Fight (17 page)

Terrified, I snapped my head around and did my best to ignore the threat pointed in my face. “Don't do this,” I whispered, my voice choked and pleading, as it too often was with him lately. “Please."

"This is the final stage. Everything I've done for you..."

"Don't make me one of them.” I scooted forward as much as my tied hands would let me. If I could just touch him. Some surreal part of me needed to make sure he still had warmth in his skin.

"One of who?"

Outside the bedroom, voices shouted and feet stomped. My attention darted to the door and the dresser, but I quickly focused back on Carl. “Those men. I'm yours, remember? You did this all...” I couldn't say it. That would make it too real. “You said we'd go someplace together."

Carl just looked at me. The gun wavered but didn't fall.

"You remember.” I swallowed, tugged at my bonds again, pulled my knees up, trying to get comfortable. “Back when...when we started? It was fantastic.” I managed a smile, even, and fought to ignore the commotion on the other side of the door. “You protected me from everyone."

Looking back now, I could see Carl's actions for the signs of dangerous obsession they were, but at the time it had been nice to be wanted that much.

"We were so good together, Carl."

"Were?” Carl's brow drew down in a deep frown.

"We're going to go away, remember?” I hastily reminded him. “Together. We're going to get all that back. Just you and me."

"You want that?"

"I want you to be happy, Carl. Safe and happy."

"I had to...” Carl frowned harder. “You understand, right? They were..."

"It doesn't matter now, Carl. It's over. Whatever they were, it's over now. Just you and me.” I yanked at my hands again. “See?"

"You and me.” He shuffled over to the bed, flipped me easily onto my back, opened the belt holding my ankles, and knelt between my legs. The gun he set down on my chest. It was surprisingly heavy, and I couldn't take my eyes off it. At least for the moment it was out of his hands. Hands that were suddenly at my crotch, popping open the button on my jeans.
Why haven't the police started coming through that door?

"Carl?” It was all I could do not to squirm away.

"One last time, Paul, yeah? You and me."

"Carl.” I glanced toward the door and the fracas in the hall. “Get rid of them first."

"Why?"

He had my zipper open, and the beginnings of panic stirred in my gut. Why this frightened me more than having a deadly weapon pointed at my face I couldn't say. But I couldn't let him see it.

"Because they'll see me.” I willed him to look at me while I could still fake sincerity enough to have him believe me. “I'm yours. No one else should see me. Make them go away."

Carl stilled his hands and stared ahead at the wall. Paul was right. He shouldn't be seen. Not by those bastards out there. They weren't worthy enough to set eyes upon him, taint him with their steely gazes. Paul was good and pure and whole. Not like
them
—those men had deserved to die. Deserved a knife to their damn guts.

Blinking, he zipped up Paul's jeans and looked down at him.

He's my life. The one I belong with.
A loud banging smacked on the door.
And those men out there...they're in my fucking way.

Carl snatched the gun from Paul's chest, reversed off the bed on his knees, and turned to face the door. No way were those fuckers going to stop what he had in mind. He teetered on what to do next as the wardrobe nudged forward and an inch gap grew between the door and the frame. Shoot them both before they came in, or get rid of them as Paul had asked? He could do that one last thing for Paul, couldn't he? Shoot the motherfuckers to kingdom come then turn the gun on Paul, with promises he would join him a second later? He nodded and raised the gun, waiting for the wardrobe to slide across the floor with the weight of the first unlucky son of a bitch to walk into the room.

His heart pounded hard and fast, and breaths rushed out of his mouth and nose. His two-hand hold on the gun remained steady, and shuffles from the bed sounded behind him. Paul hiding himself by curling his body into a ball? Yes, Paul was hiding himself. He no more wanted to be seen by those men than Carl wanted him seen.

He still loves me. Shit, he understands, he really does.

A surge of confidence winged through him, and Carl watched in a surreal state of calm as the wardrobe glided in a slow-motion arc, the gap between the door and frame growing wider, wider... A dark shape filled the space, full police gear on his bulky body, a helmet complete with lowered visor over his face. Carl's finger tightened on the trigger, and he hoped there were only six of them out there; otherwise he was fucked—he couldn't spare the time to reload if there were more. Adrenaline spread through him, and he snapped his finger back. The retort of gunfire shocked him for a second, the sound ringing in his ears and paining his head. A burning sensation speared his upper arm, and his hands separated, one still holding the gun, the fingers of the other grasping at the air like a claw. He staggered back—everything was so damn slow!—and the figure in the doorway jerked his head to the side as Carl's bullet ripped and splintered the doorframe.

I missed! I fucking missed!

His body at a forty-five degree angle now, Carl continued to fall back and smacked against the floor, a huge breath whooshing out of his mouth. Muffled voices—so far away, so quiet—filled the room, and he rolled onto his stomach.

"You okay, Paul?” someone shouted.

The tenor abraded Carl's nerves, the strength of the voice so loud compared to the other near-whispers. He winced, pain shooting up his arm, and he stared at the bed. At Paul, whose wide-eyed gaze was fixed on someone behind Carl.

How the fuck do they know his name?

"You did good,” the same voice said.

He did good? What the hell?

Something pinned Carl down at his lower back—
A boot. Some bastard has his boot on me
—and realization smacked him into real time, into knowing Paul had been part of some plan to catch him.

He betrayed me. Fucking betrayed me. After all I've done for him!

Carl raised the gun, finger pulling back the trigger, his intent to shoot Paul so no one else could have him.

"Do it, kid. Kill him. He did good—he did
good
, you hear me? He's on their side not yours. He doesn't love you, and you know what you gotta do if he doesn't love you."

The gun went off a second before another boot came down on Carl's arm, holding his wrist to the floor. The boot's tread bit into his skin, and he took his gaze from Paul to watch the gun skittering across the floor. Another foot kicked it further away—
so many legs and feet in here now
—and Carl bucked, fighting to free himself from whoever held him down.

"Cuff the bastard!” someone yelled, a new voice, louder than the previous.

Rough hands yanked Carl's arms back, the pain in his bicep so severe his head spun. The cold touch of steel encircled his wrists, the snap of the handcuffs extraordinarily obscene in volume, and Carl cried out. Another, sharper pain swept through him, that of losing Paul, losing his control, losing every damn thing he'd worked so hard to get. He closed his eyes as someone hauled him to his feet, unable to look at Paul or any of the men crowding the bedroom. A fist closed around his upper arm, the one that burned like a bitch, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to give them any pleasure at his pain. A jerk sent him reeling sideways, and his eyes snapped open, his mouth following suit. He clamped his lips closed on the bark of indignation that threatened to spill and stared at a man in the doorway. A man he'd seen before. One he hadn't wanted to see again. Black dude, all muscles and brawn, all smug grin and piercing eyes.

"Get him out of here,” the guy said, fists clenching. “Just get him the fuck away from Paul."

Carl made to glance back at the bed, but the helmeted officer shoved him forward. The black guy stepped aside, flattening himself against the hallway wall as though he was disgusted at the idea of Carl touching him. In the doorway, Carl stared at him, giving a glare he hoped summed up how he felt about some cop bastard who had designs on Paul. Yeah, he had designs all right. It was plain to see, and that knowledge tromped through Carl in thick-soled boots, churning his guts. Quick-flash images of this guy touching Paul sped through his mind, and he resisted walking, dragging his heels on the floor.

"Move it!” his captor said, fingers digging into his arm.

Gaze still on the black guy, Carl reared his head back and hawked. A glob of spittle landed on the cop's cheek, but his expression didn't change. Anger boiled inside Carl. What would it take to rile this man?

"Paul's a lousy fuck,” Carl ground out, his focus fixed on the guy's eyes. “And always remember...I was there first."

The guy's eyes narrowed just a little, but it was enough of a reaction to take the edge off the ire spiraling through Carl. He smiled then laughed, throwing his head back as he was escorted down the hallway and out the door. The laughter kept coming, gusting out of him in the elevator, the foyer, and into the air outside. A crowd had gathered, worried residents clustered together, and they stared at Carl, some shaking heads, others with their eyes so wide they almost bugged out of their sockets. Carl continued to laugh, the sound a comfort, the release a balm. It obliterated thoughts of what would happen next, what had been in the past, what Paul had done to him. Nothing but laughter consumed him until that voice, that hateful, awful voice penetrated the hilarity and brought him smack bang into reality.

"You're a damn failure, you know that, kid? Always knew you'd fuck it up. You've never had the balls to see anything through to the right conclusion. Always knew best, didn't you? Always had to do it your way or not at all. And now look at you. Caught like an animal. Loser. An all-out loser, that's what you are."

Carl stumbled across the grass toward a police car, the grip on his arm tightening, burning. The laughter petered out, morphing into sobs that racked his chest. Tears fell, hot and wet and real, damn it, and he entered a cocooned state, where everything happened as though under water. The rear police car door yawned open. A hand covered the top of his head and pressed him into the seat. The door closed.

As did the door to his dreams.

The shaking started again. The belt around my wrists dug into the old wounds, and the room seemed to drop into freezing. I could see Carl making his decision, see it in his eyes when he let go of reason, and I felt it in my chest, the tightening bands of regret and revulsion. Not at him. Something made him this way, and I knew it wasn't me. Something long before me. I'd had a chance to save him. I didn't. I watched him lift that gun thinking I was with him, believing in me. I curled myself around the nausea rolling up through my gut, a coward right to the end, not even able to watch.

Carl, don't. Please don't do this.

Gunshots are loud. The sheer force of the sound spun my head back around in time to see him fall.

Not like this.

But maybe this was better. Maybe this was the way out he wanted. Instinct had me trying to get up, to go to him, then Vic was there, peering past him, just looking at me as Sanders came past Carl's writhing form to the bedside.

Not dead.

I didn't know if that was a relief or not.

"You okay, Paul?"

Jim Sanders’ voice came from somewhere beyond the rational world. I gazed past him to Vic, still silent, still watching me with that now-familiar, but inscrutable look in his eyes. I swallowed. Why was he just standing there? Did he know how badly I'd failed to protect Carl? Did he think I was a fool for caring at all? I wished I could read his thoughts, but he just looked at me, dark eyes never wavering.

"You did good, Paul,” Sanders told me, as he reached to undo the belt still tying me to the bed.

What the fuck did he know? I glanced at Carl, at the horrific, demon fight he put up to get free. If he turned and saw Vic, would he recognize him? It had taken me forever to place him in the park in the khakis and t-shirt; the last straw, the cause of the fight and the rough and frightening abuse that finally made me leave. It seemed like this whole mess had started that night, though I knew that wasn't true. Vic's haunted look as we drove by wasn't the start. It was just the tipping point.

I looked back to Carl in time to see his hand come up again, heavy with the weight of black metal and hatred. I half expected him to point it at Vic, and opened my mouth to warn him.

Too late.

As I said before, gunshots are loud, and bullets hurt. Even ricocheting of the bedpost and mostly missing, only passing through the flesh just above my wrist, it fucking hurt. I was too surprised to make a sound.

Vic finally did, though, shouting at his fellow officers to cuff Carl as Sanders kicked at his hand, then at the gun he dropped.

The gun. He fucking shot me.

"He was going to anyway,” I reminded myself in a whisper.

Everything seemed to speed up, happen in a rush. I heard the clatter of cuffs. Carl was hauled up, and he glared at Vic as they pushed him out through the door. Sanders unfastened my bonds and pressed the sheets to the free-flowing blood at my wrist.

I watched Carl be led away. He spat on Vic, who just glared at him. Carl said something, and Vic's eyes narrowed, and the sound of Carl's laughter echoed through my head a long time after I couldn't logically hear it anymore.

When he was gone, Sanders backed off, leaving room for Vic on the bed next to me.

"Thanks, Chewy. Get these louts out of here, will you?” He waved vaguely around at the lingering uniformed men and perched protectively between me and them.

"He needs a bus, Vic.” Sanders’ hand came down lightly on Vic's shoulder and squeezed.

"Yeah. Send them up."

Sanders sighed. “Two minutes."

"Yeah.” Vic hadn't taken his eyes off me once Carl was gone. His gaze was a little unnerving.