Niles lifted his head, finally fixing his gaze on Tim. “So, are you in this for the duration?”
Tim blinked. “You mean us?”
“Yeah, us. Because I gotta tell you, I really don’t want to fall any further if this is just—”
“Hey. Shh.” He pulled Niles to him and kissed him firmly before he could finish the thought, though the abrupt movement hurt. “I’m in, all right? I’m all in.”
Niles broke the next kiss to stare at him a moment longer, then nodded once and settled in beside Tim again. “Okay.”
Niles fell silent for so long, Tim might have thought he had fallen asleep if not for the fact that his breathing was still quick and irregular. Tim was happy to let him lie there, though he knew soon he would have to ring the nurse’s station for some more pain meds. For now, though, he was just grateful to have Niles beside him at all.
He didn’t want to burden Niles with the panic he had felt when Payne had called him and informed him that Niles had been attacked. To think that he’d just barely begun to make use of the second chance he had been given with Niles, only to lose him, was more than Tim wanted to consider. Ten years ago, he’d been stupid enough not to hang on when he had Niles in his arms like this. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
“I love you,” he whispered, kissing the top of Niles’s head again. Niles looked up at him, blinking in surprise. “I do. I did back then, and I still do. I never stopped. Never.”
The kiss Niles gave him now was slower and gentler. It was pure Niles, all the tender sweetness and innocent sincerity Tim had fallen for so long ago. It lingered until Niles shifted to try to press closer, and Tim couldn’t suppress a groan of discomfort.
“Shit, sorry!” Niles pulled back, reaching for the call button. “You need meds?”
Tim nodded, trying to catch his breath against the throbbing pain radiating through one side of his torso. He let Niles summon the nurse but grumbled when he rolled off the bed before she arrived. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I think I’m going to head home. I may call Patrick Rutledge along the way.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t stop thinking about what it must have been like for him, living in the same house with those guys. Then to have them attack him like that—”
Tim frowned. “Maybe you should steer clear of him awhile, at least until we’ve got answers to the rest of the questions, particularly about Fortesen’s death and how Patrick came to be kidnapped by his cousin.”
Niles clenched his jaw, stepping aside when the nurse knocked and bustled into the room. “I’m not going to argue with you about this, and I’m not going to abandon him. He needs someone to support him; he needs to know he’s not alone, that Mike and Charlie can’t hurt him anymore, that we’re there for him. He needs to feel safe.”
Tim groaned, even as he felt the meds the nurse pushed into his IV begin to work on his pain. Shit, that was the good stuff. “Fine, just—be careful, okay, baby?”
Niles looked like he was ready to argue again, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll do that.”
Despite the November drizzle, the Nob Hill shopping district along Northwest 23rd was bustling on this Sunday afternoon, offering Niles some distraction with its preholiday bustle. There was an energy in the renovated historical district that never failed to lift his spirits. It helped him draw a deep breath and pull out his cell phone to dial Patrick’s number.
He turned at the next intersection and continued uphill toward his house while it rang, hanging up with a disheartened sigh when it went to voice mail. He didn’t want to leave Patrick a message. He wanted to talk to him, make sure he was okay.
Perhaps he didn’t want to talk to Niles, though. Maybe Patrick blamed him for what had happened. He’d been so grateful for Niles’s little kindnesses, so bright-eyed and eager while he had worked. And look what it had gotten him.
Was his and Rosie’s crusade really worth it?
The ringing of his phone jerked him out of his morose musings, and he scrambled for it when he saw Patrick’s name on the caller ID.
“Mr. River?” There was a tremor in Patrick’s voice, and Niles felt the knot in his chest loosen.
“It’s Niles, Patrick,” he said gently, opening his gate to his front walk, then latching it behind him. “How are you?”
“I’m all right, I guess.” An uncomfortable silence followed, then Patrick sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to say. I—I’m not supposed to say anything. I’m not supposed to even be talking to you. The lawyers—”
“Whose lawyers?” Niles mounted the steps and sank onto the porch swing.
“Charlie and Mike’s.”
“They can’t intimidate a victim into not talking. That’s illegal. If you’re in trouble, Patrick, I want to help you. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
“I just—” Niles heard a deep male voice shouting something in the background. “Oh God, I have to go.”
“Patrick? Patrick?” The phone beeped in his ear, telling him the call had been disconnected, and Niles let the phone fall onto the swing beside him, before bracing his elbows against his knees and burying his face in his hands.
If there were a way to reset the clock a few weeks back, to before this whole nightmare began, he’d do it. He’d warn Lakshmi and Charity to be careful who they were approached by at that convention. He’d find some other way to convince Anthony to back off and accept their breakup so that he wouldn’t act so crazy and cause suspicion, which then drove him to push Tim into the street . . .
So much senseless, unjustifiable hurt in such a short time. Surely there could have been a way to circumvent it all? Something he could have done?
He felt something spark in his chest, a feeling he’d once described to Jordan as being exclusive to storytellers, the birth of a new tale. He couldn’t call it inspiration, really, because the need to create the story didn’t so much inspire as consume him. Pushing himself out of the swing, Niles grabbed his phone and let himself into the house. He dug into his messenger bag, which Jordan had salvaged from his office, and pulled out his MacBook Air, carrying it to his desk to begin making notes.
It wouldn’t be like any other Third Wave game he had written. No high or low fantasy. No sci-fi or cyberpunk. It would be a modern-day role-playing game, a whodunit with a time-travel twist, a choose-your-own-adventure tale for the digital age. The player character would be an everyman/everywoman, completely ordinary, until tragedy unfolds around the PC. And then it would become a matter of traveling a few days into the past, racing against the clock to piece together the clues—as well as to make the correct decisions with regard to the NPCs they meet along the way—to rewrite the events leading up to the tragedy and change the narrative.
And at the heart of it, of course, would be Third Wave’s theme of equality, intersectionality, acceptance, and antiprejudice. Jordan would give him some gentle shit for the blatant wish fulfillment, of course, but—
But what?
His hands stilled on the keys and then fell away. He didn’t like the sneering tone of that inner voice, but the hopelessness he’d been trying to keep at bay since he’d learned the murders were linked to the games he wrote kept digging insidiously for a foothold in the back of his mind.
Even if he could tell the story, what would it accomplish? Would regressive troglodytes be provoked into further bloodshed if he dared to write another tale of bigots being the bad guys and underdog minorities being the heroes? What was the point of shouting his vision into a darkness that privileged people felt murderously compelled to preserve?
His phone rang with Jordan’s ringtone, and he closed his laptop on his notes before answering. “What’s up, Jordie?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. You sulking?”
“Yeah, pretty much. It’s bordering on self-indulgence. What’s the use? Might as well give up. Nothing’s ever gonna change. Blah, blah, hopeless, morbid, blah.”
“Well, knock it the fuck off. If you’re not gonna rest like I told you to, then open up your damn computer and keep writing.”
“You know, I closed my computer to answer this call, in which you’re now telling me to open my computer.”
“Yeah, but you’d stopped writing, hadn’t you?”
“Listen, smart-ass—” The phone beeped in his ear, and when Niles checked, Patrick’s name was on the call-waiting screen. “I gotta go, Jordie. Patrick’s calling me, and I really want to speak with him. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. Tell him we’re all thinking of him and hoping he’s okay.” He hung up as Jordan was shouting, “Keep writing!” in his ear and thumbed the touchscreen to answer Patrick’s call. “Patrick? You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” Patrick’s voice sounded thick and clogged, and he cleared his throat. “I know I don’t have a right to ask, but could we get together to talk?”
“Of course. Would you like to meet somewhere? I can come to get you—”
“No. No, please. I have bruises. I don’t want people staring. If it’s all right, I’d rather come see you. My mom and stepdad are having a hard time, you know, with Charlie and all. You can’t be here. Can I come over to your place?”
“Absolutely. I’ll text you my address.”
Niles disconnected the call and sent the text with hope burgeoning in his chest once more, smiling as he reopened his laptop and took his brother’s advice.
“Son of a bitch!”
Rosie’s head shot up from where she was hunched over her laptop, perusing the report Jordan had brought her on how public recognition and perception of Third Wave was shifting with all the—frequently unwanted—publicity they’d been getting. Across the room, Angie pushed her chair away from Rosie’s desktop computer, letting it roll as she swiped a hand over her hair and shot the machine a disgusted look.
“Problem?” She couldn’t help the smirk that curled one corner of her mouth at the sight of Angie’s frustration. There was always a certain element of sadism involved in ushering some unsuspecting soul through a game whose twists and turns one already knew.
“Marc. That little shit!” Angie flung her hand toward the computer and scowled. “He sold me out!”
“Ah, that.”
Angie gave her a narrow look. “You can quit gloating now. Where the hell did I go wrong?”
“You didn’t.”
“Come again?”
Rosie shrugged. “You didn’t do anything wrong. No matter what choices you made along the way, Marc was going to betray you to the terrorists in the end.”
“But why?”
“The game takes place over the course of about six months, through most of which he’s been their hostage. Stockholm syndrome sets in, or he’s just trying to survive, or he can’t take any more and will do whatever it takes to appease them. He’s meant to be tragic, a victim, not a villain.”
“Who’s not a villain?”
Rosie turned her attention from Angie to see Jordan poking his head out from her kitchen, where he’d been making a new pot of coffee so he and Rosie could keep working. “Marc. Angie just got to the point where he sets the PC up to be attacked by the terrorists.”
“Hmm, poor guy.” Jordan dropped onto the far end of the sofa from Rosie. “Not that I’ve gotten that far in the game, but Niles has told me all about it.”
“Wait. You haven’t played the game?” Angie gave him an incredulous stare.
“Only enough to be conversant about it when doing PR. Niles is the gamer, not me. I can’t sit still long enough.”
“Can you believe we allow him to work for us?” Rosie grinned. “An infidel in our very midst.”
“Give it a few more years,” he shrugged. There was something missing behind his banter, a fleeting frown as if he were shoving aside something he wanted to say. “I’m sure you and Niles will manage to convert me eventually. Now, about this EEU meeting . . .”
When Niles answered the doorbell, Patrick stood there rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans as though they were sweating. His brow was beaded with moisture, though whether it was perspiration or rain, Niles couldn’t say.
Niles took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “Come on in, Patrick. Can I get you a Coke? Some tea? Anything?” Okay, so his inclination to fuss and try to make Patrick comfortable was probably going to make him feel the exact opposite.
“No, thanks, Mr. River.”
“It’s Niles, remember?” He smiled gently and squeezed Patrick’s shoulder comfortingly, urging him out of the open doorway, then closed the door behind him. He didn’t miss the startled glance Patrick gave him at even that innocuous contact. Niles let his hand fall away. “I’m sorry. Come in. Have a seat.”
“It’s okay,” Patrick murmured, shuffling down the hall toward the living room, then sinking down onto the sofa. “I just don’t get why you’re being so nice.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Niles followed, seating himself across from Patrick to give him some space. “I don’t blame you for what happened. You’re not your stepbrother or his cousin, and you’re not responsible for them. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, living in that situation, but I want to help make things better for you.”
Patrick’s hands writhed in his lap, twisting and twining. He stared down at them, not meeting Niles’s eyes. “I leaked those spoilers. I gave them the details they used to— I’m sorry. I was trying to impress them.”
Something clenched around Niles’s heart. “You wanted them to approve of you?”
He heard Patrick swallow. “I wanted into their guild. You don’t understand. Not really.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“What it’s like to be the odd one out. The easy target. The one who gets fragged first in every PvP match.” Patrick’s eyes flitted up to meet his for a moment, glimmering with a sheen of tears. “You’re gay, but that never happened to you, did it, Mr. River?”
Now it was Niles’s turn to rub his hands on his thighs, feeling ridiculously guilty for something over which he’d had no control. “No, I suppose it never did. I had friends who supported me when I came out. I had my brother.”
“I never came out.” Patrick looked away again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But they knew. They always knew. It didn’t matter how good I was, how hard I tried to fit in. They knew.”
“Who? Your stepfather? Your stepbrother and his cousin?”
Patrick nodded. “Them. Everyone. Mike lived with us, you know. His dad was in jail for beating his mom to death. He and Charlie were always together. It wasn’t until I went to work for Third Wave that anyone thought I was worth talking to. Then they just wanted inside info about the games. But it was nice that they were paying attention to me for once, you know? At least as something other than a target.”
Niles nodded. “I’m sure it was.”
Patrick didn’t answer. “They finally did invite me into the guild. I had friends, you know? They wanted me around. When they asked me to come with them to help punk those two cosplay girls, I went. Of course I went.”
“You—” Oh shit. Oh no. Ice shot down Niles’s spine, every strand of his body hair standing on end. “You were there,” he whispered.
“They were my friends. I told them about the scene they could recreate when they asked. But then she started bleeding. I didn’t know they were going to hit her for real!” Patrick’s voice cracked, his words tumbling out faster, hysteria edging his tone, and Niles sprang to his feet.
At the desktop computer, Detective Payne muttered another curse, and Jordan glanced over at her in amusement. She caught the gaze and glowered. “This is some jacked-up shit, let me tell you. Damn!”
“You’re at the final fight?” Rosie asked from her side of the desk, looking up from the proofs Jordan had handed her as they moved on from the EEU meeting to the preliminary marketing for the Gairi DLC.
“Yeah. Just saved the game because hell if I know which way
this is gonna go. They’re gonna let me exchange myself for Grace and Chino, but I gotta let Marc go too. Fucking traitor. I oughta be able to space his punk ass.”
“See, this is where you get to the ‘role-play’ part of ‘role-playing game,’ Angie.” Rosie laid the proofs on her desk and rose, crossing the room to sit on the table next to the computer.
Jordan squashed a sense of impatience at the interruption of their discussion. It wasn’t like he and Rosie were talking about anything that couldn’t wait a few minutes while she flirted with the detective, but something was tightening the muscles at the back of his neck, and he wanted to wrap it the hell up.
“You’re looking at Marc and his actions as Detective Angela ‘Take-No-Shit’ Payne. But in the game, you’re Marc’s foster sister,” Rosie explained. “You grew up with him. Spent your whole life protecting and looking after him, mentoring him. And yeah, he betrayed you. But his actions don’t erase all that history. Not unless you decide your character is someone who would overlook all that and only care about the betrayal.”
Detective Payne harrumphed and muttered something too low for Jordan to hear, but Rosie laughed. The sound grated on Jordan’s nerves, and he shoved himself up out of his chair. “I’ll let you two lady-geeks take a gaming break while I call my brother,” he announced, digging for his phone.
“How’s Niles doing?” Rosie asked. “I haven’t wanted to push him about coming back to work yet. I thought I would give it a few more days.”
“He’s okay. Trying to see if he can still salvage something with Patrick. You know him and his causes.”
“Patrick?” Rosie went still, and she and Detective Payne locked gazes for a moment. Jordan wasn’t quite sure what was in that look, but the tension creeping up the back of his neck redoubled.
“He wouldn’t try to meet with Rutledge, would he?” Detective Payne asked.
Rosie made a pained face. “Of course he would, if he thought he could help.”
That was when it finally clicked for Jordan what they were getting at, with the parallels between Patrick and Marc and Marc’s betrayal. His stomach twisted as he tried to convince himself that he’d feel a lot more alarmed if Niles was actually in danger, but the nagging tension refused to abate. He didn’t believe in that “twinscience” shit, no matter how staunchly Niles defended it.
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