notices, he can’t ignore it. The conversational lulls asphyxiate all involved.
Latzke says, “He could be of use to you, Ivan.”
“I’d, uh, if it matters—” Jake’s face has turned white “—I mean if it could go either way, I’d rather go wherever Ash is going.”
A harsh buzz splits the air. Latzke jolts in his seat. He whips his phone out, sighs.
“Let’s wrap this up,” Ivan says. “You’re clearly needed.”
“I would like to reach an agreement first.”
“So allow me to be frank.” Ivan motions for the wine, which Elliot passes across the table. He pours carefully as he speaks. “We both know that your father has a long track record of favoritism. When we meet, he will offer me your job. I’ve yet to decide whether or not I’ll accept.”
Latzke’s eyes drift shut, delicate blond lashes brushing his cheekbones.
“Be practical, Stefan.”
He shoves his chair out from the table, jaw thrust forward, knuckles white. “Scheiße, take them all,” he says. “I don’t have time for this.”
“My point exactly.” Ivan raises his glass for a toast, but Latzke is already pulling on his coat. “It’s been a pleasure.”
He slams the door.
They pick at their food in the tremulous quiet. Though Jake is the only one who’s made a dent in his entrée, Ivan fetches dessert. He has a keen understanding of social protocol—a small comfort.
�
�I’m sorry you had to hear all that,” Christopher mutters, brushing his fine hair out of his face. “He can be intense.”
Before they can comment, Ivan returns with a platter of perfectly whipped meringues drizzled with chocolate. “Stone ground cacao and chili, from Mexico,” he says. “Watch for the kick.”
When they’ve taken their portions, one mound of swirled meringue remains. Ash is slumped in his seat, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes. His wine glass is empty.
Jake takes the extra meringue and bites it in half. “So,” he says, “what kind of drugs do you sell?”
“We aren’t involved in that,” Christopher says. “Probably everything.”
“Everything.” He nods a few times, crunching. “That’s cool. You guys ever heard of DiPT?”
Ivan cocks his head. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Oh, man. You know how tryptamines make you see things?” A grin splits his mouth wide. “DiPT only makes you hear things, like, auditory hallucinations. Or it distorts everything so like you’re underwater.”
“Fascinating,” Ivan says. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of the brain’s incredible complexity. The more I learn, the more it astonishes me.”
“Wish I’d made it to my psych rotations,” Elliot says.
“It’s no great loss. I found the lack of responsibility stifling.”
He nods his assent.
“In my attending’s defense, psychiatry isn’t as hands-on as it once was. There are few procedures in which an aspiring physician can assist. Instead, we medicate.”
“We pathologize,” Elliot adds.
“Exactly. Even homosexuality was once considered a disease. Some communities still view it as such.” He glances among them. “A tragedy, don’t you think?”
Ash’s hand shoots across the table and toward the wine bottle. The lit candelabra teeters, and for a moment, nobody breathes.
It rights itself. Ash pours wine.
“Aston, is everything alright?”
“It is a disease,” he mutters, pouring and pouring. “It’s contagious. You have to cut it off.”
“Easy,” Jake says. “He doesn’t mean—”
Ivan raises a hand to silence him. “Contagious?”