Damage Control

by Lynn VanDorn

  Tyler snorted. Yeah, a dermatologist. Also, a little intoxicated? Ha. “I can. Do it. Myself,” he said. It was a struggle to talk with chattering teeth and lungs that felt like they were filled with wet cement.

  “How? You've only got one working arm.”

  Tyler frowned down at his cut arm, swathed tightly in a t-shirt with a growing bloodstain. He wiggled his fingers and was grateful they all seemed in working order. Even so, it hurt. He supposed that feeling pain was a good sign.

  “How about this? I’ll turn my back. Get undressed and try to dry off. If you need help, just say something.”

  “Just do. My shoes. I think I'm good. Otherwise.”

  Josh knelt by his feet. He untied Tyler’s drenched shoes, then pulled them off along with his sodden socks. He looked up at Tyler through his spiky eyelashes. “You sure you don't need help?”

  Is Josh fucking Rosen flirting with me, or am I hallucinating? Of the two, hallucinations seemed more plausible. Maybe hallucinations were a symptom of shock. “I'm good.”

  “Okay, no problem. Yell if you need me.” Josh stood up and turned his back to Tyler.

  While it was difficult to do mostly one-handed and while shivering, Tyler managed to shimmy out of his soaked jeans and underwear. He let them fall with a wet plop onto the tile floor. The shirt was a little harder but he managed it, letting that fall on the floor, too. He grabbed a towel and started drying off.

  “Still doing okay?”

  “Fine. Still cold. Better, though.” He took another towel and wrapped it around his waist, then pulled a cotton blanket around himself. “Okay. You can turn around now.”

  Josh turned around and a loopy grin spread across his face. “Your color already looks better and you're starting to lose that frozen popsicle look.” Josh toweled Tyler’s hair until it was only damp, then tucked a comforter around him. “So. First aid kit? Where should I look?”

  “There’s a couple of gauze pads. And tape. On the counter. For… you know. But my brother’s a doctor. Pretty sure he's got more stuff in his room, maybe. Second door on the left.”

  Josh paused. “Your brother’s a doctor. Of course! Damn, I'm so stupid. I mean, it's been a weird night, but I still should have realized it was you, even with the hair. I thought you were some sort of squatter or something and that's why you didn't want me to call 911.”

  Maybe it was the blood loss, but Tyler had a hard time following that. He focused on the most cogent point. “A squatter?” He could feel his hair standing up in damp clumps on his head and tried to finger comb it into submission.

  “I'm sorry, it was a stupid mistake, but you look…” Josh paused, clearly trying for a diplomatic answer, “not like yourself. But, wow! You're little Tyler, all grown up, aren't you? I didn't recognize you with the blue hair. It's definitely different. Is it for a role?”

  “Yeah, it's from my last movie. I was an elf. I'll have the blue bits cut off before the wedding. Promised Brad. Is it too Cookie Monster, you think?” Little Tyler. Right. Story of his life.

  “Wrong shade for Cookie Monster. He's sort of your basic blue. Your hair is all Caribbean ocean. I think it's appropriately aquatic, Captain Negativity. So. Do you remember me? I haven't seen you in a long time.”

  All Caribbean ocean. Oh, my. That was… well, something. From anyone else that would for sure be flirting, but this was Josh Rosen, his brother’s lovesick former shadow. Flirting was extremely unlikely, seeing as he was still pining for Ryan, at least according to Brad. And even if Josh was flirting with him, hooking up with him would be a terrible idea. Although… No. Terrible idea. Period. Josh belonged to Ryan, whether Ryan wanted him or not. That's just how things were and had always been.

  His mind went back to one summer seventeen years ago. He'd been outside playing, pretending his G. I. Joes were hunting through the jungle rather than just overgrown grass. He'd been behind one of the large maple trees and out of sight of the house. He was Lying Low, because Dad was up for the weekend and it was best to be neither seen nor heard when he was around.

  Ryan and Josh came flying out of the house, laughing. They were talking, but Tyler couldn't hear what they were saying. Then they ducked into the boathouse.

  Tyler got up and followed them. If they were going to take the boat out, he wanted to go, too. Ryan had promised he'd get to go the next time they went out.

  He pushed the door open and almost said something, but didn't. Instead of getting the boat ready to take out, his brother leaned against the wall, his friend kneeling between Ryan’s spread legs. His hand pulled the waistband of Ryan's swim trunks down.

  Tyler must have made some sound because Ryan's head turned his way. “Tyler! What do you want?” He pulled up his trunks and jumped away from Josh, who stood up and hovered behind him.

  “You promised you'd take me out on the boat.”

  “Yeah, right, I did. Okay, let's go.”

  Josh bit his lip. “Is he… going to tell?”

  “Tyler won't tell Dad anything, will you, Ty?”

  Tyler huffed in offended disgust. As if.

  “Seriously, you can’t tell anyone. Promise me. If you want me taking you out on this boat ever again, you can't say anything. Not. One. Word.”

  Tyler rolled his eyes. Who was he going to tell? Mom knew but pretended she didn't. Brad knew, too. The only one who didn't know was Dad, and Tyler of all people wasn't going to be the one who snitched to him. Ryan was being dumb.

  He mimed zipping his lip anyway because he really wanted to go out on the boat.

  “Okay, good. Go grab your life jacket.”

  It wasn't until years later that Tyler understood what had been going on in the boathouse. The memory was tainted with seeing his brother's dick—seriously gross—but he'd be a liar if he said he'd never had fantasies involving boathouses, only instead of Ryan leaning against the wall with Josh on his knees it had been him looking down into Josh’s eager eyes.

  Tyler looked up, met the dark eyes he'd seen in his youthful fantasies, and tried not to think about boathouse blow jobs. “Dr. Josh Rosen, I presume,” he said with a small smile.

  “Yeah,” Josh said. “At your service. Why don’t I go and see what I can find?”

  Tyler nodded and watched him walk back down the hall. Things weren't going the way they were supposed to. First, he’d promised not to cut himself. Then he’d promised himself that it would be just a tiny one, in an inconspicuous spot, and he'd do it on the dock, so he wouldn't make a mess. It had seemed like a good plan. Now everything was fucked all to hell and back.

  Captain Negativity. Ha! He was really Captain Cautiously Optimistic Because This Time Might Be Different. Or perhaps Lieutenant No, Wait, I Can Fix This. Only those weren't particularly catchy. Maybe Corporal Let's See How I Can Fuck Things Up This Time.

  Tyler was still trying to come up with a more appropriate title than Captain Negativity when Josh walked back into the kitchen, humming. He had changed into a dry pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Brad’s, probably, based on the Cubs’ logo. “Here,” he said, and thrust a pile of clothing at Tyler. It looked like similar sweats and a t-shirt, with a pair of thick socks on top. “I'll even turn my back while you get in them.” Then he put two tablets on the table. “Found some Tylenol, too. It's not much, but it'll be better than nothing for the pain. I couldn't find any first-aid supplies, though.”

  “Thanks. You've been great.” Tyler was loath to drop the warm blankets wrapped around him, but couldn't figure out how to get dressed any other way. At least the clothes were relatively easy to put on, even with only one good arm.

  “It's all part of the service we provide here, sir,” Josh said, walking to the sink and filling a glass with water. He dropped his voice into a loud whisper. “I'm angling for a big tip.”

  Wait. Was that a double entendre? Hell, in anyone else that might have been a single entendre. But, no. This was Josh, and he was making a very slight joke to lighten the mood, that was all. Which, honestly, was almost
worse than flirting.

  Tyler had packed away his crush on Josh years ago, relegating him into Ryan’s faithful shadow, Brad’s fastidious roommate, and Rachel’s fussy brother. Josh had a permanent stick up his ass and loved a man who would never love him back. He was sad and pathetic, like that weird bachelor uncle everyone avoids at family reunions. Tyler had forgotten Josh was also kind of funny and charming, in a daffy way, not to mention hot. Way fucking hotter than he had any right to be.

  Tyler felt unreasonably irritated that no one prepared him for this version of Josh. “You can turn around now.” He sounded sulky even to his own ears and tried to temper his tone. “I can't do the socks one-handed, though, and I need you to tie the drawstring on the sweats.”

  Josh walked back with the glass of water in his hand. He put it on the table next to the tablets, then pulled the ties at the waist of the pants. “You can let go,” he said. “I’ve got this.” Then he cinched them as tight as they would go and tied the cord into a neat bow. That done, he knelt at Tyler’s feet again. “You can take the pain pills while I put on your socks.”

  Tyler didn't want to take the medication. The pain in his arm wasn't ideal, but somehow it felt deserved. Left to his own devices he wouldn't have bothered, but fighting Josh on this didn't seem worth the effort. He swallowed the pills, then drank the entire glass of water. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. It tasted fantastic.

  Meanwhile, Josh took his feet, rubbed them briskly, then encased each one in a sock. That shouldn't have been sexy but it kind of was. Josh had great hands. He picked the comforter off the floor, then stood and pulled it around Tyler’s shoulders.

  “Okay. Let's take a look at that arm, shall we?”

  Chapter 4

  Josh Gets a Tad Hysterical

  Friday, September 16th, 7:18 p.m.

  The Chadwicks’ lake house

  Blue Lake, WI

  “Okay, let's take a look that arm, shall we?”

  Josh didn't notice the marks at first; he was too busy studying the crooked slice running from the bend of Tyler’s elbow down his forearm to register the neat horizontal scars, and, thanks to the whiskey, he was having a hard time focusing on anything for more than a few seconds. He did his best to concentrate, though, because this was important. The bleeding had mostly stopped, which was a relief. Then, just as changing your eyes’ focus turns a duck into a rabbit or two faces into a vase, the lines pushed past the fresh wound and were the only thing Josh could see.

  “We need to get this cleaned up,” Josh said, tearing his gaze away from the scars. He looked at Tyler’s eyes. They were an unusual non-color that was blue and green and gray all at once. Perhaps under other circumstances they would be nice eyes, but right now they were just glassy and unfocused, reflecting back at him like still water. “Tyler?”

  The eyes blinked at him. “Yeah?”

  “We need to get this cleaned up,” he repeated. “I can either scrub it with soap and water or I can hold your arm under running water for several minutes. Your choice. The running water will hurt less, but you'll have to stand by the sink. You up for that?”

  “I'll take the sink option. I can stand. I cut my arm, not my ankle,” Tyler groused, then he started hacking up a lung. He stood up, still coughing, and staggered to the sink. He gripped the edge with his good hand bent over it. His coughing turned into gagging, then he vomited into the sink.

  Josh really wanted to get him to an ER, promise or not. The kid was a mess, and there were those lines. Too many to be mere accidents, and he hadn't even seen the other arm closely.

  This wasn't the first time Josh had seen lines like those. He was a dermatologist working in a practice whose patients mostly lived in the affluent North Shore. Yes, he had his psoriasis and eczema and melanoma cases, but his bread-and-butter patients were the acne-prone teens brought to him by parents who demanded nothing short of perfection in everything from their macchiatos to the smoothness of their children's skin. It wasn't common, but he knew exactly what those lines were. However, right now they didn't matter, except to explain how Tyler had managed to cut himself while sitting on the dock. Josh could worry about the lines later. Or never. It wasn't any of his business.

  Tyler filled a glass sitting by the sink with tap water and drank it down. He coughed a few more times, but seemed better. “Okay, Dr. Rosen,” he said. “Let's do this thing.”

  Josh turned the faucet on and ran it until the water was blood-warm, then placed Tyler’s wounded arm under the stream. “Don't move until I tell you. I'm timing you. Where’s the phone?”

  Tyler gestured with his head. “Right next to the fridge.”

  It was cordless. Thank heaven for small favors. Josh took the phone and walked into the living room where he could keep an eye on his patient while still being far enough to talk without being overheard. The running water would help, too.

  Josh wanted, if he was being honest, to call up Ryan and yell at him, which was beyond pointless. Ryan was Tyler’s brother, not his keeper. Slight as he was, Tyler was a big boy. But some of those marks were very faint and thus quite old. He wondered how long ago that had started and why no one had thought to warn him.

  Why would anyone warn me? It's none of my business. Okay, good point. Besides, he couldn't call Ryan because, like most people, Josh had only a handful of phone numbers memorized: his own cell, work, his parents, and his sister.

  Brad it was, then, and just as well. Yelling at Ryan would be temporarily satisfying but ultimately unhelpful. Brad was the one he needed.

  It took several rings, but Rachel eventually picked up. “Hello? Fair warning, if you're trying to sell me something I'm just going to hang up.”

  “Rachel, it's Josh. Are you with Brad? I need to talk to him.”

  “Josh, what's up? Why aren’t you calling me from your cell?”

  “Long story. Can you get Brad?”

  “Sure,” she said. “He's right here.”

  A few seconds went by, then Brad’s voice was in his ear. “What’s up, sweet cheeks?”

  Josh clenched his teeth. Right after Rachel, Brad was his best friend, but he still managed to grate on Josh’s nerves on a regular basis. Josh loathed that ancient nickname, and Brad knew it, which was why he called him that whenever he felt he could get away with it.

  Josh bit back a caustic remark. He wanted to yell at someone in the worst way, and Brad was a convenient target, but now was not the time. He squinted at the clock. Only a minute and a half had gone by. For some reason, it seemed longer. Tyler must have been thinking the same thing because he called out, “Am I done yet?”

  “No. Stay put until I tell you.”

  Over the phone line Brad said, “Josh, why are you calling from our lake house’s phone, and why does it sound like you’re not alone?” Even over the phone, Josh knew that asshole was waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

  For a few seconds he considered saying, “I've shacked up with your baby brother,” just to get the inevitable reaction, but the situation wasn't funny. The problem was that the sobering effect of the cold lake water was wearing off but the whiskey remained in his bloodstream. Josh reminded himself he was a responsible adult.

  “I'm calling from your lake house because there’s been an accident. Tyler cut his arm and it's pretty bad.”

  There was no immediate reply from the other end.

  “Brad? You still there?”

  “Yeah,” he said. All humor was gone from his tone. “How bad is pretty bad?”

  “There’s a fairly long gash on his forearm. It was my fault, though.”

  Brad barked out an unamused laugh. “Did you stab him?”

  “What? No. What the fuck, Brad?”

  “Didn't think so. Did you put a fucking razor in his hand and tell him to carve a new line?”

  Josh flinched at Brad’s tone. “No, but I did startle him. He was on the dock. I saw him there and didn't know who it was and shouted…”

  “This isn't your fault, Josh
. Not even fucking close. Does it need stitches?”

  “Probably. Yes. Um. He kind of passed out for a second. Most likely shock, or maybe because I startled the hell out of him. Anyway, he fell off the dock and into the lake.”

  Brad started to swear. Josh let him run his course, then continued. “I got him out, but he inhaled a ton of water and he's coughing a lot. I got the bleeding mostly stopped and warmed him up. The house is currently like a fucking sauna but he's still shivering, which worries me. I have him holding his arm under the tap right now to clean it. He won't let me call 911, and I can't drive him to the hospital because when I jumped in the lake to rescue him, I lost my glasses, along with my phone. I just got that phone, too. Anyway, I need help and there’s nothing here. No antibiotics, no saline, and I can't even drive to a fucking pharmacy because, newsflash, not only am I blind but I've drunk way too much shitty whiskey and I'm kind of drunk.”

  “Only kind of?” Brad asked.

  “Shut up, I'm not done. Meanwhile, I mention 911 and your brother freaks out.” Josh paused, realized he was getting hysterical, and tried to collect himself. “Even if I could see well enough to drive him to the hospital and wasn't risking a DUI to do it, I don't know how I could get him to go, other than knocking him unconscious and stowing him in my trunk, which would probably raise a few eyebrows. I need your help.”

  “Okay, Josh, you need to calm down.”

  “I am calm!”

  “No, you're not,” said Tyler and Brad in unison. It was eerie.