Out of the Blackness (2 page)

I hear someone yell out, “Yates!” just as I spring from the bench and sprint in the other direction. I need to get inside where I’m safe.

***

Sam gets home late, which usually means he’s at the gym, but I can tell by his face that isn’t the case tonight. When he looks up from taking off gun belt and sees me in the kitchen, his expression changes from contemplative to something I can’t quite make out. He quickly stashes his service piece in the gun safe in the coat closet, crosses both rooms and envelops me in a hug so tight I have trouble breathing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my mouth smashed against his chest.

The sound of my voice seems to break whatever trance he’s in and he steps back, letting me go. “It was just a really bad day at work,” he answers, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water. He twists off the lid and sucks half of it down before I can even wonder what that has to do with me. Of course, maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Sometimes even Sam needs comfort—that he gets some of that from me is still surprising, but at least it makes me feel less bad about leaning on him so heavily all the time. Unfortunately, when a police officer has a bad day, that’s generally not a good thing for anyone. I’m about to ask again if he’s okay when Sam finishes his water and tosses the bottle in the recycling bin.

He sniffs the air appreciatively. “Dinner smells good. I’m gonna go take a shower.”

“It’s almost ready,” I say, turning back to peer through the window in the oven door.

“Okay. Listen, Aves … If you think you’ll be alright on your own tonight, I think I’m going to head over to Kira’s place. I may spend the night.”

“Of course,” I lie. “I’ll be fine.” I keep my back to him so he won’t see the fear I know is readable in my eyes. Some comfort he gets from me, some he gets from Kira. I know their relationship is serious. They’ve been dating for a year and a half and they’re clearly madly in love. I also know that means someday soon I’ll be on my own. The thought absolutely terrifies me, but I know times like these are good practice for when that happens. “Are you going to eat dinner first?” I ask lightly.

“Of course, champ,” he says, ruffling my hair as he walks by. “I’d never miss your Spanish chicken and rice.”

After we eat, Sam sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to him. “C’mon, let’s get in some serious bonding time before I have to go.”

I want to say no, but we both know I need it. Maybe he does, too. During dinner, I kept catching him looking at me, but he wouldn’t say anything other than it had been a bad day. I know he’s protecting me again, but I don’t know what from this time. Instead of questioning him, I curl up next to him and breathe in his fresh, reassuring scent.

The next thing I know, I’m being lowered gently onto my bed. My sleepy gaze locks with Sam’s as my head settles into the softness of the pillow. He smiles slightly and whispers, “Go back to sleep. I’ll stay for a while.”

I nod sleepily and close my eyes. As soon as the bedroom door clicks shut, though, my muscles are riddled with tension. I try to relax them in individual groups the way one therapist tried to teach me, but it’s no use. I lay there, stiff as a board, until I hear the apartment door close behind Sam some time later.

I wait a few minutes in case he’s forgotten his wallet or something. Once I’m sure he’s gone, I get up and cross the room to my chest of drawers. Inside are my pallet supplies—two blankets, a pillow, and a nightlight. I plug the nightlight into the oddly-placed but convenient socket and, for a moment, almost get lost in the soft blue LED glow. I keep one of the blankets folded in half to act as the mattress, then place the pillow at one end and drop the other blanket accordion-style along the other wall. I’ve found it’s easier to pull across my body when I do it that way.

Once my Sam’s-away bed is complete, I move quietly into the kitchen and prepare a mug of extra-doctored hot chocolate. I know I shouldn’t double-dose the Ambien, but it’s important that I sleep through the night. Having a nightmare without Sam here would keep me up all night, terrified of every sound and shadow. The anxiety would carry over throughout the day and I would be a useless mess at work. Sam doesn’t know I do this and I hope he never finds out. I don’t want to see the sadness and disappointment in his eyes. Even more than that, I don’t want him to feel guilty about leaving me on my own. I’m almost twenty-three; a grown up. I should be able to handle being alone in the safety of my own home.

But the sad truth is the nights have always been the worst. The cover of darkness lowers inhibitions and allows people—men, especially—to do things they would only dream about in the daylight. I’ve learned that the hard way. It’s the reason I’ve only been able to sleep with the light off in the last year. Even now, sometimes a nightlight isn’t enough and I have to leave a lamp on.

I drink half the mug before I even make it back to my bedroom. I lie down on my pallet but quickly get back up again. From the nightstand next to my twin bed, I grab my low-end cellphone from the charger. I glance at the time—10:14—and make sure the alarms are set. I can’t afford to be late to work tomorrow. I lie down once more atop my makeshift bed and drain the last of the chocolaty goodness. I place the mug on the carpet outside my space, then reach over and draw the closet door closed, secure in my little space inside.

***

Tuesdays are the slowest day of the retail week and that is definitely true today. I look out over the store from the cashier’s stand ten feet to the left of the front doors and see nary a soul. Apparently, present-hunters only think of small bookstores on weekends. Molly and Brian have scampered off to the break room for their customary Lovers Luncheon, leaving me to man the register.

I’m contemplating what an odd expression that is and how it scarcely applies to me—I feel more like an energized bundle of nerves than “a man” most of the time, and what does feeling like “a man,” well, feel like?—when
he
walks in, the guy from the alley.

It’s been three days since I’ve seen him and I’ve managed to completely put him out of my mind. But here he is again, live and in the flesh. My breath catches at the sight of him and I look quickly away. I don’t want to antagonize him by looking at him. Some straight guys seem to think that any time a gay guy looks at them, he’s thinking about him sexually. It isn’t true, of course, especially in my case, but it’s been three months since my last trip to the hospital and I really don’t want another trip there today.

That first quick glance at him did provide some details, though. He’s dressed similarly to the way he was on Saturday, but this time his blond hair is covered by a stocking cap, the kind with the retro yarn ball on top. As he comes toward me, I realize he is truly huge, with broad shoulders, a trim waist and what Brian’s friends would call ginormous guns. He’s bigger even than my 6’2” brother, and that scares the hell out of me. When the time comes—and it will, I can feel it—he’s going to do a lot of damage.

I keep my gaze at the level of his chest—never look them in the eye, rule number two for survival—and take three steps back from the counter, out of fag-bashing range, even for arms as long as his. I fumble for my phone on the counter behind me, hoping I can get a call out to Molly or Brian before anything happens. I realize my heartbeat has kicked up in anticipation, adrenalin coursing through me like crack. My breaths are rapid and shallow and I’m already trembling. He’s between me and the break room, so I can’t escape that way. And if I dash outside, how many members of his posse will be waiting? Running is certain suicide, so I realize it’s going to be a take what’s coming to you moment. He stops at the counter and I cringe, waiting for the impact or the taunt that sometimes, but not always, precedes it.

Except when he speaks, his voice is gentle and laced with something like concern. “Hey—are you okay?”

I nod vigorously, studying the black buttons on his blue plaid flannel shirt.

“You’re trembling. Are you diabetic? Do you need some orange juice or peanut butter or something?”

I shake my head no and force my voice past my lips. It vibrates almost as much as my body does, but at least the tears haven’t started yet. “N-no. H-how c-can I help?”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe I should call someone?”

Once again, I shake my head and repeat the question. He seems less concerned about making road kill out of my face than about my health, so I force myself to relax enough to forestall hyperventilation.

“I’m looking for a present for my little brother,” he says, that note of concern still in his voice. “My name is Noah Yates, by the way. We kind of met the other day. Are you sure you’re okay, dude?”

I see his hand come at me and I yelp and jump back, ending up half-sprawled across the back countertop.

It’s just then that Molly comes around the corner and sees everything. “Hey!” she yells, charging up to stand between me and Noah Yates, intimidating in her instant fury despite being a good eight inches shorter than him. “What are you doing?” she demands of my would-be basher.

“What?” Noah Yates asks with an astonishing level of surprise in his voice. “I—nothing—” He stops, takes a breath and continues with a different tone altogether. “I was offering to shake hands.” He sighs. “I’m Noah Yates. I work next door and I came over to look for a comic book for my little brother, but I don’t know anything about them, so I was hoping for some help.”

“You weren’t trying to hurt Avery?” Molly clarifies, menace still in her voice.

“No! I would never—look, maybe I should just go. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m sorry I scared you, Avery. You have nothing to fear from me, I promise.”

“Avery?” Molly demands.

“Y-yeah?” I squeak.

“Are you okay?”

“I-I guess so?” I reluctantly climb down from the counter, feeling foolish, but keep my distance from Noah Yates. He sounds sincere, even contrite, but I’m still wary.

“Okay,” Molly says. “You,” she points to Noah Yates, “I’ll meet over there at the comic books section.” She indicates the wall adjoining his store with a nod of her head. “You,” she swings on me now, “go keep Brian company in the break room. And for Pete’s sake, calm down.”

As they walk away, I hear Molly start to tell him about the guy who, a few months ago, tried to punch me because I had just sold the last Blu-ray copy of
Twilight
. I wait for them to get well out of change-your-mind range before practically sprinting for the break room.

“Oh, you do want some?” Brian asks when I come through the door. “I didn’t think carrot cake was your thing.”

I’m too busy trying to catch my breath and calm down to pay much attention to him. He notices my agitation and stands.

“Avery? What’s wrong?”

I shake my head and put out a stilling hand. “Nothing. I overreacted, that’s all.”
But he’s
so
big
, I think, and wonder when the last time a guy that big was nice to me. For all his muscles, Brian isn’t that big. He’s probably five-ten, which is way bigger than my five-four, but Noah Yates must be at least a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier than me.

Brian is still looking at me. I can feel it. Finally, he says, “Are you sure you’re okay?” At my nod, he indicates a chair at the empty table. “Have a seat, man. Help yourself to some cake. I’m gonna go check on Molly.”

After Brian exits, I sit at the table and try to collect my badly scattered wits. What just happened is extreme, even for me. I know the almost endless nightmares of the last two weeks are affecting my judgment. I will always be afraid of guys the size of Noah Yates, but usually I can control my terror a little better at work. I want to cry at the hopelessness of the situation, but instead, I heave shuddering breaths.

I don’t know how long it takes me to calm down, but a few minutes after I feel like myself again, Molly walks in the door with a huge smile on her black-painted lips. I narrow my eyes and turn away, afraid she’s going to make fun of me. Molly is probably the person I trust most after Sam and his girlfriend Kira’s brother Kaleb, and she’s always been considerate of my feelings, even without knowing the full story of my past.

Instead of making fun of me, though, she sits across from me and takes my hand in both of hers. I try to tug it away, but she holds fast. Anyone else and I would flip out completely, but I know Molly won’t hurt me.

“Avery,” she begins quietly, “can you tell me what happened?”

I shake my head again, not that I won’t tell her, just that I don’t know how. “He’s so big,” I say instead.

She nods. “He didn’t come here to hurt you, Aves.” My eyes flick up to hers and I see the teasing glint in them to match the smile once again on her lips. “He came in because he thinks you’re cute. Apparently you almost met in the alley the other day?”

I stare at her in shock and confusion. “H-he thinks I’m cute?” I cringe inwardly, thinking of all the ways that simple statement could lead to more hospital bills. Tears spring to my eyes and I ask desperately, “Did you tell him to stay away?”

I see several expressions cross Molly's face in quick succession, but I’m so bad at reading them—avoiding eye contact has its own consequences—that I have no idea what they mean. “Oh, Avery, why would I do that? He seems like a really nice guy. He was so upset about scaring you it took all my considerable charm to get him to stop apologizing.” She squeezed my hand once more before letting go and standing up. “You should give him a shot. I invited him over for lunch tomorrow.”

***

The rest of the day passes like it’s standing still. By the time I clock out, I’m ready to climb the walls. As much as I often relate to Rogue and her inability to touch and be touched without causing pain or death, I would so much rather be Spiderman. Better yet, I would love to have the ability to freeze time or explode bad guys like Piper from the old TV show
Charmed
.

I quickly walk the two blocks to the parking lot, shivering from the cold despite my heavy pea coat. The sidewalks are quiet at this time of day, which always surprises me. An hour earlier and the buildings are filled with businesspeople and shoppers. But come six o’clock, everyone has better places to be.