The Light in Your Eyes

By Tinnean

Chapter 7

The door to 227 was locked, but the lock looked flimsy enough. I was going to throw myself at the door, sure the jamb would splinter, when the manager came panting up.

"Hold on, John Wayne. I've got the master key." He unlocked the door.

The room was dark, but I remembered the smell of blood from years ago. I gagged and retched, swallowed, fumbled for the light switch by the door, and pressed it.

Pretty Boy was face down on the bed, blood a fan of red on the pillow. "Paul."

"Oh, fuck," the manager whispered. "Oh, fuck."

Somehow, I was beside the bed. I placed my fingers against his throat, and my knees almost gave out in relief.

"He's alive."

"I'll call 9-1-1."

I left him telling the operator we needed an ambulance now while I rushed into the bathroom for a towel. There was so much blood.

Part of Paul's scalp was torn. Please god, that was what was causing the extensive bleeding. I pressed the towel to his head gently. Bruises were forming on his back and side, froth bubbled on his lips. I made sure he could breathe, but I was afraid to turn him over.

"I'm gonna go down and wait for the paramedics, okay?"

I nodded, my throat clogged with tears. "Thanks."

Don't die, Paul. Please, god. Please don't let him die.

And maybe for once god didn't have his back turned. The paramedics got there sooner than I'd expected. In this part of town, why would they rush?

A man and a woman came in wheeling a stretcher. "What happened?"

"I don't know. I found him like this." I backed away to give them room. "Is he gonna be okay?"

They took in the tube of Glide and the packets of condoms, and Paul, naked on the bed.

"Dunno. We'll do what we can here, then transport him to Washington Hospital. What drugs has he been taking."

"None. We don't do drugs."

The woman's look told me she didn't believe me. She turned back to Paul and took his vital signs.

"Looks like he had the hell beat out of him." The man started an IV. "You didn't do this, I suppose?"

"Paul's my friend."

"It's been known to happen. Quarrel over a boyfriend, maybe?"

Asshole. "No. We didn't quarrel, and I didn't do this to him."

He shrugged. "We'll take him to the ER."

They eased him onto a backboard and got him on the stretcher. The skin over his ribs was red and angry-looking. "Paul…, " I whispered.

"At least they won't have to cut his clothes off him."

"I'm coming with you." I gathered up Paul's clothes.

"Here." The woman handed me a plastic bag, then draped a sheet over his naked body.

"Thanks."

The ride seemed to take forever. They wouldn't let me stay in the back with Paul, so I sat beside the driver, tears spilling down my cheeks and dripping off my jaw.

Vincent. I gritted my teeth. This was Vincent's fault.

At the hospital, Paul was wheeled into a room. "You can't go in with him. You'll be in the way. There's a waiting room through there. I imagine the police will want to talk to you about this."

"Yeah. Thanks." I watched until the doors shut behind Paul, then went to find a telephone.

Vincent's number was in the small address book in Paul's fanny pack. I dropped a quarter into the slot and punched in the number with short, hard jabs.

"Vincent." He sounded bored. Goddammed motherfucker.

"Why, man? Why'd you do this? We trusted you!"

"Sweetcheeks? What's wrong?"

"Oh, sure, like you don't know. Fucking bastard! Fucking, cocksucking…"

"Sweetcheeks! What the fuck is going on?" He no longer sounded bored. His voice was hard, but I could hear the concern under it, and that jolted me out of my haze of pain and fury.

"You really don't know? Vince, you didn't send him to us? He told us… Oh, god, Vince, it's Pretty Boy! He's hurt so bad; there was so much blood!"

"Who hurt him? Did he give you a name?"

"He said his name was Michael Shaw." I laughed, a bitter sound. "We didn't believe him."

"Fuck! Where are you, Sweetcheeks?"

"The paramedics took us to WH. Vince, what if he doesn't make it?" This wasn't the first time that thought had crossed my mind.

"He's going to make it. I'll kill him if he doesn't. Okay, listen to me, Sweetcheeks. Washington Hospital has one of the best trauma centers in DC. Pretty Boy is going to be fine."

"Vince, can you… " I couldn't do this alone. "I know you're busy…"

"I'm on my way." He hung up before I had a chance to thank him, to apologize for believing he would do something like betray the man who had helped him when he'd been in pain.

I hung up and dried my cheeks with the sleeve of my jacket. Now that I had some time to think about it, I knew that Vince would never do that, would never pimp for us. I was surprised at how relieved that made me feel.

I put another quarter in the phone. Spike needed to be here. I hoped he was still at home.

****

Paul was stable. He'd need to be admitted, but the only available beds were on Maternity, and there was no way they were putting him there, so he'd stay in the ER until one became available on another floor. He lay on a bed in a curtained-off area of the emergency room, fading in and out of consciousness, his face as white as the sheet that covered him. His thick black hair had been shaved from the side of his head, and stitches stood out in stark relief, securing his scalp. A chest tube worked to re-inflate his collapsed lung.

I gave a statement to the cops, not that I thought they'd look for the man responsible for this, and sat down at Paul's bedside. After a few minutes I got up and paced to the sliding doors of the ER. I stared out of them, then turned and went back to Paul. I glanced at my watch and repeated the procedure.

I was back at the sliding doors for about the thousandth time when Vincent strode in. "He's in here, Vince! The police have already taken a statement and left."

"What did you tell them?"

"That he fell down a flight of stairs."

"And they believed you."

One of them had given me a look, but he hadn't pressed. "The cops don't give a fuck what happens to the likes of us, and I knew you would take care of it."

"Damn straight I will."

A nurse in blue scrubs came in to take Paul's vital signs. "You're with him?" she asked Vince.

"Yes. How bad is he?"

She shrugged and rattled off Paul's injuries. There were so many. A collapsed lung, four fractured ribs, a broken nose, a dislocated elbow, cuts, scrapes, and contusions, the scalp wound…

"When will he be transferred to a regular floor?"

"We'll send him up to Surgical as soon as we can find a bed for him there."

"I want him to have a room now."

"He'll get one whenever it becomes free."

"Listen, woman. If it's a question of money…" Vincent was a tall man, and he crowded into her space, willing to use intimidation in an effort to get Paul a bed on a floor.

"No, you listen. I can't conjure up a bed out of thin air, buster! As soon as one becomes available, he'll get it. You got that?" She gave him an unfriendly glare and stalked off. Vincent looked after her with grudging admiration.

Spike burst in just then. He took one look at Pretty Boy lying on that bed, and his face turned ashen.

"Oh, god, Sweetcheeks! That should be me! I was supposed to go with the john! Vince?" Spike threw himself into my arms. "Pretty Boy's going to die!"

"No, baby, no!" I stroked his back, trying to soothe him. "He'll be all right, they promised us!"

Spike leaned back and looked into my eyes. "They promised?"

I nodded encouragingly. "Listen, I have to talk to Vincent. Will you stay here with Pretty Boy, so he won't be alone when he wakes up? We're going to the cafeteria, but we'll be right back, I promise." I couldn't talk about this in front of him, he was too distressed, especially knowing it could have been him in that bed and not Paul.

"You want us to bring you back something?" Trust Vince to go for the distraction.

"A Coke and a thing of Oreos?"

"You got it." Vincent patted his shoulder. "Hang in there, okay?"

I took a tissue from the box beside the bed and dried Spike's cheeks, running an edge under his eyes to blot the mascara.

"Blow your nose, baby."

He took the tissue and obeyed, then stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans, dragged a chair beside the bed, and took Paul's hand, holding onto it for dear life and whispering, "Please don't die. Please don't die."

"Ready?" Vince asked.

I looked at the tableau for a second. "Ready."

****

We took the stairs down to the cafeteria – Vincent thought it was quicker and safer than the elevator, and I didn't bother to question him about it; maybe he had a phobia about elevators, maybe he did it for the exercise – and I told him what had happened, from the time I took the phone call from Michael Shaw until the time I'd called him.

I also told him the things I hadn't bothered to tell the cops, because I knew it wouldn't matter to them. We were just rentboys.

Vincent's expression grew darker and darker, and I couldn't prevent a shiver. "And you say the glasses and the bottle of Dewars were gone?"

"Yeah."

"Did they draw blood when they got Pretty Boy here?"

"I don't know. They wouldn't let me in with him."

He took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. "It's Vincent. I've got a job for you. Patient in the ER of George Washington Hospital. Name of… " He paused and looked at me. "Paul Stark."

I didn't bother wondering how he knew Paul's real name. I didn't even wonder if he knew my name.

"You've got the blood for him? Good. I want you to test for rohpynol and GHB."

My head started to hurt. "You think he was dosed with roofies?" Sex was our profession. We were a sure thing. There was no need to use a date rape drug. "Why?"

"I don't know, but the fact that the glasses weren't there when you got there… I don't like it. If Pretty Boy was dosed with something like that, it should still be in his blood." He turned back to his phone. "You have my number. Call me when you get the results." He flipped it shut and put it back in his pocket.

"Vince? What are you going to do?"

"Right now? Right now I'm going to get a cup of coffee, and you're going to tell me everything you can remember about this asshole."

I was surprised at all the things I remembered. The yellow striations in his brown eyes, the eyebrow shaped like a question mark, the one earlobe that seemed slightly longer and wider than the other, the mole at the hinge of his jaw. Vincent bit off a curse.

"That mole must be a bitch when he has to shave." I tried to smile, but I knew it wasn't much of a success. "Do you… do you have any idea who he is?"

"Yeah. I do."

"And you'll… you'll take care of him?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll take very good care of him." And I shivered again. Vincent held out his hand. "Let me see the bills he gave you."

No one was sitting near us, but I was still careful. That was a lot of money. When I took the bills from my pocket, I made sure they were concealed by the way I held them in my palm. I covered his hand with mine, and when I withdrew it, the hundred dollar bills were in his hand. He studied them under cover of the table.

"They're counterfeit."

"What, all of them?"

"All of them."

"Goddammit. All that Paul went through, and he wasn't even paid."

"I'll see he gets paid, Sweetcheeks." The bills disappeared into his pocket. "I'll make sure of it."

I remembered the Russian Vincent had beat the crap out of. Whoever this Michael Shaw was, I knew he was going to pay heavily for what he'd done to Paul, and the counterfeit money was the least of it

"Come on." He rose and threw away the paper cup his coffee had been in. "Spike is going to think we've eaten his Oreos."

****

Paul had regained consciousness and was shifting restlessly, favoring his left side.

"The nurse just gave him a shot of something," Spike told us. "Look, Paul. Vincent's here to see you."

"Hi, babe." Paul's eyes were slits, so swollen I wondered if he could see out of them at all. He stretched out his hand, and Vincent took it.

"If you'd wanted to see me so badly, you really didn't have to go to these lengths, baby. A call would have been sufficient. Look, I have some errands to run, but I'll be back, probably before these assholes can find a room for you."

"No, please!" Paul's hoarse whisper sounded scared. "Please don't leave me!" Paul was never scared.

And then I realized he was afraid, not for himself but for Vincent. Of what might be done to him or of what he might do?

"Okay, Pretty Boy. I won't leave." Vince's concession was easy.

I sat down and swallowed hard. His expression was deadly. And then just like that, it was smoothed out, and he looked as if revenge was the farthest thing from his mind.

Spike crawled onto the bed and put his arms around Paul, easing his grip when Paul winced.

"'ll be okay," he mumbled just before the drugs took effect and he fell asleep.

Vince checked for messages on his phone, then settled down to wait, tapping his fingers restlessly against his thigh.

"Hey, I've got a deck of cards." I pulled them from my pocket, and he and I played two-handed solitaire while we waited for a room to be found for Paul and for a call from the lab.

His cell phone rang. "Vincent." He looked surprised at first. "I'm visiting with a sick friend. Contrary to popular belief, Matheson, I do have friends." There was a pause. "What's the damage?" His expression became cold, colder, coldest, and I shivered. When the call was finished, he flipped his phone shut without saying 'goodbye' and leaned over the bed. "I have to go, baby."

Paul was too doped up to object this time, but he gripped Vincent's sleeve, refusing to let go.

I touched his arm and mouthed the words, Blood results?

He shook his head. "Business."

"Go, Vince." I eased Paul's fingers loose. "I'll take care of him. You'll be back when you can?"

"You bet your ass." And he was gone.

"He's gonna… he's gonna kill someone, Sweets. Know… know it."

"Vince?" I hoped the drugs affected Paul enough so that he didn't realize how hollow my laugh was. "You've got to be kidding. He wouldn't harm a fly."

"Like… like Norman Bates?"

"You're being silly." But Vince carried a knife in his suit pocket – I'd seen it. What kind of troubleshooter was he? I pushed the thought out of my mind. Not my business. "No, this is just about work, Paul, I promise you."

"Not… not lying to me?"

"Hell, no. Hey, I've got a great idea!" I hastily changed the subject, because I was afraid I was lying to him. "How about if I tell your fortune?" I picked up the cards and began to shuffle the deck.

"Since when did… did you know how to… to do that?"

"Since forever. I'm a man of many hidden talents, I'll have you know. Now this was taught to me by a wandering gypsy by the light of a full moon." I drew one card after another from the deck and placed them on the blanket in the shape of a cross. "Now, see, this is very good! You're going to live to be 95!"

Spike leaned forward, staring at the royal flush I had inadvertently dealt. "Will… will I be with him?"

I tapped the Jack of Hearts. "Well, the cards say a handsome younger man will be at his side, so I'd say that had to be you."

"What else?"

"You'll be surrounded by children and grandchildren, he'll still be as in love with you as he is today, and… " I thought of something I'd have wanted if the future was mine to arrange. "… and yours will be the last face he sees."

"You're… you're pulling that out your… your ass, Sweets." Paul's eyes had closed, but there was a faint smile on his lips.

"Would the cards lie? Don't give the fortune teller a hard time, wiseass."

Spike's brow wrinkled.

"What's wrong, baby? Don't you want to be with Paul when he dies?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, of course! I was just doing some figuring. Paul is ten years older than me. If he lives to be 95, then I'll be 85 when I die." He sighed happily. "That's a pretty good age."

"Whoa, whoa! Who said anything about you dying?"

"With Paul gone, you don't think I'm going to live a moment longer, do you?"

"Ah, baby." Paul managed to open an eye. "C'mere an'… an' give me a kiss."

My throat ached. I'd never have that in my life. I cleared my throat, gathered up the cards, and shuffled them again.

"Now, don't interrupt me. I need to concentrate and see what else the cards say."

****

A few hours later, Paul was resting more comfortably, although still in the ER, and the fear and tension that had banded my head and wrapped itself around my chest like constricting restraints had eased off. As bad as his injuries looked, Paul was going to pull through.

True to his word, Vincent returned. He wasn't alone, however, which was unusual.

"Fuck." He scowled. "Haven't they found a bed for him yet?"

"'Sokay, baby," Paul said softly. Spike had fallen asleep on the bed next to him, and he was stroking the platinum hair.

Vincent lowered his voice. "It's not okay! You've been down here for hours. I'm not leaving until I get you settled!"

"You always make such a big thing out of everything, baby." Paul shifted.

"You need something for pain?" Vincent asked, looking around as if searching for a nurse.

"I'm okay."

"You're not, but I won't argue with you."

"Vince's so protective of Pretty Boy, you know," I said to the man standing a couple of paces to the side of Vincent. Who was he? I decided to start the ball rolling introduction-wise. "I'm Sweetcheeks and that's Spike. I run this menagerie, as much as these two will allow."

"And when are you going to give it up?" Vincent demanded. "This life is getting downright dangerous." He noticed my eyes were on the other man. "This is Matheson. He's with me."

Matheson, hmmm? The one who had called Vincent? Was there anything between them? After a second or two I decided not. If I hadn't known that Vince had had sex with Pretty Boy, nothing about him would have set off my gaydar. The man with him, on the other hand, definitely had it going tick, tick, tick.

I studied him carefully.

Brown hair, brown eyes, average height. The suit he wore was unremarkable, his hair was cut with apparent disregard for style and how it could be made to highlight his angular face. There was nothing special about him – he could have been any of a hundred other guys seen on the street and forgotten as soon as I walked past them.

So why was it that I couldn't take my eyes off him? Why did I want to strip off that suit and make him squirm, want to make him admit that whether he was bi or gay, he wanted me?

It was that unremarkable suit, I decided as I rose to my feet and offered him my hand. It was so bland and ordinary; I just wasn't able to resist. I tickled his palm with my middle finger. His grip tightened, and my gaydar began pinging like mad, but then he dropped my hand as if he'd been burned.

Vince had his cell phone out, and I was pretty sure he'd missed me teasing his boy.

A hospital staffer came bustling into the bay. "I'm sorry, sir, use of cell phones…" He looked horrified when he saw Vincent. "Oh no! Not you again!" They'd had a run-in earlier.

Matheson stepped in, steering the little man away. "Why don't you point me in the direction of the cafeteria, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee?"

Vincent flipped open his phone and pressed a number. After a few seconds, he spoke. "Senator? It's Vincent." I wasn't surprised that he knew a United States senator – Paul and I knew any number of politicians – but that he had the senator on his speed dial... "I have a situation here, sir. A friend is in the emergency room of WH, and he needs to be admitted, but they don't seem to have a room available. Can you… You will? Thanks very much, Senator. I'll wait for your call."

"Should I take out the cards?"

"No. This shouldn't take too long." Within minutes, his cell phone rang, a discreet sound, unlike mine which played 'Let Me Entertain You.' "Vincent. Yes, sir. Oh, they did?" A hard smile curled his lips. "Yes, sir. Thank you again, Senator. It's been a pleasure. Goodbye, sir." He glanced at me. "They're going to move some woman to the maternity floor, and Pretty Boy will have her room. They'll probably be coming for him soon."

"Cool. We'd better get Spike off the bed."

Matheson came back just then. He was alone. "Some men just shouldn't work around sick people. Edgar was feeling a little queasy; he's decided to go home early."

Vince nodded. "Nice work, Matheson." He shook Spike. "They've found a bed for Pretty Boy. Go wait out in the lobby until they've transferred him."

I didn't know why he wanted Spike out of the area – maybe in case the hospital gown slipped and revealed the bruises that covered Paul's torso – but I jumped at the chance to be alone with the delectable Matheson. "Vince, I'm going down to get some coffee. Mind if I bring your boy along with me?"

Matheson looked as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. He just turned to Vince.

"Go ahead, but I expect him back in one piece, Sweetcheeks."

Matheson flushed a little.

"Sure thing, Vince. I won't even dent the suit." This was going to be fun.

I hadn't realized it was so late that the cafeteria was shut down for the night. Matheson fished some coins from his pocket and fed them into a vending machine. He handed me a cup of the black sludge that passed for coffee everywhere at this time of night.

"Thanks. Milk?" I offered him one of the little containers of creamer that was on the counter.

"Milk's for wusses."

I had raised the cup to my lips, but that stopped me from taking a sip. "Are you calling me a wuss?"

"I'm certainly not calling you Sweetcheeks."

"Oh?" Son of a bitch! The first man I'd been attracted to since… well, forever, and he had to turn out to be a shit. "Mind telling me why? You think it makes me sound like a rentboy?" I gave him a hard glare. Vincent must have told him what our line of work was. It didn't matter a hill of beans to him, but too many times people had put us down because that was what we did for a living.

The glower that I'd learned from Tim didn't seem to bother Matheson at all.

"No." His expression was bland. "It makes you sound like my boyfriend."

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. He was flirting with me? "You… uh… you really call your boyfriends 'sweetcheeks'?"

He studied me coolly. He wasn't going to answer me.

I opened my mouth to tease him, and instead heard myself say, "Theo. My name is Theo." My brows snapped together. Why had I done that, given him my real name? I hadn't used it since the day my father had thrown me out of the house when I was fifteen.

"Theo," he repeated.

I shivered in pleasure at the sound of my name on his lips and forgot about trying to figure out why I'd given it to him.

"Nice name."

"So… " I gazed at him, let my lashes sweep down then raise up. "… you gonna tell me your name?"

"You know my name. Matheson."

"I don’t intend to call you by your last name when I kiss you." Neither of us was drinking the coffee. I took his cup and threw it away with mine. I wanted us to have both hands free.

"You … you want to kiss me?" He seemed surprised, and when his tongue swept across his lips, almost as if he was already tasting my kiss, he probably didn't even realize it. "William."

Hmmm. So he was called, "William?"

A slow grin and an even slower shake of his head.

I took a step closer to him. "Billy?"

He frowned, and I didn't need the shake this time to know not Billy.

Another step, and I had my arms around him and my lips a breath away. "…Wills?" I kissed him.

His lips were soft and pliant, warm, and they parted under mine with a sigh.

There was something about the way he kissed – careful and… careful, as if he were afraid he'd hurt me. I threaded the fingers of one hand through that ordinary, nothing special haircut and brought his face closer, deepening the kiss, and slid my other hand into his pants.