Infected: Lesser Evils Read online

  Scott actually looked small in his civilian clothes, a pair of loose jeans, a T-shirt advertising some skate shop he’d never heard of (had he heard of any skate shops?), a black leather jacket, and an innocent look that made him appear barely old enough to shave. Of course he really wasn’t that old, was he? It was easy to forget, just like it was easy to forget how much of his hockey gear wasn’t actually him. That stuff added about fifteen pounds to a guy. Still, what Scott did have of body mass was mostly solid muscle; if he had a single ounce of fat, it wasn’t visible. “Um, wow,” he finally said, running a hand nervously through his shaggy black hair. “I guess Dee was right about you.”

  “Oh? What did he say?”

  “He said you had no shame.”

  “Shame is for the weak. Do I look weak to you?”

  It took a moment for Scott to look at him, but his eyes were furtive and skittish. Poor boy. Holden wasn’t sure if he should comfort him or torment him. “No.”

  “There you go.” Holden leaned on the counter of the kitchenette, looking out into the living room, so there was a physical barrier to mimic the psychological and emotional one between them. He couldn’t help but wonder where this conversation was going to go, and yet he was curious to play out the line for a bit.

  “I thought you were Roan’s assistant.”

  “I am. But that’s a part-time thing at best. And I’m not just any old hooker, but one of those high-class prostitutes that you hear about in various political scandals. I have a page on the agency’s website and everything. Awesome picture of me, if I do say so myself.”

  Scott’s look was dubious, like he thought he was kidding. “I thought those were only for females.”

  “Generally. But not in big cities with sizable gay populations. I mean, there are high-class male hookers in Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Boston, New Orleans… and don’t even ask about San Francisco. But you probably guessed that.”

  “I guessed nothing. I’m surprised by this.”

  “Why?”

  “You just… I guess I imagine male hookers as….”

  “Twinks? Transvestites? Scrawny little HIV victims? Strung-out junkies? Sexually abused train wrecks? Give me the high sign when I get close.”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to offend you—”

  “You think this is offended? Sweetheart, when I’m offended, you will know. The taste of blood will be a major giveaway.”

  That made Scott smile, like he thought it would. Macho men generally responded to macho, good or bad. “See, that’s why I’m having a hard time with this.”

  “What, ’cause I’m not a victim type?”

  “I guess. I’m not sure that’s what I was going for….”

  “Look, I sell myself, sure, but I’m not a doormat. I didn’t start out as some club kid pimped out by his sugar daddy. I knew what I was getting into when I got into it, and I did my time on the street. You survive there by either adopting the colors of a predator, or attaching yourself remora-like to a much bigger fish than you.”

  Scott weighed this carefully, with the slightest twitch of his eyebrow. Scott did have those great, eerily clear blue eyes, the kind that always reminded Holden of husky dogs. It made him seem more innocent than he probably was. “You gonna make me guess what you did?”

  “My street name is Fox. Does that help at all?”

  He considered that a moment, and finally remembered that a fox was indeed a predator. They were small and considered cute by some, which was probably why people forgot what they actually were. Did that explain why some people forgot what he was too? Well, no; Holden wasn’t small, and no one had ever called him cute.

  “I guess it does,” Scott finally admitted, and looked at him with more obviously critical eyes. There was no intent to offend, though; he was simply scrutinizing him, looking for some crack in his armor that would explain him. He wished Captain Canada good luck, ’cause he was going to need it. “I still don’t understand why you sell yourself. You seem smart, you seem tough. So… why?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? It’s good money.”

  “You can’t do something else for money?”

  “Who said it was all about money?”

  Scott stared at him in bewilderment. “Didn’t you?”

  “No. I gave you one reason out of many. Gotta look out for those little details, they tell you more about a person than you might realize.”

  He shook his head and stood up, flinging his hands up as if lobbing a heavy gun overboard. “This is a mindfuck. You’re mind-fucking me.”

  “I mind-fuck everyone. It’s a little freebie.”

  Those crystal-clear eyes locked onto his again, and Holden watched a current of anger sizzle and fly by. Maybe he wasn’t on ’roids—he was too scrawny, his skin too clear, his muscles too realistic for it—but something kept his temper close to the surface. Could have just been years of playing hockey; Scott wasn’t one to fight a lot, but he did fight, and Holden assumed he’d grown up in an atmosphere that didn’t frown on it. Fighting was to hockey as homoerotic ass grabbing was to football—something done without a lot of thought.

  “Is that why you’re Roan’s assistant? To irritate people until they talk?”

  “No, that’s just a lovely little side benefit.”

  Scott gave him a stony look, his eyes like agates. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

  “Fucking with people? Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  Ooh, he didn’t like that. His mouth twisted in irritation as he turned toward the door. “I give up. Why did I even come here?”

  “’Cause you wondered how much I charged.”

  That made him stop dead, his back stiffening like someone had just put ice down his shirt. “What?”

  “Oh, come on. We’re both adults here, and I’m not gonna rat you out to your team. That’s part of what you pay me for when you hire me: privacy and silence. There are cheaper hustlers, but with me you get a guarantee of no diseases, and discretion. I’m not going to tell on you to your wife, girlfriend, or coworkers, and if you become big and famous someday, I’m not going to out you on Oprah and write a tell-all memoir about how you liked me to fuck you in a clown mask. I may be a whore, but I’m not that kind of whore. I do have standards. Play fair with me, and I play fair with you. No games, no bullshit.”

  Scott’s expression was studiously blank, as if he was trying to give nothing away. He was trying, but failing. “Clown mask?”

  “People have weird kinks. I don’t judge. Although clowns are freaky.”

  “You know I don’t hafta pay for sex, right?”

  “Oh yeah. You’re gorgeous and an athlete, two bonuses in the getting laid sweepstakes. But I also know you’re locally fairly well known, and meeting guys has an extra layer of peril.”

  He scoffed, and his half smile was attractive and somewhat convincing. “I have a girlfriend.”

  “Many of my clients do, that’s so not the point. You’re bi, we both know it, so what’s with the pose? Drop it, hon, we’re all friends here.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “Are we?”

  Holden flashed him one of his more seductive smiles. “I’d like to think so. When’s the last time you were with a man? In a Biblical sense.”

  “I thought the Bible frowned on that.”

  That made him chuckle. “You’re talking to a preacher’s son here. The Bible frowns on many things, and yet seems good on slavery and selling your daughters, so I’m thinking it’s schizophrenic at best.”

  “You’re a preacher’s son? Wow. How come almost every gay guy I meet comes from an ultrareligious home?”

  “You’ve noticed too, huh?”

  “Yeah. My first boyfriend was a Mormon.”

  “You have Mormons in Canada?”

  “I know, right? But he was cute. Couldn’t shoot for shit, though.”

  “He was a hockey player too?”

  “No, lacrosse. He initially wanted me to teach him how to play, but I saw throug
h that pretty quickly.”

  Perhaps this was why Holden sort of liked Scott, beyond him being pretty damn hot—they had a lot in common. “I used to be a jock, you know. I was the star baseball pitcher at my tony private Christian school. My first boyfriend was the captain of the swim team.”

  Scott chuckled. “It’s always the swim team.”

  “Hey, it allows the fussy gay boy to wax his body hair and have a legitimate reason for it.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So how long has it been?” He knew he was pushing it. He had no idea how comfortable Scott was with his sexuality, although the fact that he was still in the closet suggested some discomfort. Was it all career related? He guessed not. Scott struck him as surprisingly reasonable for a semipro athlete, enough that Holden wondered why he would be put off by his own sexuality, and why he went the jock route. Then again, some people wondered the same thing about him being a prostitute, so it all evened out.

  Scott seemed torn between staying and leaving, but he seemed to come to some internal decision and stood his ground. “Six months.”

  Holden let out a low whistle, shaking his head while giving him one of his sliest smiles. “Nasty. I don’t know if I could go that long without sex.”

  “I’ve had sex. I got a girlfriend, remember? It’s just….” He shifted his weight from foot to foot as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it adorably. “It’s different with a man, y’know? I mean, I’m fine with women most of the time, but every now and then….”

  “You want raw, animalistic, no-strings-attached sex? Hell, that’s the only kind I like.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a very long time, a silent battle of potentialities, desire, and awkwardness. Would it be awkward if he took Scott on as a client, since he was part of Roan’s inner circle of superfreaks? Maybe for Scott, but it wouldn’t be for Holden; he had no problems separating his work from the rest of his life. There was Fox and there was Holden, and while they were closely related, they were still very different.

  Scott lied to most of his teammates (surely the unfathomable Grey and terminally weird Tank knew, and obviously didn’t care), so why couldn’t he lie to Roan? The only problem was Scott seemed to idolize Roan. He could feel weird around him. Oh, so fucking what? That was his hang-up.

  Scott finally admitted, “I don’t know if I could do that.”

  “You’d be surprised what you’re capable of.” Holden opened a drawer by the sink, and after rummaging around, found one of his business cards. All it had on it was the web address of his escort agency page and one of his private cell numbers (no name, nothing else—if you got the card, you knew what it was and why), so if anyone found it, they’d have no idea what it was. Unless they looked up the web address, then he was screwed.

  Holden held out the card to him. “Change your mind, give me a call.”

  Scott studied the plain card, looking at the few things on the front and flipping it over to see if there was anything on the back, before meeting his eyes again. “I couldn’t just ask you out for a beer?”

  Holden almost laughed, but Scott seemed half serious. “I don’t know. You could try.”

  “I could, I guess,” he said, but only shot him a small, somewhat embarrassed smile before leaving the apartment.

  Funny. He could totally see why Roan liked him.

  29

  Long and Lonely Step

  CONSIDERING the time of day, Roan wasn’t surprised to find that the Eagle wasn’t crowded, with only a few men who’d come in on their lunch break and lingered still hanging around. The bartender was a reasonably good-looking bear in a maroon T-shirt, with a tattoo of barbed wire encircling his left wrist. Roan showed him the picture of the supposed Adam Jephson, and fed him the story about Adam coming into an inheritance despite having been estranged from his family. (Because it was a gay bar, and Adam was trusted to be gay, the bartender just assumed he was estranged from the family due to his gayness. Roan didn’t discourage this belief.)

  The bartender, whose name was Tanner, admitted that he wasn’t sure if he’d seen him or not; the picture was a profile, and after all, he kind of looked like a lot of people. (Roan couldn’t argue with any of this.) Tanner also flirted with him a little, offered him a drink on the house, and Roan found his kindness so alluring he agreed, but only to a virgin margarita (well, it was the afternoon, and he was on several Percocets). After Tanner made him his drink, he admitted he recognized him as “that cat guy” (oy vey), but added he thought he was pretty cool. He also told him not to worry, that he knew he was “Toby’s guy” (Dylan’s old bar nickname), and he wasn’t seriously flirting with him, although the margarita was on the house. Roan suspected a bit of duplicity here; either that or he was hoping they were an open couple looking for a third. But after a little bit more conversation, he realized Tanner was honestly interested in Dylan, not him, he was simply flirting with Roan because he was there. Which was fair enough, because Dylan was one hot dude, a lot hotter than him. If guys liked him, Roan chalked it up to his out-of-control pheromones, one of his dubious viral “gifts.”

  Tanner agreed to keep an eye out and spread the word, see if anyone knew of the guy, and Roan thanked him before leaving the bar and cutting his way toward the back bathrooms, which were coincidentally far too cramped and uncomfortable to ever have sex in. It was in the claustrophobic corridor, paneled in dark wood and safe sex posters featuring attractive naked men from the neck down, that a sudden cramp of cold seemed to seize his guts, making him stop in his tracks as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Roan had an almost undeniable urge to run, to leave the place through the walls if need be, just get the fuck out of there now.

  It took him a moment to pinpoint the problem: the music. The bar’s sound system was playing “Don’t Save Us From the Flames,” a song by M83 from the CD Before The Dawn Heals Us—the CD Paris was playing when he killed himself. It was… logically, it was stupid and pointless, but Roan ran out of the bar like it was on fire.

  He stopped and leaned against the brick wall outside the tapas restaurant, doubled over in pain and trying to catch his breath. The pain had made his solar plexus a fist, it was radiating pain outward into his torso and away, like he was a vessel that existed simply for this agony. There were tears in his eyes, but he wasn’t sure if they were from physical pain or some other kind of pain. So much for Percocets, huh? Couldn’t fight this.

  The worst thing about grief was it laid little booby traps for you. Oh sure, you moved on with your life, you could fool yourself you were past it, and then the trap would spring and those metal teeth of sorrow would crush you, puncture your lungs and tear your heart and split your brain down the center like your skull was made of silk.

  Roan was gulping air and trying to get a grip, trying to fight back pain as he felt his jaw ache with the force with which he was clenching his teeth, and belatedly he realized he was growling, a sort of sad, muted sound born purely of pain.

  He was shaking and trying to keep from whimpering when he realized not all the shaking was coming from his body—his phone was vibrating. He didn’t want to answer it, but fuck, he probably needed the distraction. He sank down to the cold asphalt as he answered, seeing Seb’s number on the display. “What?” he grumbled, hoping Seb couldn’t hear anything in his voice he shouldn’t.

  “Whoa, ain’t you in a bad mood?” he replied. “Well, it’s gonna get worse. You know Jefferson Heights?” Rather than talk, Roan simply grunted an affirmative as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “We got a cat loose, and it may have taken refuge in one of these squatter’s shacks. We’ve been ordered not to make a move, to leave it to the cat squad, but I figured you might wanna crack at it first.”

  Jefferson Heights was actually an unofficial name, given to one of the poorer parts of the city. It was filled with slums always being condemned or burned down, and as a result, there might be twelve apartment buildings on one block, and half would be officially empty (unof
ficially was a different story) at any one time. It was a minor maze, and most cops didn’t go in there without serious backup first, mainly because you never knew what you’d find. Crack den, shooting gallery, homeless encampment, neo-Nazi squatters (this was true; he had been on the force when that particular incident had happened), dog fighting ring, maybe even, if you were lucky, an unlicensed takeout joint. If you didn’t absolutely have to be there, most people avoided it.

  And as coincidence would have it, it wasn’t far from where Roan was right now. Maybe eight miles, tops. He cleared his throat and finally said, “I’ll be right there.”

  “Fine, Catmandu, but are you sure you’re all right? You sound weird.”

  “Catmandu?”

  “You’re a superhero, you need a superhero name.”

  “Are you fucking serious? That’s horrible.”

  “What? I know it’s cheesy, but most superhero names are kinda cheesy.”

  “If you ever call me that again, I’ll break your fucking nose,” he snapped, and hung up the phone. “Catmandu. How fucking gay does he think I am?” Well, at least that distracted him from the pain.

  In the car on the way to the Heights, he listened to Mr. Bungle on his iPod and shouted along with the lyrics he could make out or knew. It made him laugh and cry a bit at the same time. Mr. Bungle was the perfect soundtrack to a psychotic break, so much so that he felt they were almost a community service. If you were crazy or going crazy, you could listen to them and not feel so alone. “Your lips say one thing but the drugs say another” was perhaps the most insightful lyric about his life since “And if I bite my cheeks long enough I figure I could chew right through the skin.” Considering it, that was pretty fucking sad.

  Before getting out of the car, Roan checked in the rearview to make sure he wasn’t crying still. He looked a bit like he had been, but he tried to force a partial change, enough to flush his skin and just make him look fucked-up, not like he had been crying. He could settle for that.