by Lisa Gray
“Get out of my church, and don’t come back. You can collect the rest of your belongings at the police station tomorrow. If I see you again, I’ll amend the report to include your assault on poor Rick.”
Keir quashed the urge to protest about just who the assault victim was here. He couldn’t risk provoking these maniacs. Muscles tensed, he prayed the reverend wouldn’t change his mind.
Long moments later, the order to release him came. “Rick, escort our guest to the side door, and lock up behind him. There’s a heck of a storm kicking up out there.”
Keir sucked in a ragged breath, trying desperately to hold himself together and not break down in front of these terrible people. He kept reminding himself he was getting out of there alive. Nothing else mattered—not the “heck of a storm,” not the terrifying prospect of finding his way home, alone and blind. Nothing. He didn’t dare ask for his phone to call a cab or his wallet to pay for it. He was on his own, and that was a scary place to be.
Rick grabbed Keir’s arm and marched him out of the classroom and up the stairs. Keir hated feeling grateful for the bruising grip, but the hallway and stairs were nothing but a darkened haze. Without the man’s escort, he’d be helpless. When they got to the door, Rick opened it and, without uttering a word, shoved Keir into the rain.
Keir stumbled off the step and gasped as he careened to his knees, hands stretched out to break his fall. The sting on his palms told him he’d landed on some kind of a cobblestone path. Ignoring the burning of scraped skin and the pounding of the icy downpour on his bare back, he tensed, ears straining to hear above the wind. Now that the pit bull Rick was out of sight of his master, would he inflict revenge for the bloody nose?
The door slammed shut, and the light above it winked out.
Thank God. He’d been spared again.
Keir stayed on his hands and knees, head bowed, struggling to breathe under the wind-driven curtain of rain. After a minute, his eyes adjusted to the dark, not that it helped much. But when he looked around, he realized the glow of the streetlamps must lead to the road. His heartbeat quickened. That was his way home! All he had to do was follow the lights.
After a couple tries, he managed to get to his feet, his balance shaken by the blustering wind and the inability to focus. His bare feet sought the cobblestones—the edges were hard and sharp, but the path must lead to the sidewalk. A few minutes later, the texture changed from rough stone to level concrete. He’d made it off the church property. He was on his way.
Moving slowly, arms outstretched to protect against obstacles, he took small steps, one after the after. Shivering from fear and cold, he shuffled toward the first light. At last, his fingers hit metal, and in relief, he hugged the icy lamppost, hanging on tight, reluctant to abandon this tiny island of security.
Okay. This would work. Just three blocks to go.
He made his way down the street, one lamppost at a time, to the first turn. Thinking for a moment he was getting the hang of it, he took a bold step forward, and smacked face first into curved metal. He howled his pain and frustration at the top of his lungs. Who would hear him over the wind or care if they did? Raising his hands over his head, he felt the bottom of a flat surface. A stop sign? He hissed as he rubbed his forehead and felt the warmth of blood swept away by the rainwater.
Shaken by the collision, he slowed his movements, feeling his way with fingers and toes as he inched forward to the next light. And the next. He focused all his concentration on the streetlamps, fixing each one in his mind as a buoy in this sea of lashing wind and rain and danger.
Then the lightning started.
Stark angry slashes crackled across the sky in brilliant white, spearing his already strained eyes. The shattering blasts of thunder had him cowering, hands over his ears while the storm shrieked around him.
He coaxed himself to go forward, one more street, then home. He yelled at himself to move, to reach the next light. He waded across the last intersection, icy waters rushing around his ankles. It took so long to cross—had he wandered off course? Relief flooded him as he tripped over the curb on what he was certain was his own street. His hands and feet were numb, too cold to feel the concrete sidewalk. Looking up, he could make out the long string of streetlamps, glowing guideposts that would lead him to his condo.
He sobbed in relief and staggered, getting to his feet again. He’d fixed his gaze on the first light in the row when, behind him, a sizzling, popping noise rose over the thrashing of the wind. He swung around in time to hear a whoosh and see a searing blue blaze explode from the last street he’d navigated. The harsh stench of ozone and burning wires filled his nose, and the lampposts all disappeared into the inky black of the night.
Oh, God.
Desperately hoping to see the lights of home, he whirled around too fast, lurching drunkenly across the sidewalk, and spun back into the flooded street. Disoriented, he looked in all directions, frantic for a landmark, a spark, something.
He stood alone in seamless dark.
A low helpless keening welled unchecked from deep inside him.
Lightning forked across the sky, the flash illuminating the street.
His heartbeat quickened. Was that…? Oh, thank God, it was! Riley’s chartreuse door flared like a beacon in the distance. Without thinking, he dragged one foot in the direction of the bright afterimage.
There! Another strike!
Praying the storm would last long enough to get him to safety, he shuffled forward, eyes stretched wide, searching for the next flash.
His knees trembled, he felt dizzy, his tears mixed with the water streaming down his face. But none of it mattered. He focused on that door leading to safety and warmth—and Riley. What were a few photos, some Internet searches? Meaningless trifles. The storm had scoured his priorities to the bone, leaving only the barest essentials.
By the time he reached the front walk, his legs refused to hold him up anymore. He crawled the rest of the way onto the porch and beat as hard as he could on the door. Grasping the handle with frozen fingers, he managed one last burst of energy, enough to pull himself to his feet. He replayed in his mind the last time he’d stood before this door, so hopeful but so cautious.
So foolish.
This time, he wouldn’t run away.
Chapter 12
Riley heard the faint knocking only because he happened to be crossing the dark hall on his way to the living room. The screech of the wind and the constant hammering of the rain blocked just about all other sounds. Wondering what idiot was out in this monsoon, he set the lighted candle out of range of the wind and opened the door.
He peered into the night. Whoever was out there was silent. The wind dipped, and a familiar voice whispered, “Riley?”
Keir!
Excitement spiraled through him, along with a mental warning to himself not to fuck this up. He grabbed the candle and lifted it high to shine on his visitor, preparing to welcome him in. What he saw looked very wrong.
Water ran in rivers off Keir’s hair, down his bare chest, to his bare feet. The man shivered, teeth chattering, and his lips appeared blue. He seemed to be held upright by sheer will, and before Riley could form words, that will crumbled. Riley dropped the candle into the rain and reached out too late to stop the man from collapsing into a heap on the darkened doorstep.
Shit.
His instinct was to scoop the prone man into his arms and bring him inside. But that bold overconfidence would no doubt leave them both splayed on the floor. Riley settled for getting a grip under Keir’s arms and hauling him over the threshold. Appalled at the feel of icy cold skin, Riley didn’t stop there. He dragged the man straight to the rug in front of the fireplace. With his leg complaining stridently at this rough treatment, he paused to catch his breath, then plucked the other candle from the mantle to examine his visitor.
A nasty reddened goose egg had risen on the man’s forehead. And those bare feet! Both soles had multiple cuts, some still oozing blood. What t
he hell could have driven his shy neighbor out into this bitch of a storm, half-naked and barefoot?
Cane in hand, he climbed the stairs as fast as he could and collected towels, blankets, pillows, sweats, a couple pairs of socks, and his trusty first aid kit that had so often been the only access to medical care in his more remote travels.
Back in the living room, he eased himself to the floor. Those cold, wet clothes had to come off now. His fingers hovered over the belt. What could go wrong? A headline flashed in his head—
Stalker Photographer Found Stripping Unconscious Victim For Naked Pictures
He steeled himself to just do it quick. He flicked open the belt, popped the button, and lowered the zipper. So far, so good. It wasn’t until he tried tugging the sodden jeans off the man that Keir woke up and reacted. Badly.
Keir shot upright. “No! Get away from me!” The man’s arms flailed in all directions, not really aiming at Riley.
Oh. No glasses.
That’s what had looked so odd, even beyond the rain-drenched desperation in the man’s face. Riley abandoned his tug-of-war with the stubborn jeans and tried to sound reassuring. “Hey, it’s me. You’re safe. I was just trying to get you out of these wet clothes.” To back up his words, he thrust the sweatshirt and sweatpants into Keir’s arms. “These are going to be miles too big, but they’re dry.”
It worked.
“Riley? Oh, thank God.” Keir seemed to calm as he hunched his shoulders and hugged the sweats close to him.
Next, Riley offered the towel by draping it over the man’s neck. “You should dry off, at least your hair, before you get dressed.”
Keir didn’t respond.
It looked like his exhausted guest was pretty much done in. No way was the man capable of fighting his way out of the wet jeans. “You want help?”
“Okay.” The breathy word barely registered.
Riley made quick work of undressing him and drying him off, all the while babbling whatever popped into his head. It didn’t matter what he said—he just assumed a soothing tone was more important. Once Keir was redressed in the warm sweats, Riley went to work on those nasty cuts. They didn’t look bad enough for stitches, so some hydrogen peroxide, a little antibiotic ointment, and a handful of bandages should do it. When he was done, he pulled the thick socks over the man’s feet and stood, pleased with his success.
“How about I move the recliner closer to the fire so you can be off the floor?”
Taking silence as agreement, he dragged the chair nearer to the hearth.
“Give me your hands.”
Keir obeyed, and Riley hauled him into the recliner. While covering him with a blanket, Riley realized his patient still shivered. Blankets wouldn’t be enough—the man needed more. Shit. No doubt this was a bad idea, but it had to be done.
“I think you need body heat, so I’m getting in there with you. Don’t be afraid. I just want to get you warm.” Keir issued no protest, so Riley took off his sweatshirt and shoes and climbed onto the chair. He gently wrapped his arms around Keir and stifled his surprised laughter as his shy neighbor turned into a heat-seeking missile aimed straight at Riley’s bare chest. Damn, the man was cold!
He tucked the blanket around the two of them and raised the footstool on the recliner. Easing back, he planned to wait a little while for Keir to warm up. Then maybe some soup? He had some canned chicken noodle that might be acceptable. But for the moment, he settled into the comfort of the chair and the sweet contentment of holding the soft-hearted man who, for no good reason, had forgiven him yet again.
Once Keir’s shivering finally stopped, Keir fell asleep, softly snoring.
For Riley, the rhythmic sound and the coziness of a man cradled in his arms banished all thoughts of getting up.
Chicken soup be damned.
Riley closed his eyes and slept.
Chapter 13
Riley woke to an eerie silence in the pale, pre-dawn light. No thunder, no rattling windows. The storm had passed. Good news, but something still seemed off. He tried to roll over, and his brain kicked in enough to remind him he wasn’t alone in the chair.
A wide grin blazed across his face. Keir was here, safely nestled in Riley’s arms, drooling down his chest. Just one more thing would make it perfect. He looked around and saw the digital clock flashing—the power was back on. Coffee!
He bent and dared place a kiss on Keir’s forehead. “Hey, are you awake?”
Muffled sounds vibrated against his neck, and an arm groped its way out from under the blanket and bopped him in the nose.
“Ouch! If you’re looking for your glasses, we haven’t recovered them yet.”
Keir’s head rose, and those wide, dark eyes blinked a few times. “Um, then you’re going to have to lead me to the bathroom.”
“No problem.” Riley slammed his mouth shut, mentally scolding himself for even considering making some suggestive smart-ass remark. Time to play it straight. So he settled for asking as a joke, “Promise me you’re not planning on shaving in there, won’t you?”
That at least garnered him a tiny chuckle. He disentangled them both from the blanket and helped Keir stand. “How are your feet?”
“They hurt, but not too bad.”
“Great.” He led Keir to the bathroom and set out a towel, toothpaste, and a spare toothbrush on the edge of the sink. “Yell when you’re ready.”
In the kitchen, he started the coffee and hunted for something vaguely breakfast-like to offer his guest. Yeah, it was going to be Pop-Tarts. As he watched them toast, he decided the kid-friendly treat went well with Keir’s appearance. The man looked adorable in sweats three sizes too big for him.
A minute later, Keir called out, and Riley collected his guest and led him to one of the kitchen chairs. Setting a mug of coffee within easy reach, he said, “I hope you take your coffee black.”
“That’s fine.”
“And for the main course, you have a choice—strawberry Pop-Tart or brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tart.”
That got almost a real live laugh. “Strawberry, please.”
Riley placed the pastry in front of Keir, poured his own coffee, and sat down. Despite his burning curiosity, he was determined to respect Keir’s personal boundaries. But if a guy spent the night in your arms, wearing your pants, it shouldn’t count as invasion of privacy to ask how he got there. “Believe me, I’m not prying, and I’m certainly not complaining. God knows I’m grateful you came to me. But I have to know—what the hell happened last night?” Riley focused on watching those full lips open and close a few times. He could tell the man was searching but not finding the right words.
After a few moments, Keir gave a rueful smile. “It was your door.”
“Huh?”
“The lightning lit it up like a flare. It was the only thing I could see.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Riley waited for the man to continue, but with nothing forthcoming, he offered a little nudge. “That still doesn’t explain what were you doing out in the storm.”
Using his fingernail, Keir started shaving strips off the edge of his Pop-Tart. After a long silence, he finally confessed in a voice filled with misery, “I was playing at being a hero.”
Riley wanted to hug him silly. “Tell me.”
Abandoning his mutilation of the Pop-Tart, Keir slumped in the chair. “One of my students, Ethan Bradford, is a shy, introverted kid. His parents are forcing him to go through conversion therapy at their church.”
No wonder Keir was upset. “So instead of a gay kid who’s happy, they want a gay kid all tied into knots. Assholes.”
“I’ve been trying—and failing—to find someone who can help him.” Keir’s fingers walked across the table in a cautious search for the coffee mug, then latched onto it. “I thought Ethan might be there last night, and for some foolish reason, I believed I could rescue him.” He took a sip and set down the mug. “I found out I was wrong.”
“What happened?” That protective urge wa
shed over him again. Whoever hurt Keir had better watch their ass.
“To tell you the truth, I can’t figure it out. They were waiting for me, expecting me to have a hidden camera or a microphone. But they didn’t know who I was. I’d lied about why I was there and even gave them a fake name.” He lowered his head, color staining those pale cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I used your name. It was the first thing that popped into my head when they asked.”
That explained things.
Keir raised his head. “They strip-searched me and seemed surprised not to find anything. I was terrified.” He exhaled hard. “Some hero, cowering on the floor, blubbering. But all they did was tell me I could retrieve my stuff at the police station today. When they threw me out into the storm, I was scared but so thankful to get away from them. It could have been way worse.”
Being dumped half blind and half naked with no way to summon help in the middle of a storm didn’t sound like something to be thankful for. Riley’s stomach tensed with anger and the need to pay back those pricks who’d hurt his Keir. “You don’t think it was dangerous to send you out without your glasses?”
“Oh. That’s true. But I don’t think they did that on purpose. My glasses got broken when I hit one of them in the nose.”
Riley’s eyes widened. Sweet, gentle Keir had sucker-punched one of his attackers? Feisty little shit, wasn’t he? “Sounds pretty heroic to me.”
“It does?” The question held a note of hopeful disbelief.
“Yeah, it does. Confronting—wait, how many were there?”
“Four.”
Riley stared at the man in amazement. “As I was saying, confronting four muggers sounds damned heroic.”
“Or damned stupid.” Keir shrugged, but he looked a bit pleased with himself.
“Maybe your hero personality just needs somebody to watch his back. You know, a sidekick.”
Keir faced him, and his voice lowered to little more than a whisper. “Are you volunteering?”
Oh, hell yes he was! “We’d make a good pair: I can be your eyes, and you can be my legs.” Keir rewarded him with the sweetest smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lifted the edge of the birthmark, changing its shape. Endlessly fascinating! Getting to know this man might just take a lifetime.