Out of the Blackness (27 page)
“Think you can deliver a message to little Sammy for me, Tucker?”
It wasn't really a question and this had very little to do with Sam. Tommy’s fist connected with my gut, much harder than any punch he’d ever thrown as a teenager. I doubled over in pain and my eyes closed just before his jeans-clad knee smashed into my face.
I cried out in agony and terror, begging him to please stop. He’d always wanted me to beg before but I’d refused. Now I did it easily, not for me, but for Sam. I knew I was born to take beatings like this, it was my purpose in life, but I didn’t want Sam to answer the eventual 911 call and find me like this. It didn’t matter anyway. I pleaded until I couldn’t draw breath enough to speak. Just like before, Tommy took his time and enjoyed himself, showing off for his cheering buddies before leaving my bloody, bruised and broken body on the filthy tile floor. His last act of humiliation was to urinate on me before calmly washing his hands and walking out the door laughing, clasping his buddies on the shoulders.
I don’t know how long I lay there, semi-conscious in agony, before some unsuspecting father and his small son found me. I awoke hours later in the hospital to see Sam’s worried face staring down at me. Only then did I let myself cry. I cried at the pain, the humiliation and the cruel, spiteful destiny that was mine, to forever be the punching bag for the dregs of society.
It had been a cruel joke to give me the previous five years with Sam, slowly learning how to be a different, better person, one who wasn't always the target. Just as I was about to forget my role, Tommy reminded me.
The rattling of a door at the front of the courtroom brings me out of the nightmare. I suck in a breath and sit upright, swiping away the tears on my cheeks. Today isn’t Tommy’s victory, though; it’s mine, mine and Joey’s. Finally the bastard is going to prison for a long time. I grab Sam’s hand, squeezing for dear life as the sheriff’s deputies escort Tommy in. I feel the weight of Noah’s hand on my thigh and cover it with my own, my tension slowly sliding away. Tommy looks thinner and more bedraggled than I remember. His longish blond hair is a dirty, ratted mess around his head. The orange jail jumpsuit and shackles remind me he won’t be able to hurt me now and I slacken my grip on Sam’s hand. Tommy doesn’t look up from concentrating on walking with the shackles, but I can see his face.
I had expected to be terrorized upon seeing him, but instead a strange sort of peace radiates through me. The second greatest demon of my childhood is about to be vanquished.
Those of us in the courtroom rise when the judge enters. The last minute legal speak is nothing but a buzz to my ears as I continue to watch Tommy stand at the defendant’s table. Finally I look at the judge for the first time as he begins to speak to Tommy.
“Mr. Blevins, you have appeared before this court three times previously. Each time I have allowed your counsel to persuade me that with adequate drug rehabilitation and counseling, you can be a contributing member of our society. However, that will not be the case this time. Your appearance here on the most serious charges of your criminal career indicates to me that, while you may not lack the capacity for change, you lack the will to do so. Therefore, this court sentences you to the maximum allowable sentence for each count against you. That is a total of seventy-six years, Mr. Blevins. You could very well spend the rest of your natural life in prison. I suggest you spend the time before your first parole availability in…” I watch in awe as the judge searches through his papers. “…seventeen years to learn how to be the contributing member of society your counsel believes you can be. We’re done here.”
In stunned silence, I watch as the judge rises from his bench and disappears through a door at the front of the courtroom. Tommy’s lawyer bends to say something in his ear as the deputies pull him from his chair.
It’s over. My Tommy Blevins nightmare is over. I’m free of him. I look at Sam, still wearing the shock on my face.
He grins. “How’s that feel, champ?”
“It’s really over, isn’t it?” I search his face for any sign I might be wrong and find none. I turn to catch a glimpse of Tommy being led back through the door whence he came. I look at Sam again and then at Noah, my face nearly cracking with the size of my smile. I want to cry with relief, but I will shed no more tears for Tommy Blevins—never, ever again. “Ice cream. I need ice cream to celebrate!”
My guys laugh and lead me from the courtroom, matching smile lighting up their faces.
I’
m a miserable failure. I’m not wallowing in the “miserable” so much as the “failure.” After listening to Kaleb’s concerns about my relationship with Noah and then trying and failing to get Noah to admit that our friendship would be better without kisses, I will admit only to myself that I’m glad Noah didn’t budge on the issue. Noah's kisses are wonderful and amazing and they’re practically all I can think about when he’s not around. I think I must be getting better at them because he seems to want to kiss me more often now. I’m not complaining.
He’s gotten busier in the last three weeks. We hardly ever see each other now unless one of us makes a special effort to do so, and so, of course, we do. As much as I love spending time with him, I know he’s working himself to the bone with his school work. It seems like every time I talk to him he’s either between classes or headed to or from the library or a meeting with one of his faculty advisors.
Today is another of those marathon work sessions for him. Last night he said he needed to spend the whole of his Saturday finishing his research. Most of his paper is finished, though, so what he’s doing today is fact-and reference-checking.
Last week was my first official week as bookkeeper of Flip the Page. Because Walter has paid for and enrolled me in some online classes with the local community college, it seems I’m going to be working extra-long hours for the foreseeable future, which further limits the amount of time I have to spend with Noah. Exactly when that time with him became so important to me, I refuse to think about, just as I refuse to analyze my growing feelings for him. All I know is that when I’m with Noah, I feel like I could conquer the world. I feel normal, worthwhile and cared for in a way Sam never could—or should—make me feel. Sam is my brother; Noah is most definitely not.
It’s early when I arrive at Noah's apartment. As he kept hounding me weeks ago until I finally agreed, I slip my key in the lock and go on in without knocking first. “This is your second home, Avery. You shouldn’t have to knock on the door to your own home,” he told me then. A smile teases my lips as I think about that conversation. If mom could have seen the determined look on his face, heard in his voice how much he wanted me to feel at home there, she probably would have passed out. Noah sees good in me, even when I don’t. Noah wants me around, even when I’m desperate to escape my own head. It’s shocking, amazing and something I will never take for granted.
Lights are on in the kitchen and living room, but I don’t see or hear Noah, even though he should be hard at work on his last paper. It’s due by five o’clock Monday. Perhaps he’s gone out for breakfast or to the gym to free his mind for a while.
“Noah?” I call, just in case. The preternatural silence of the apartment spooks me. I know it’s just because I expected to find Noah bent over his laptop working furiously before heading to the library later. Nothing seems out of place or even different from the other times I’ve been here, but I can’t deny that it just
feels
weird. “Noah?” I call again.
I walk into the kitchen and see his wallet, car keys and cell phone sitting on the bar. Wherever he’s gone, he’s not going far. Bracing myself, I move to the mouth of the hallway. There are only three doors down the hall: the bathroom, Noah's bedroom and a smaller bedroom he keeps for his brother, Luke.
I call his name again and this time I’m rewarded with what sounds suspiciously like a groan. Not a good, happy moan, but a noise borne of pain. Immediately my mind jumps back to all the times I’ve made similar noises. My knees shake like they’re teaching my hands how it’s done and I practically fall into the wall when I take a step forward. My mental view screen flashes ridiculous images of Noah lying on the floor, covered in blood from a beating he doesn’t deserve. I force myself down the hall and peer into his bedroom for the first time.
Noah lays supine atop an enormous unmade bed, dressed only in blue boxers, one arm thrown over his eyes. He’s pale against the caramel-colored sheets, but otherwise seems unharmed. Although he’s not covered in blood, he is covered in sweat.
“Noah?” I call again.
He rolls in my direction and peers at me as though he doesn’t really believe he’s seeing me. “Aves?” he croaks weakly.
With only the slightest hesitation, I cross the room to kneel beside the bed. “Are you okay?” I ask, putting my hand to his forehead. He’s burning up. I jerk my hand away in surprise then slowly put it back, gently brushing the damp strands of his hair from his clammy skin.
Noah groans again, his eyes closed already. The rush of emotion almost overwhelms me. I have no idea what to do for him but there’s no way I can leave him to his suffering. Seeing the big man felled rattles me. Noah has always been so strong and confident, almost like he’s immune to the everyday troubles of life. I know that’s not true. I know he’s as human as the rest of us, but he’s such a tank—big in size and in personality.
I think back, dredging the depths of memory for a clue how mom or a foster caregiver had helped me or one of the other boys in a similar situation. The only thing I can think is to get Noah's fever down before his brain boils. I have no idea where that appalling thought comes from, but it scares me into action.
I stumble away from him and dash into the connecting bathroom where I search cabinets for a washrag. Finally finding his neatly-folded multicolored stash, I wet the cotton under the cold water tap, ringing it out and rewetting it in hopes of getting more, even colder water in it.
When I place the cloth on Noah's forehead, he groans and shivers and I’m convinced I’ve just killed him. He rolls onto his back and tries to take the cloth away, but I grab his hand and bring it back down to his flat belly where I hold it loosely. “Shh,” I soothe. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be fine.”
I wish I knew that were true. I wish I could believe me, but I have zero experience with this. Sam is never, ever sick and when I have been, it’s never been like this. I get head colds. Whatever this is that has Noah flat on his back groaning in pain is no head cold.
Gently, I move the cloth around his face, trying to spread the coldness. My hand trembles and at times I fear I’m barely making contact with his skin. Noah groans again as I reach his neck and I realize the cloth has grown warm from our combined heat.
Thinking ahead for once in my life, I rush into the kitchen and fill one of Noah's large mixing bowls with ice and water. Thank goodness the man likes to bake, I think with a slightly hysterical giggle.
Back at Noah's side, I place the bowl on the nightstand and refresh the cloth. The cool pressure on Noah's forehead causes him to gasp and I jerk away, out of my depth now more than ever. The image of his brain boiling behind those hidden hazel eyes is the only thing that keeps me applying the cold cloth to his face and neck. I continue my ministrations with one hand and frantically dig my iPhone from my jeans pocket with the other. I fumble with the blessed thing until, at last, I find the right contact. Looking back at Noah, noting how unnatural it is to see his long thick blond lashes resting against his cheek, shuttered over those beautiful eyes, I punch the key. I force myself to keep calm, to keep moving the cloth along Noah's stubble-studded cheek while the phone on the other end rings and rings.
After what seems an eternity and a half, Kira’s annoyed voice greets me in the usual way.
I take a deep breath and it comes out in a fury. “Kira, you have to help me. Noah's sick, really sick, and I don’t know what to do.”
“What? Avery, slow down. What’s going on?” Obviously I’ve awakened her from a sound sleep.
“Kira, please! He’s burning up! I don’t want his brain to boil, but I don’t know how to stop it! What do I do? I don’t know what to do, Kira. I don’t know what to do to help him.” The last comes out on a sob and I consciously reel myself back in. It’s not much and it won’t last long, but I have to keep it together for Noah's sake.
“Does he have a temperature, Avery?”
I pause. “Uh, I don’t know. I think so? He’s really hot to the touch—on his forehead—and he’s sweating and shivering. I don’t want—Kira, we can’t let his brain boil! It can do that, right? I know I read it somewhere!”
“Focus, Avery,” she snaps, all business now that she’s awake. “Noah's brain is
not
going to boil. Get a cold wet cloth and wipe him down. Start with his face and neck and do his torso, too.”
“H-his torso?” I squeak, looking down at—oh, man, the most beautiful almost naked male body I’ve ever seen. The man is ripped and tight in all the right spots, the golden hairs of his chest made dark with sweat, cling to his skin in swirling patterns. The rippled dunes of his abdomen capture my attention for a moment before I force my mind back to the reason he’s splayed out naked before me like a buffet.
“Yes, his torso. Keep it together, Avery. It’ll be okay. Is he awake? Has he told you what’s wrong?”
“He’s burning up! That’s what’s wrong!” I huff, exasperated at both of us. My eyes stay glued to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Noah's chest. His naked, tanned, golden-haired chest just a few inches away.
Through the phone, I hear Kira’s keys scrape across some table. “Keep up with the wash cloth, Aves. Try to wake him up and give him some ibuprofen or Tylenol to start lowering his fever. Then get him to sit in a cold bath. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just hang on, champ. You’re doing great.”
Ibuprofen? A cold bath?
Yes, that’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that? Dropping the phone to the floor, I rush to Noah's bathroom and start the water filling the tub, thankful I don’t have to search around for a plug for the stupid thing like the one at my place. Here it’s a lever I switch. I put my fingers in the water and hiss at the coldness of it. Noah's really not going to like that. Hoping I’m doing the right thing, I open the warm tap just a little so it won’t be so shockingly cold to his heated skin. I pause at the medicine cabinet to retrieve the ibuprofen, then dash to the kitchen for a glass of water.