by Elle Keaton
“Yep, got a couple metal plates that’ll make it fun to go through airport security with him.”
“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say, but the situation was becoming increasingly ludicrous.
That night, after he’d finally closed and locked the front door behind Kent, Sterling poured himself a drink. He rarely drank, since he worked at night and generally chose not to drink after his shift. Beer he still couldn’t drink unless it was dark and smooth; it reminded him too much of what he did to get by those months when he’d been homeless and scared.
Finding the courage to blow a stranger in a filthy, stinking back alley had come at a steep price. Sterling had managed to steer clear of meth and the ever-present heroin while he was living on the street, but not cheap alcohol. An eighty-cent beer went a long way for a not-quite-fifteen-year-old lightweight, making it seem easier to put his mouth on a stranger’s dick. Sex for money or food (or, very rarely, both); he refused to be ashamed of what he’d had to do to survive. Pushing those memories away where they belonged, Sterling straightened his shoulders and concentrated on the present.
He wasn’t scared anymore, at least not scared of where he would sleep or if he had enough to eat. Now he was wary of a bedridden, surfer-dude federal agent who had to be six years younger than him. Sterling was curious about Weir, wondered about the story of his sister, his family—but not that curious.
Jesus Christ, what the hell was he doing, sitting here at the bar with a shot of bourbon, wondering about some guy he’d sucked off a couple times?
Shaking his head at himself, he rinsed out the glass before setting it in the glass washer and heading back to the office. He had work to do. Business proposals didn’t write themselves. He’d been haunting the local bookstore, already dropped a couple hundred bucks trying to learn the vagaries of small-business ownership. There would be a meeting with the bank soon, He needed to be prepared.
Ten
“What? No!”
Weir was flabbergasted that Adam would go behind his back like this. He looked to Micah for support. Instead, he received a sheepish crook of the head.
“No way, Micah. You too?”
They’d stopped in to visit him on their way out of town. Informing him that Sterling would be taking him to Micah’s house, where both of them would be staying. Together.
The fuck that was going to happen. No way was he going to allow himself to be taken care of like some invalid.
Fuck.
He was an invalid.
The physical therapist, Dana, had already been in to torture him. He’d had surgery less than twenty-four hours ago and they already wanted him up and walking, starting with four times a day across his hospital room. The whole thing sucked. He was in agony, and now he was being pawned off on some stranger he’d had bar sex with. Great, just great.
His arms were both killing him: the right from surgery, the left from bearing much of his body weight. He couldn’t use a walker because of the surgery to insert a metal rod, correcting the compound fracture that had shattered his right radius. Likely when the car had hit him, he’d instinctively tried to stop the forward motion with his right arm.
He could only use a crutch with his left arm, which, while not broken, was covered with bruises and cuts from gravel and whatever else was on the ground where he had landed. He had road rash pretty much along his entire body, including his face.
As soon as he could walk the length of the hallway outside his room they would release him, Dana said. Merely walking across his room had been hell.
“You guys are leaving already?” Weir couldn’t explain why he felt so abandoned. It had to be the medications. Like Adam said, they messed with a person.
Adam actually looked apologetic. “Yeah, Ace, we gotta go. I’ve been in contact with a few people, relatives, who knew my dad, and I can’t keep changing the dates. I’ve already canceled once.”
Weir understood, he did, but he didn’t have to like it. “You’re leaving me here, alone?” He was whining.
Micah piped up. “You won’t be alone, Weir. That’s why we arranged for Sterling to stay with you. He’s agreed to pick you up when they discharge you and get you to my house. Which is great, because now I won’t worry about Frankie being alone.”
Right, Frankie, Micah’s hideous twenty-pound cat. Last time Weir had been over, Frankie had proudly presented Micah with what was left of a baby bird, in the middle of the living room.
“Anything on the car that hit me?” He changed the subject, but Adam shot him a knowing glance. Weir gave him a “fuck you” glance back. He had no choice and Adam knew it.
“Nope. Nothing. When you’re set up at Micah’s I’m having Sammy come talk geoducks with you. I’d like to think this was an accident, but we might as well act like it isn’t until we know better.”
“Sammy?” Jesus Christ. Sammy Ferreira was the newest member of Adam’s team. Nice-enough guy, but he followed Weir around like a puppy, constantly asking him questions, wanting to “get to know” him. Sammy was in a contest to be nominated the nicest person on earth, maybe nicer than Micah. He helped old ladies cross the street, rescued abandoned puppies, climbed trees for stranded kittens.
“Yeah, Sammy. Get over your problem with him; he’s an excellent agent and his skills complement yours. He is not replacing you, he’s helping you.”
Right. Adam had to go for the jugular. Figuring out what a frightened little boy Weir was on the inside, afraid he wasn’t good enough. Because he hadn’t been good enough, had he? He hadn’t been even a close runner-up. Esther had been the golden child. When she disappeared, the family fell apart.
Christ, he needed to get off whatever drugs they had him on.
Dana swept in, ready to take him for his second painful walk of the day. Adam and Micah took that as an excellent time to leave. Adam said he would be in contact daily, and not to overdo it. Micah snorted at that, and Weir was reminded what a horrible patient Adam had been after being shot in the chest in December. A bad case of pot and kettle he had going on.
Weir was in the hospital for another week. They would have let him go sooner, except they were concerned about him doing too much and reinjuring himself. During that week he, unfortunately, had a great deal of time to think. Very few people came to see him. Mohammad called a few times to check up on him, but that was it.
Joey popped his head in a few times, but that didn’t count as a visit because he worked at the hospital. Joey was a nice guy, and Weir found himself liking him. He was irreverent, did not care what other people thought about him, and was naturally good-humored.
He didn’t expect a visit from Thomas Poole. The detective arrived just after lunch one day. Merely walking into Weir’s hospital room, Poole managed to suck all the extra space out of it. Weir kind of wanted to open a window so a little oxygen could flow inside. Even Dana, his chirpy and cheery physical therapist, took one look at Poole and judged him a lost cause before leaving to torture another patient.
“Weir.” Poole stood at attention, with his hat and sunglasses still on, reminding Weir of a Canadian Mountie. Unreadable and inscrutable.
“Poole.” The über-man greeting made Weir uncomfortable. He went by his last name out of self-preservation, not some inherent need to prove his masculinity.
“Glad to see you made it.”
“Uh, yeah, me too.” Why was Poole even here?
“No leads?”
“Not as far as I know. You’d have to check in with Klay, or the local PD.”
“I’m sorry you got hurt.” Was the man actually trying to comfort him? Someone should tell him to never, ever do that.
“Thanks. Looks like everything will heal, and now I have some superhero titanium.”
There was an awkward pause while neither of them could come up with another topic to talk about. Weir cast about for something, anything, to break the silence. He came up empty.
“I’ll be going. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” With an even-mo
re-awkward little bow, Poole departed as quickly as he had come.
Weir was convinced he was going mad, he was so bored. TV was making him insanely grumpy. The shared room they’d moved him to had TVs for each of the four inmates. The competing soundtracks of daytime soaps, Judge Judy, NASCAR, or whatever else was on, were mind-numbing. Joey had brought him some crossword puzzles and books, but he couldn’t concentrate enough on them to read a single page or solve a clue.
Instead he brooded.
Sterling finally showed up the day before he was set to be released. Weir had managed to walk the length of the corridor twice without tipping over only a half-hour earlier. It hurt like fuck, but he did it, teeth clenched.
It irritated him that he felt a surge of pleasure when Sterling tapped on the privacy curtain. Weir wanted to be angry with him. He hadn’t seen anyone except Joey, Dr. Mortimer, and the other caretakers since Adam and Micah had deserted him.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you don’t have to. We’ll tell Adam something came up. I’ll be fine on my own.” Because also, Weir didn’t want to be exposed to this guy. To anyone. It was hard enough feeling helpless in the hospital. If he could walk the length of the corridor, he would be fine at Micah’s alone.
Sterling looked at him as if he had grown a second head, dark eyebrows shooting up and practically touching his hairline. “Are you fucking kidding me? No way am I going back on a promise to Adam.”
Oh, that’s how it was. A promise to Adam. Not about wanting to help Weir out. Nothing about helping a guy through a rough patch.
Oh god, he was completely psycho. One minute, mad because Sterling showed up to hash out details about his release, and the absolute very next, sad because it’s a favor for Adam. He needed his head examined. Or a pillow shoved over his face.
“I stopped by to see if there was stuff you like, or whatever. I’m heading to the grocery store. Looks like you’re getting out of here by noon tomorrow, but I gotta work tonight so I’m going now. I know you like chicken chili, and that’s about it.”
Weir could actually feel worse. Not only was Sterling helping him out, it was on top of his job as a bartender. Shutting his eyes for a second, he tried to bring himself under control. After a deep breath, he opened them again. Sterling was still standing next to the bed waiting for an answer, one eyebrow raised.
“No red meat, no processed sugar, sprouted-grain bread,” he mumbled. “Plain yogurt would be nice, too. Thanks.” He didn’t intend for his requests to sound ungrateful, but he was certain they did anyway.
Sterling nodded, pulling out his smartphone to make a few notes. “Anything else I should know? You allergic? Have a favorite brand of toilet paper, only drink imported goat’s milk?”
“Fucker.”
“Asshole.”
Like that, they were on even footing. Weir was grateful. Sterling flipping him shit was better than any therapy. It was everyone else walking around on eggshells making him crazy. Clearly, Sterling wasn’t going to let Weir’s mood get to him.
“I’m dying for a salad. A real salad, not from a bag.” Weir stuck his lower lip out tragically, milking the moment.
“A salad.”
Weir blinked at him. “Macaroni and cheese. Homemade? I’m supposed to try to put on some weight.”
“Fuck my life. Fine. Whatever. I’ll be here by ten tomorrow morning so I can eavesdrop on whatever the doc has to say before you check out of this place.”
With a quick salute, he was gone, and Weir was left wondering who Sterling really was underneath that goth exterior.
Before being released the next morning, Weir was subjected to one more brutal physical therapy session. He almost shed actual tears, it hurt so much. But Dana was adamant that he had to increase the amount of weight he bore on his right leg every day, that this was the fastest, healthiest, and most effective way to promote new bone growth.
When Sterling showed up, Weir was so exhausted from the PT he had a hard time being excited about going home. Well, going to Micah’s. Home was nebulous; even his condo near Hermosa Beach didn’t feel like home. He was there so rarely, and then only for such short periods of time, that he had never done anything to it. Bed, couch, TV, a few pots and pans. Gaming system. A plastic plant a colleague had given him as a joke. That summed it up.
Looking around Micah’s house, Weir recognized a real home. He saw signs that Adam was on his way to making it his home as well. A small collection of pictures featuring Micah’s deceased family: his little sister Shona smiling with her friend Jessica in front of a huge wooden roller coaster, Micah’s parents with their arms around each other at some professional function, looking happy. Added to these were a few photographs of Adam with his dad when he was very young. Micah must have found them and put them up, but Adam had let them stay there.
Weir had few memories of early childhood. He knew he had felt safe and happy. Most of his memories started the day his sister disappeared, every prior experience eclipsed by a single moment in time. He’d been asleep on the couch in his parents’ living room. The TV was on the Disney Channel or Nickelodeon. He’d woken up and was lying there under his favorite blanket with his eyes closed, letting the mindless chatter of cartoon characters wash over him.
He remembered hearing his mother calling for Esther, her voice becoming more and more shrill. He’d gotten up to look, too. Sometimes he and Esther played hide-and-seek; Weir knew all the places she hid. As evening grew closer to full dark, his mother became frantic, demanding he turn off the TV so they could hear Esther if she answered their calls.
His dad came home from work to find the house in an uproar. Esther was three years older than Weir. He worshipped her, thought she knew everything, soaked up all the information she brought home from being in the second grade already. Sometimes Weir did her homework. It was fun; the homework he brought home from school was easy and boring.
Esther didn’t come home that night, the next night, or ever again.
Weir sighed and continued clumping toward the couch. His leg and arm throbbed. He needed to sit down.
“Um, Micah fixed up his bedroom for you. So, no stairs,” Sterling reminded him.
Yeah, Weir had managed to block that part out of his mind. Because he wanted to hang out in Micah and Adam’s bed. Where they had sex. Lots of it. Sex he had unfortunately witnessed more than once. He shuddered at the memory.
“I’m tired of lying down,” he whined.
“They said you still need to keep your leg elevated.”
Irrational irritation surfaced. Barely managing to control it, Weir bit out, “I know. I was there, remember?” Okay, so maybe not such a good job controlling his temper. Sterling seemed to take it in stride. His twisted smile made a quick appearance before he moved next to Weir. Placing an arm around his waist, Sterling helped him to the couch, then carefully lifted Weir’s leg onto one of the colorful throw pillows Micah had strewn about.
Leaning Weir’s crutch against the wall next to the couch, Sterling proceeded to take the variety of medications the hospital had sent Weir home with and organize them on the side table. Without asking, he went into the kitchen, returning with a huge glass of water and some cheese and crackers. Only then did Weir realize how hungry he was.
Sheepishly, he accepted the food. “Thanks, sorry.”
“No worries. Adam warned me you’d be a bastard.” He grabbed one of the bottles of pills and shook out two, handing them to Weir. “Here, it’s painkiller time. The doc said there’s no reason to tough it out. Right now your body needs to heal, not be distracted by pain.”
Yes, but the painkillers made him groggy. He frowned at the pills in his hand. Sterling wasn’t giving him a choice, standing over him until Weir popped them in his mouth and took a big swig of water. He grimaced at the metallic taste of the pills.
“Have some cheese and crackers.”
Before he fell asleep from pain and exhaustion, Weir managed to finish off most of the plate of food Sterli
ng had brought out. Sterling spent the time bringing bags into the house from his car. Not only had he gone shopping, he’d gone to Weir’s hotel and picked up his luggage.
Weir was starting to drift off when Sterling knelt down in front of him. Even though he had no desire for sex at the moment, it reminded Weir of their exploits in Sterling’s office. Sterling must have thought the same thing, because he quirked that fucking eyebrow at him before speaking.
“Today is normally my day off, but I have to go in for a few hours. I’m sorry to have to leave you alone. Can I trust that you won’t do anything stupid while I’m gone? When I get back we’ll get you into the bedroom.”
“Yeah, promise,” Weir murmured.
The sound of the front door opening and then closing behind Sterling was the last thing he remembered for several hours.
Eleven
Where this newfound well of patience was coming from, Sterling had no idea. Weir had been a complete jackass from the moment Sterling arrived at St. Joe’s to pick him up and take him to Micah’s. Weir’d been arguing with the physical therapist. She threw Sterling a glance of relief when he entered the room, using his arrival as an excuse to leave. Weir had argued with the orthopedic doctor who came to educate him on post-surgery care and recovery. Every single instruction the doc had, Weir had questioned or barely tolerated, until Sterling had enough and politely told the man (Weir, not the doc) to shut it.
Weir’s mouth had opened and snapped back shut. He even managed to keep it that way until he was officially cleared to leave. Then he started again when the nurse brought a wheelchair to transport him to the front entrance, where Sterling had left his car in the visitor’s lot. As if he could possibly walk that far.
Then he’d bitched about Sterling’s car. Sterling admitted it was a little too low to the ground and difficult for Weir to get his leg into. But Jesus Christ, he was doing the guy a favor and all he could do was bitch? Of course, after Weir had demolished the plate of cheese and crackers Sterling had thrown together, before thankfully falling asleep, Sterling figured out Weir had been hangry. The guy was a complete bitch queen when he needed food. Note to self.