Patient Privilege
A Silver Publishing Book
Patient Privilege
Copyright © 2012 by Allison Cassatta
E-book ISBN: 9781614956242
First E-book Publication: August 2012
Cover design by Reese Dante
Editor: Geoffrey Greene
All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Silver Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
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All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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This book is written in US English.
PUBLISHER
www.SPSilverPublishing.com
Note from the Publisher
Dear Reader,
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Dedication
To all my fans, thank you for your support.
In loving memory of my little brother.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Bengay
: Pfizer Inc
Formica
: Diller Corporation
Honda
: Honda Motor Company
Jacuzzi
: Jacuzzi Inc
Joan Rivers
: Rosenberg, Joan Rivers
Land Rover
: Land Rover Corporation
Mercedes
: Daimler AG Corporation
Palomar Hotel
: Kimpton Hotel & Restaurant Group
Snickers
: Mars Incorporated
Starbucks
: Starbucks Corporation
UCLA
: Regents of the University of California, the California Corporation
Volvo
: Volvo
Ziploc
: SC Johnson and Son Inc
Chapter One
Perfectly fucking tragic—one cock was just like every other cock, nothing fresh, nothing new, just boring. Angel squatted to his knees, lowered his head and took the john's pasty, average-sized dick into his mouth. He drew circles around Mr No-Name's average girth with his tongue, licked down the shaft to the head and back again. Blowing a few of those plain, boring, average cocks bought Angel a room for the night, maybe some food, and almost always a hit—or two or ten—of whatever drug he chose at that moment. Right now, he wanted heroin. And by God, he would get it, even if that meant kneeling down in a slimy-ass alley and blowing some jerk who obviously wasn't getting it at home.
Every time one of the little spikes at either corner of Angel's plump bottom lip hit the john's balls, the guy hissed, but then the sound rolled into a moan and Angel felt a pulse of excitement against his tongue. He almost wanted to stop blowing just so he could laugh. And he might've if he didn't have an intense desire to get this shit over with so he could get high.
His thumb stroked back and forth between the guy's balls while he two-fingered the john's ass. This particular guy always came looking for Angel—said he wasn't like the other whores, said he made him come faster than anyone, and that gave the trick time to get back home to his wife and kids without any of them being the wiser. It would've been hard for a forty-something husband and father of three to explain to his family that he really had a proclivity for boys closer to his son's age.
That shit just wouldn't fly.
Whatever. Angel didn't give a damn about the guy or his family. He only cared about taking care of himself. Sucking and fucking bought him what he needed to get through a night in his shithole world, and that's how he'd been living since he'd packed up his clothes, hopped in his car, and ran away from his rich-boy life in Maine.
Angel felt the trick reach down and grab a tight handful of his spiky black hair. He picked up the pace, head bobbing up and down, up and down. A warm, bitter explosion of cum hit the back of his throat. He hated that part, but those assholes paid extra for that shit. They appreciated it because their frumpy wives were too prim and proper to go down on them the way a man really wanted.
With a grin spread across his lips, Angel wiped his mouth, stood, and held out his hand. The trick dropped three bills in his palm and Angel gave him a nod. "Good doin' business with ya, asshole," he said with a laugh as he spun and walked away.
Five blocks north, a dealer was waiting with anything Angel could possibly want or need. That was the beauty of Los Angeles. That was the beauty of knowing the streets. He could get whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted. Then he'd walk a few more blocks to find some fleabag, no-tell motel to park it for the night while he got high.
"Oh, if Daddy could see me now… the prick."
He rounded the corner, black combat boots pounding against wet concrete. Rain made that part of the city smell like a sewer, like half the world had taken a shit and it all landed in LA. Honestly, he hated this place almost as much as he loved it.
"You lookin' for me, boy?" his dealer called from the pitch-black of the alley. Angel almost walked right by. The boom of the big man's voice made him jump. As he searched the street, his eyes yo-yoed back and forth just to make sure there weren't any cops or narcs or anybody else that might screw up his plans. Then he ducked into the alley and out of the light so no one would see the deal going down.
"Goddamn it, Trez, stop doing that shit to me," he said as their hands clapped together.
Trez laughed so hard his whole huge-ass body shook. He smiled so wide his gold grill lit up like a beacon in all that darkness. Big motherfucker was scary as hell if you didn't know him. Scary as hell if you did. As long as Trez didn't get screwed with, everything was
all
good. But the moment he questioned someone's loyalty, that someone better hit the fucking road and fast.
Angel slapped two bills in Trez's hand and the big man returned with a little baggy of white powder. Angel could already feel the tension easing, like just knowing in the next twenty minutes he would be high was enough, but it wasn't. Until that shit hit his veins, nothing would be right… or at least, right in the way he needed it to be.
He didn't spend any time fucking around with Trez. He had a bag of smack in his hand, enough money to get a shitty room, and maybe even something to eat. Didn't really matter as long as he managed to take the edge off and quench the need he'd been fighting all day—the need to get high and forget his shitty life.
There were three motels in that particular part of Los Angeles where Angel didn't mind laying his head. They were all completely disgusting, and no way in hell would a sane person stay in any of them. But a broke, desperate man would. Angel saw the perfection in each one. They were quiet and cheap, though mainly just cheap. He could do his thing without getting busted. He could relax and maybe sleep. He considered those shitholes home.
Well, the closest thing he had to a home.
The motel he'd happened upon first looked like something out of a '60s horror movie. The lights flickered, and there were no cars in the driveway. He half expected to find a bloody hand in the ice bin, but that wouldn't stop him from getting a room. He just needed a place to get high and stay dry for a night or two. He needed a place to hide from his best friend while he did the one thing Jon always begged him to give up.